Christmas Eve 2009

Luke 2:1‑20

If you are young—a child, a youth, or maybe even young at heart—if you are young and here this evening you might be so excited you can hardly stand it. You might be wondering how you’re going to sit through this whole service. Maybe you know that there are presents a home with your name on them—just waiting for you to unwrap them tomorrow morning—or maybe later tonight. How many of you are feeling like that?

Maybe some of you have unwrapped presents already—and had to leave those wonderful new gifts at home to come here. Anybody like that?

If you are an adult—and maybe even if you, too, are young at heart—you might be wondering how you’re going to get through this service as well. Maybe you’re tired from all the busyness and preparation of the past month. Maybe you’re worrying about how the kids will behave as they start to squirm around. Maybe you’re worrying about how you’ll behave. And maybe you, too, have your eye on a package you can’t wait to open. Oh, I won’t even ask you to raise your hands if that’s how you feel.

Christmas arrives and we are excited, or tired, or expectant. Our bodies want to jump up and down or slump into a chair.

And we find ourselves here, sheltered from the cold outside, listening to an amazing story about God coming to us in a human body, God born just as we were born.

This year as I read through Luke's story of the birth of Jesus I kept thinking of the shepherds.

Why are shepherds a part of this story? 

They are not part of the "glory of Christmas." Angels shine brightly overhead. Kings travel countless miles, high atop camels, from exotic lands with great treasures.

Shepherds walk on the earth. They travel a thousand miles but only wear away the grass between work and home. In pageants they are dressed in old bathrobes while everyone else seems to get halos and satin or velvet.

Why the shepherds? 

On the surface they seem diligent, hard working, "salt of the earth" kind of people. Up all night, keeping watch.

But shepherds were more likely to be the kind of people you think are stealing the office supplies at work. If there were shepherds in your class as school, they would probably try to cheat on a test.

At the time when Jesus was born, most people thought shepherds were dishonest, often grazing their flocks on other people's land. Shepherds weren't to be trusted. They weren't considered to be reliable witnesses and weren't allowed to testify in court.

So, why are those shepherds in the story?

Well, the shepherds remind us of the connections that we have with other people, and of the connections we have with—well, with shepherds. Maybe the reason that not everyone wants to be a shepherd in the Christmas pageant is because they are so much like us; that is, they do things they shouldn’t do, and leave undone things they should do.

And yet, all of a sudden, those messengers of God—angels—are talking to shepherds of all people, and telling them, of all people, about a Savior. If you were an angel, or God, and had any sense, surely you'd pick a more credible group than this.

Who could believe salvation is for these people? That they are God's people? For they are just like us. And we know about us and how dubious the idea of salvation—wholeness in life, health in relationships—seems most of the time.

Unless, of course—

Unless Jesus' birth in a barnyard, with shepherds as birthday guests means what it could, possibly mean: that it is all right to be human. That God knows we are human, and we do wrong things, all of us, and we are God's people anyway, and the sheep of God's pasture.

Unless those dirty and drab well-wishers who left their flocks grazing God knows where were just as flawed as we are—and flawed in the same lazy, cowardly, and scheming ways.

If they were just like us, then the words of good news addressed to them, the words of a Savior who is Christ the Lord are addressed to us as well, in full and merciful knowledge of who we are and what we need.* 

So there they go, strangers running to the manger, blurting out some story about angels and good news to new parents who, really, must have had enough on their minds already. The usual unreliable witnesses, chosen to announce great joy to all people.

Luke finally gets the shepherds off stage, returning to their fields, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen as it had been told to them. They fade back into the Judean countryside.

And we never hear from them again. 

Many would say that life goes on in its usual, predictable dreariness. 

But the shepherds remind us of something different, something we would at least like to believe‑‑even if right now it seems impossible.

You can't be certain that things will continue as they always have.

One minute you're at work minding your own business. The next minute angels are there singing good news.

We expect life to go on as usual. But it doesn't. The glory of God breaks in. The glory of God comes to flesh and blood human beings as a flesh and blood human being. And nothing is ever the same again.

A couple of our members have been setting up our congregation’s nativity scene for several years now. It’s not an easy task, and I thank them.

At home we have a nativity scene made from olive-wood. Like everything else that seems to really matter about Christmas, it reminds me of connections to other places, other people. Robin's mother sent it to us while we were both in seminary and living in Massachusetts. Putting out the hand carved figures has been a part of our Christmas preparations for years now. 

We have Mary and Joseph and Jesus. We have an ox and a donkey who solemnly watch over the proceedings. We have three tall kings and a tall olive wood camel.

And we've got a shepherd.

The shepherd always seems out of place—like he's shown up at a party to which he wasn't invited. He has three small sheep that are dwarfed by the ox and donkey and the long legged camel. And the shepherd is more roughly carved than the other figures—as though all that time watching over the flock has taken its toll. If he were to suddenly come to life he would have matted hair, ragged clothes, and probably smell like the sheep that accompany him.

Do something for me, would you? When you go home tonight, look at your nativity scene if you have one. Maybe you'll see the shepherds differently.

Maybe you’ll begin to see yourself differently, too. Maybe you'll see that in all your hope and all your fear, you have found a place at the manger.

And whether or not you have a manger scene at home—tonight, tomorrow, in the week ahead, look again at your own life. It's probably not angelic. It's probably not as glittery as the lives of royalty. But it is your life.

It is for that life, for your life, that the birth we celebrate this night took place. That you might know, this day and all days, for you there is a Savior who is Christ the Lord. 

*See Annie Dillard, "The Gospel According to St. Luke," in Incarnation, Alfred Corn, ed., pg. 36.