“Those Shepherds Had It Easy...”

 By Rev. Jennifer Christenson

for Grace Lutheran Church, Green Bay, Wis.

December 24, 2007

 Luke 2:1-20

 

“In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night...”

Sometimes I think those shepherds had it easy, at least compared to non-angel-visited you and me.

Certainly they didn’t have it easy in terms of their living conditions.  Politically, life wasn’t easy.  They lived in an occupied nation, under a ruthless, arbitrary ruler.  It wasn’t easy socially, either.  Shepherds were not real well-liked among their fellow citizens.  We always picture shepherds as these kindly looking fellows, with adoring sheep surrounding them, dressed in clean robes, hair blowing in the breeze.

In reality, they were a rough lot, not very clean, yet probably still adored by the sheep.  They spent most of their time in the fields, and were under constant scrutiny by surrounding landowners: people typically figured that by night, shepherds watched their flocks graze…on someone else’s property.

They weren’t wealthy by any standards, weren’t well-educated, if educated at all, and they weren’t well-liked.

But still, I say, those shepherds had it easy...with regard to faith anyway.

There they were, in the region of Bethlehem, tending sheep on the same lands David had tended sheep before he became king.

And then, out of nowhere, here comes an angel, announcing the good news of great joy that a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord, has been born not too far from where the shepherds are standing.  And, even better, this Savior is the one who causes glory and jubilation in heaven and brings peace, shalom, to earth.

Peace, shalom - not just the absence of war, but the whole world made right, everything put back in balance, nothing out of whack or off kilter.  In a world like ours, where everything seems to be out of balance, our priorities, our time, our lives, our health, balance sounds wonderful.

And that’s the message, the good news the shepherds heard.  And with that message came something else: a sign.  A glorious, simple sign.

You will know this to be true, the angel says, you will know the Messiah has come by (drum roll please)...

Now here’s where we’d expect the angel to come out with something like: this shall be a sign, in just a few moments, a heavenly host, an army of angels just like me, will be joining me and we shall sing songs of glory and joy unto you.

Now that’s a sign.

Or maybe, this shall be a sign: all of your sheep will line up, stand on their hind legs and perform a kick line for all of you while singing the Hallelujah Chorus.

Now that’s a sign.

Or, even better, this shall be a sign: King Herod will have an Ebenezer Scrooge-like transformation overnight and will wake up penitent and ready to make things right.  Or better yet, the Emperor himself will declare the occupation over, you will all be free.

Now that’s a sign.

Any of those would be a sign befitting the announcement the angel had just made.  Any of those (well, maybe not the sheep one) would be a sign befitting the beginning of the reign of peace the Messiah would bring.

But the sign was none of these things, and yet it was even more spectacular in its simplicity.  Here’s how you’ll know that the Messiah, the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace, has entered the world:

A baby.  Wrapped in cloths.  Not soft robes, rough cloths.  His parents are pretty poor.  And he’ll be lying not in a gilded crib with soft blankies and lots of stuffed animal toys, but in a manger, with real animals milling about.  That’s your sign.

And then the army of angels, who are not the sign, but are still pretty spectacular, appears and delights the shepherds and the sheep with a heavenly chorus or two. 

And then they’re gone.

And then the shepherds run off to Bethlehem.  And this is why I say they had it easy - they are lauded for their faith.  As soon as the angels leave, off they go to Bethlehem, saying, “Let’s go see this thing we’ve been told about”.  Not saying, mind you, “Let’s see if this is really true...any bets that it’s not?”  They went, knowing as sure as they knew their own names, that they’d find that baby wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger.

Well, yeah, of course they knew!  In case you missed it, they were informed of the Messiah’s arrival by a band of angels.  And they all saw the angels.  It wasn’t just one poor guy who was chasing after a lost lamb, and ran into the angel and then had to try to convince the other shepherds that it had really happened.  They witnessed it as a group, so of course they’d believe, of course they’d dash off to see the baby.

They were told by angels for heaven’s sake!  AND, as if that wasn’t enough, they also got immediate confirmation of the story they’d been told - they saw the baby, the manger, the whole bit, just like the angel described.

Two thousand years later, despite knowing about the difficult life the shepherds must have led, no running water, no electricity, no Internet, no Hershey’s kisses, we envy them, in part.  They were, after all, the first witnesses, they heard the good news of great joy straight from heaven.  And so faith followed, naturally.  Excitement, exuberance, praising God (did they sing the songs they’d heard the angels sing?), all followed, naturally, easily.

That night anyway.

We don’t really hear from the shepherds after that night.  At least that we know of.  Were they among the crowds who later followed the grown-up Jesus?  Did they witness the miracles?  Were some of them perhaps healed by Jesus themselves?

Or did they all die off before Jesus even started his ministry?  Did they die wondering when the Messiah kid would grow up and get on with the saving already; wondering if the Messiah kid had even survived his infancy?

Maybe it wasn’t so easy after all.  Maybe our stories aren’t so different.  For tonight, Christmas Eve, for a few glorious moments, perhaps faith does feel easier.  Sure we don’t get the angel fanfare, other than what we can see and hear in our imaginations, but this story, this good news, inspires us nonetheless.  Makes faith in something good and pure and right, just a little easier.

Faith in a God of miracles, a God who privileges poor, outcast shepherds with the scoop on the Messiah’s birth.  Faith in a God who slips into the world quietly, in a stable, a manger, born to ordinary folk like you and me.  It’s a rosy God we see this night, who bids us to come and worship, and tonight, we do.

But what about tomorrow?  And next week?  And the week after that?  When the glow of the Christmas story has faded, when the decorations are all put away, and the baby Jesus grows up and starts demanding more from us than we’re prepared to give, what then?  What happens when the baby Jesus tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us?  When the baby Jesus tells us to pick up our crosses and follow him?  To love one another as he has loved us?  To sell all we have, or even just half, and give it away to follow him?  What then?

What about tomorrow?  Did the shepherds wonder?  Did they ever have doubts as time passed and no one else seemed to know anything about any Messiah born in Bethlehem?  Did they wonder as the years passed and no young ingénue rose up from Bethlehem and pulled together a great and terrible army and overthrew the great and terrible Romans?  Did they lose sight of the glory of that night as life closed in with its lost sheep, and torn clothes, and aching feet?  Did they forget the angels’ song as other voices filled their ears: jeering voices, angry voices of those who still didn’t trust them, story of angels notwithstanding?

Did the glory of that night fade away...or did it linger on in their hearts?  Did it linger on, refuse to leave them, insistently giving them renewed hope in the face of whatever darkness they encountered?

Tonight, this night, faith, joy, even bittersweet joy, comes a little easier.  But what about tomorrow for you and me?  Tonight we bask in the glow of the promise of hope, of God-with-us, of a God who anticipated our arrival here and knew we’d need saving.  We bask in the glow of the story of salvation of the whole world, begun in a stable in the middle of nowhere.  Tonight we feel God’s love surrounding us, we hear the angels sing, we dance with the shepherds, we ponder with Mary, we believe God is with us.

But what about tomorrow?  Will the glory of this night fade away?  Will we go back to ordinary life as though it doesn’t matter much at all?  Will our joy be overcome by life and the good news get lost in bills to pay, walks to shovel, kids to be taxied about, parents to care for?  Will it fade away?

Or has this story, this good news of great joy, lodged in our hearts for good?  Has the infant Savior-king grabbed onto us, our hearts, our lives, with a grip so fierce, so strong, so insistent, that we’ll never break free?