A Shepherd Night Watch
Worship
WORSHIP RESOURCES FOR SPECIAL SUNDAYS
It began as a night just like any other night. We spent the usual confused time separating our flocks into their own sheepfolds. And then each of us curled up in the gate to the fold to keep wild and hungry things from creeping in.
Someone sat by the fire, of course, so that it wouldn't go out. Others acted as lookouts around the edge of the area.
The night wasn't that cold, but since we were outdoors for all of it, it always seemed to be a numbing cold, even in the spring. The shepherds on lookout would tell stories to keep themselves alert. Those of us curled up in the gates would sleep uneasily, knowing that the tap on the shoulder would come soon enough for us to take our place on watch.
It was not a comfortable life. And there really was no hope of anything very different. We were men who lived on the edges of life. Shepherds lived in sight of the towns, just as we could see Bethlehem in the distance. But we were always out there on the edges of things, except for brief visits to the market. Sometimes we'd go to the Temple to take lambs that would be used for sacrifice.
But we weren't really part of the community. People looked down their noses at us. I guess they thought we were a necessary evil. Someone had to look after the flocks. Someone had to know how to birth the lambs. But it wasn't a job that took much wit or education. Certainly we didn't have much money, or own much of anything, for that matter.
And because we lived in the fields and followed the rhythms of the flocks and the weather, we couldn't keep the rituals of our faith. We seldom made sacrifices or went through the ritual cleans--ings. Most people considered us unclean, no matter how faithful we might be in our hearts. So we lived on the edge of our com--munity's life.
I didn't think much about those things. It was just my life. And in many ways I liked my life. I enjoyed being outdoors, living in nature. I loved the camaraderie I had with the other shepherds. On good days, I even liked the sheep!
So - it had been an ordinary day. We were all hoping for an uneventful, ordinary night. We settled in. I'd drawn second watch, so I arranged myself in the gate, waiting for the tap on the shoulder in a few hours. Just as I drifted off to sleep, it happened. Or began to happen, maybe I should say. I guess it was the music, first, that roused me. It was so loud, it felt like it was filling me up. Yet I'm not sure that I even heard it with my ears. I seemed to hear it somewhere deep inside. It was the most incredible sound. I know I'll never hear anything like it again, at least not in this life.
Then there was the brightness. The moon was up that night, and it was nearly full, but it wasn't that. The whole sky began to glow. It seemed to shimmer and throb with light. That's when I got scared. Even an eclipse of the sun or moon shakes me up a little. This unknown brightness was frightening.
Then shapes began to appear in the sky. They seemed almost human, yet they were different in some way I can't describe. They were here and then there. You could see through them, as though they were ghosts. My fear changed to terror.
Then a voice came. Again, I don't know how I heard it, but it seemed to fill the sky. The voice said, "Fear not." And as petrified as I was, the voice was so strong and gentle, and the music so clear and vibrant, that I did stop being afraid. I got caught up in what was happening.
The voice went on. It told us there was good, joyful news. The voice said the Messiah, the Anointed One, had been born. He was in Bethlehem, the little town we could see in the distance. The voice said this baby, the Messiah, was wrapped up in cloths just like all babies are wrapped. And that he was lying in a manger, the feeding trough for livestock.
The music swelled. It sounded like a huge group of pilgrims singing, only much better. All I could do, all any of us could do, was to fall to the ground. We knew, somehow, we were in the presence of something divine.
The figures dimmed; the light faded. Gradually the music, too, drifted into the distance. Slowly we got up and looked at each other. There was no question that we would go as fast as we could into Bethlehem.
We forgot the sheep and ran into town. There, on the edge of town, we saw a small house with a stable snugged up against it. We heard a baby's cry coming from the stable and we knew the figures in the sky had been right. So we went in and bowed and worshiped.
Although we may not have gone to the Temple often, or prayed or washed or tithed like the good people, we knew the stories. We knew a Messiah would come some day, and that he would come from the city of David, Bethlehem. And here he was, mysteriously coming to us as a child.
Even more mysteriously, there we were worshiping him, shepherds who lived out on the edges of things. It all seemed very strange.
And then it hit me. Something even stranger! Where were the crowds? Why weren't hundreds of people pressed around the stable? Why had the paths been clear as we ran to town? The music, the light, the voice - it had all been overwhelming. We weren't that far from town. Surely everyone for miles had seen and heard it.
But it was just us - and the mother and the father and the animals and, of course, the baby Messiah.
We stayed a while, sitting in wonder and amazement. We left shortly before dawn. Slowly we made our way back out into the fields. I kept thinking, "Surely now that daylight's here, people will make their way to see." But there was no one on the roads except for an occasional traveler.
There were many wonders that night, but the one I have wondered about most is: "Why us?" Why were a bunch of shabby shepherds the first to see God's Messiah? We sure weren't much to look at. We didn't speak well. We didn't have a place of honor in the world - just the opposite, in fact. We weren't even faithful in the usual sense of the word. Why us?
