Shepherd Story Explained

On reading my last blog post, which was the beginning of a Christmas story, Joanna said, "That's weird, Mom. Kind of depressing."

I explained that I wasn't finished, that I was planning to post again today and tomorrow, that it was meant to be depressing. The angelic visitation hasn't happened yet.

Then Emily just now called and said, "I can't stand that ending. I'm looking to read something nice and here you're writing about some man wanting to kill his wife. This is kind of dark."

"I never said he wanted to kill his wife...just slap her."

"You said he wanted to drop her dead body on the tax collector's desk."

"Not her. The ewe, honey."

Lest anyone else is wondering what kind of rum balls I've been making, let me explain. I've been thinking for several weeks now about the shepherds -not sure why - it's just where my mind has gone. I've just wanted to know about these men, to try and flesh out who they were, what it could have been like for them that night. Unfortunately, I've run out of time to "show" my story; hence, I now resort to "telling".

It's so easy to romanticize everyone in the Christmas story, to visualize the shepherds as gentle but strong men, men who sang to their sheep, worshiped God on the mountain. My nativity set has a shepherd with a lamb draped across his shoulders. So sweet, so benign. Even the title "shepherd" is pastoral.

But my guess is that these men had nothing to render them worthy of such an honor. Unlike Mary and Joseph, Anna, Simeon, Elizabeth, and Zacharias, there's no reason to think these men were righteous or good. No reason to think that they were chosen, out of all the people in the entire region, because they deserved it. The only reason is that we WANT to think that way.

So I imagined an unhappy man, a man full of bitterness and turmoil, angry at his wife, angry at life, ready for a fight. A man who works hard under harsh conditions, who is hungrier more often than he's full, who has lived his whole life aware that most in his society considered him no-account, dirty, stupid.

But, no, I hadn't gone so far as to make him out to be a wife-murderer. I had considered that he'd gone into town, gotten into a fight, then gone back to work with a full wine-flask - for the cold, of course.

Am I really considering that one of the shepherds was drunk? Why not? He certainly wouldn't have stayed drunk after seeing what he saw and hearing what he heard. Paul was murdering people left and right and he saw Jesus himself. We so want to sanitize everything, to make it sentimental and soft. We see a manger as a little crib lined with sweet-smelling hay. A manger is a feeding trough. Think dog bowl.

What I see in the angels giving those men the front-row seat at that night's explosion of joy is God's clear intent that His Son's birth be heralded, but not as humans would want, or expect. I like to think that the shepherds had nothing to commend them, but were given, as a pure and totally undeserved gift, the privilege of being the first to know, to see, to adore. And that the words, "Peace on earth, good will towards men" meant more to those men on the rocky, wind-swept hill than we could ever imagine.

Another thought has occurred to me in my musings about that night. Could it be that the reason there was no room in the inn for Mary and Joseph is that the sheep herders wouldn't have been welcome in such a place? Is it possible that God planned that detail not only to emphasize the lowliness of the birth, but to make a way for those men to be welcomed in? I like to think so.

One Day in the Life of a Shepherd

I wonder if, in later years, the sheep herders went back to the very spot where they’d seen the angel. Did they argue over the details?
“No. His eyes were blue!”
“I say green!
“They weren’t a color at all! They were…..ALIVE…is what they were.”

Did they try to one-up each other?
“I couldn’t speak. He was looking straight at me.”
“I couldn’t breathe or speak. And he was looking at me!”

Did they keep to themselves their real feelings of utter despair as they looked at that creature that was all light and strength and beauty? Did they feel like Isaiah? Undone. A man of unclean, no -not just lips, but of unclean everything.

I imagine one man whose day began like this:

He hated going into town. The people, the noise, buildings crammed in every inch of space, the hawkers selling their wares, the beggars, some moaning, demanding; others silent, resigned, putting in their day’s work.

But he’d had to go today. His wife had apologized; that’s all she ever did anymore. Apologize and cry. Cry and apologize. He couldn’t stand it, or her, anymore. “Give her time,” they’d all said. “Another child will come along.”

Fat chance of that. He hadn’t been able to touch her in months. He no longer even tried to feel sorry for her, or guilty over his impatience. At least he hadn’t slapped her, though the urge was getting stronger. They were still young; they could try again. But she was growing old before his eyes, and he was finding it hard to even remember her with eyes full of light and albeit shy desire.

He left without a word, stopping to check on the ewe sick with milk fever. If she died, her death would be just another in a long line of setbacks. He worked harder and longer for less and less. Imagining dropping her dead body on the desk of that pompous tax collector pleased him. He despised men who hid behind desks and titles and fancy robes; give them five minutes faced with a mountain lion and they’d cry like babies.