O Whittle Town of Bethlehem

It started with an invitation from Andrea to visit the University of Dayton, where we explored an international display of hand-carved nativity creches - hundreds of them, each a gift from a different corner of the world. For someone like me, it was both awe-inspiring and humbling. One scene in particular stopped me in my tracks. Crafted by a South American artist, it included twenty-five individual figures, each about the size of a baseball. I stood there for a long time, completely drawn in. I took dozens of photos, slowly capturing every angle. I didn’t want to forget a single detail.

Back home, I pulled out some sketch paper and began drawing what I’d seen. Before long, I was tracking down my old carving tools and ordering basswood. I hadn’t carved in decades, but something had been stirred awake. This was to become an encore season. And so began a three-month creative pilgrimage. Almost daily, I held each figure in my hands, carving with quiet focus, asking questions that felt larger than the wood itself. Why had the artist chosen these particular people?

There were, of course, the familiar figures: Mary, Joseph, Jesus, an angel, three magi, and a shepherd. But the rest were unexpected—a man carrying a jug of water, a woman holding a dead chicken, a boy walking alongside one of the magi—perhaps his son. There was a man with his head bowed, hat in hand, as if coming to pray. Another man and boy, each with a musical instrument. A shepherd with a sheep draped across his shoulders. And of course, the animals: cattle, a donkey, and a flock of sheep. The more I carved, the deeper the questions went. What inspired those choices?

And what might a nativity look like today? Would it include a cell phone, a laptop, a cup of drive-thru coffee? Would someone show up in hiking boots—or on a motorbike? I didn’t need answers. Asking the questions felt like its own kind of worship. This became one of the most meaningful faith journeys I’ve ever experienced.

When the carving was complete, the next step was to bring the figures to life with color. I turned to Rusty, an artist friend, for help. We didn’t want them to look mass-produced or overly polished. Instead, we chose soft, blended tones that gave each figure a quiet dignity—a peaceful kind of unity, with a beauty that invited people to linger. Then came another blessing.

Two years after the project began, we found a permanent home for the nativity: a regional, faith-based retreat center where teens and adults gather for prayer, learning, and reflection. It felt right that the set would live not in a museum or on a mantel, but in a space where people ask big questions - just as I had. Adding to the joy was the fact that the center’s director - a former student of mine - welcomed the nativity with open arms. She understood not only the meaning of the piece, but the story behind its creation. The one who once discipled her had returned to his childhood hobby to carve it. That connection made it sacred for both of us. Like a rosary or a statue, this nativity became a symbol of faith - not just for those who visit, but for me as well.

The Book