One day as I was pondering these questions, it came to me. Maybe all those things were the very reasons that we could see and hear and others didn't! I don't know the scripture very well, but I do remember some words from one of the prophets. Isaiah, I think it was.
He was thinking about what the Messiah would be like and he wrote, "The Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to announce good news to the humble...."
So maybe instead of the way I had thought it would be, with the Messiah striding through the Temple and the halls of palaces, maybe God intended all along to start with people like us. Because there was no one much more humble than a shepherd. And if God intended to start with people like us, then that really was good news.
There we were living on the edge of town, on the edge of society, on the edge of religion. There wasn't much to distract us.
That was the other thing I thought of. Bethlehem was small but it was an awfully busy place, especially with that census thing going on. Whenever I went into town, I didn't like to stay long. It was too noisy and crowded for me. It made it hard to think straight. So maybe one of the reasons God came to us shepherds, is that out on the edge of things, we could see better. We could hear better.
That's what a shepherd's life is. We watch for signs of danger, for the sudden quieting of birds. We watch for patches of greener pasture. We cock our ears for the sounds of water and look for the glint of sun on a still pond. We watch the sheep for signs of impending birth - or death. By nature and training, we were people who watched.
And maybe, we were people who needed more than anyone else to hear the good news. Those who have ears, let them hear, the saying goes.
Most of all, I wonder what became of that baby. He'd be a man by now. I guess that night has helped me figure out that he won't be showing up where I used to think he would - in the Temple and in palaces and with powerful people. Not a Messiah who came as a baby and slept in a manger and had a bunch of shepherds as his first guests. I wonder what his life will be like. Would I know him if I saw him?
You know, I am a shepherd, but sometimes I feel like I need one, too. I hate to compare myself to a sheep, but sometimes I find I've wandered off the path. Sometimes I feel thirsty inside. Sometimes I feel hungry for something more. I could use a good shepherd to set me right again.
Shepherds are looked down on. Yet the prophets must have understood the way I feel inside sometimes. Because they compared God to a shepherd. There's a place in Ezekiel that I've always remembered. "For the Lord God says: Now I myself shall take thought for my sheep and search for them. I shall bring them home to their own country. I shall shepherd them on the mountains of Israel and by her streams. I shall feed them on good grazing ground. There they will rest in good pasture. I myself shall tend my flock, and find them a place to rest, says the Lord God."
I guess you can tell why I like that passage. It's my job description! And I guess it must be God's job description. And maybe it's the job description of the baby Messiah that I saw. That's what we all long for - a good shepherd. And maybe that baby was he. What strange good news - a good shepherd who comes first to shepherds.
Who knows? As for me, I guess I'll just keep wondering. And watching.
Pamela J. Abbey
Someone sat by the fire, of course, so that it wouldn't go out. Others acted as lookouts around the edge of the area.
The night wasn't that cold, but since we were outdoors for all of it, it always seemed to be a numbing cold, even in the spring. The shepherds on lookout would tell stories to keep themselves alert. Those of us curled up in the gates would sleep uneasily, knowing that the tap on the shoulder would come soon enough for us to take our place on watch.
It was not a comfortable life. And there really was no hope of anything very different. We were men who lived on the edges of life. Shepherds lived in sight of the towns, just as we could see Bethlehem in the distance. But we were always out there on the edges of things, except for brief visits to the market. Sometimes we'd go to the Temple to take lambs that would be used for sacrifice.
But we weren't really part of the community. People looked down their noses at us. I guess they thought we were a necessary evil. Someone had to look after the flocks. Someone had to know how to birth the lambs. But it wasn't a job that took much wit or education. Certainly we didn't have much money, or own much of anything, for that matter.
And because we lived in the fields and followed the rhythms of the flocks and the weather, we couldn't keep the rituals of our faith. We seldom made sacrifices or went through the ritual cleans--ings. Most people considered us unclean, no matter how faithful we might be in our hearts. So we lived on the edge of our com--munity's life.
I didn't think much about those things. It was just my life. And in many ways I liked my life. I enjoyed being outdoors, living in nature. I loved the camaraderie I had with the other shepherds. On good days, I even liked the sheep!
So - it had been an ordinary day. We were all hoping for an uneventful, ordinary night. We settled in. I'd drawn second watch, so I arranged myself in the gate, waiting for the tap on the shoulder in a few hours. Just as I drifted off to sleep, it happened. Or began to happen, maybe I should say. I guess it was the music, first, that roused me. It was so loud, it felt like it was filling me up. Yet I'm not sure that I even heard it with my ears. I seemed to hear it somewhere deep inside. It was the most incredible sound. I know I'll never hear anything like it again, at least not in this life.
Then there was the brightness. The moon was up that night, and it was nearly full, but it wasn't that. The whole sky began to glow. It seemed to shimmer and throb with light. That's when I got scared. Even an eclipse of the sun or moon shakes me up a little. This unknown brightness was frightening.
Then shapes began to appear in the sky. They seemed almost human, yet they were different in some way I can't describe. They were here and then there. You could see through them, as though they were ghosts. My fear changed to terror.
Then a voice came. Again, I don't know how I heard it, but it seemed to fill the sky. The voice said, "Fear not." And as petrified as I was, the voice was so strong and gentle, and the music so clear and vibrant, that I did stop being afraid. I got caught up in what was happening.
The voice went on. It told us there was good, joyful news. The voice said the Messiah, the Anointed One, had been born. He was in Bethlehem, the little town we could see in the distance. The voice said this baby, the Messiah, was wrapped up in cloths just like all babies are wrapped. And that he was lying in a manger, the feeding trough for livestock.
The music swelled. It sounded like a huge group of pilgrims singing, only much better. All I could do, all any of us could do, was to fall to the ground. We knew, somehow, we were in the presence of something divine.
The figures dimmed; the light faded. Gradually the music, too, drifted into the distance. Slowly we got up and looked at each other. There was no question that we would go as fast as we could into Bethlehem.
We forgot the sheep and ran into town. There, on the edge of town, we saw a small house with a stable snugged up against it. We heard a baby's cry coming from the stable and we knew the figures in the sky had been right. So we went in and bowed and worshiped.
Although we may not have gone to the Temple often, or prayed or washed or tithed like the good people, we knew the stories. We knew a Messiah would come some day, and that he would come from the city of David, Bethlehem. And here he was, mysteriously coming to us as a child.
Even more mysteriously, there we were worshiping him, shepherds who lived out on the edges of things. It all seemed very strange.
And then it hit me. Something even stranger! Where were the crowds? Why weren't hundreds of people pressed around the stable? Why had the paths been clear as we ran to town? The music, the light, the voice - it had all been overwhelming. We weren't that far from town. Surely everyone for miles had seen and heard it.
But it was just us - and the mother and the father and the animals and, of course, the baby Messiah.
We stayed a while, sitting in wonder and amazement. We left shortly before dawn. Slowly we made our way back out into the fields. I kept thinking, "Surely now that daylight's here, people will make their way to see." But there was no one on the roads except for an occasional traveler.
There were many wonders that night, but the one I have wondered about most is: "Why us?" Why were a bunch of shabby shepherds the first to see God's Messiah? We sure weren't much to look at. We didn't speak well. We didn't have a place of honor in the world - just the opposite, in fact. We weren't even faithful in the usual sense of the word. Why us?
One day as I was pondering these questions, it came to me. Maybe all those things were the very reasons that we could see and hear and others didn't! I don't know the scripture very well, but I do remember some words from one of the prophets. Isaiah, I think it was.
He was thinking about what the Messiah would be like and he wrote, "The Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to announce good news to the humble...."
So maybe instead of the way I had thought it would be, with the Messiah striding through the Temple and the halls of palaces, maybe God intended all along to start with people like us. Because there was no one much more humble than a shepherd. And if God intended to start with people like us, then that really was good news.
There we were living on the edge of town, on the edge of society, on the edge of religion. There wasn't much to distract us.
That was the other thing I thought of. Bethlehem was small but it was an awfully busy place, especially with that census thing going on. Whenever I went into town, I didn't like to stay long. It was too noisy and crowded for me. It made it hard to think straight. So maybe one of the reasons God came to us shepherds, is that out on the edge of things, we could see better. We could hear better.
That's what a shepherd's life is. We watch for signs of danger, for the sudden quieting of birds. We watch for patches of greener pasture. We cock our ears for the sounds of water and look for the glint of sun on a still pond. We watch the sheep for signs of impending birth - or death. By nature and training, we were people who watched.
And maybe, we were people who needed more than anyone else to hear the good news. Those who have ears, let them hear, the saying goes.
Most of all, I wonder what became of that baby. He'd be a man by now. I guess that night has helped me figure out that he won't be showing up where I used to think he would - in the Temple and in palaces and with powerful people. Not a Messiah who came as a baby and slept in a manger and had a bunch of shepherds as his first guests. I wonder what his life will be like. Would I know him if I saw him?
You know, I am a shepherd, but sometimes I feel like I need one, too. I hate to compare myself to a sheep, but sometimes I find I've wandered off the path. Sometimes I feel thirsty inside. Sometimes I feel hungry for something more. I could use a good shepherd to set me right again.
Shepherds are looked down on. Yet the prophets must have understood the way I feel inside sometimes. Because they compared God to a shepherd. There's a place in Ezekiel that I've always remembered. "For the Lord God says: Now I myself shall take thought for my sheep and search for them. I shall bring them home to their own country. I shall shepherd them on the mountains of Israel and by her streams. I shall feed them on good grazing ground. There they will rest in good pasture. I myself shall tend my flock, and find them a place to rest, says the Lord God."
I guess you can tell why I like that passage. It's my job description! And I guess it must be God's job description. And maybe it's the job description of the baby Messiah that I saw. That's what we all long for - a good shepherd. And maybe that baby was he. What strange good news - a good shepherd who comes first to shepherds.
Who knows? As for me, I guess I'll just keep wondering. And watching.
Pamela J. Abbey
