B-log

Moonless nights were always difficult. With even a fingernail of a moon, shadows move and prowling dogs give up their secret movements. Tonight, though, everything was a shadow and my ears were my eyes. On nights like this the flock stood quiet, with the lambs nestled close to the ewes. It would be an exhausting turn at watch, with every noise demanding my attention. Overhead, the canopy of stars punctured the blackness of the dark, blinking a coded message that echoed God’s promise to Father Abraham made so many generations earlier.

I was well settled into the night’s vigil. I whistled the low trill of the grouse to alert my young brother that all was secure in my quarter. He mimicked my call, careful not to rouse the flock. With no winds to mask the cautious steps of prairie wolves, I would be able to listen for their advance, even as I closed my eyes. I found a flat spot on the rocky outcrop and rested my head and my tired sight.

A brilliant light flashed, chasing away the darkness from behind my closed eyes. I bolted upright and raised my arm to shield my sight. In front of me, the flock had startled and scurried chaotically in every direction. From their outposts, my brothers ran to me and together we saw the source of the light at the same moment.

It was a messenger from heaven.

He appeared as a man, but not like any man I had ever seen. And the glory of the Lord came out from around him. We could not behold him. We fell to our faces, huddling together in terror.

Then, with a voice that sounded like the call of ten strong men, the angel spoke.

“Do not be afraid,” he said.

I barely lifted my head, peeking upward at this majestic creature. He gestured at me and continued. “I bring good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David, a Savior who is Christ the Lord.”

Instantly, a host from heaven appeared around the heavenly messenger, chasing away any lingering dark of the night. As though they stood upon an unseen platform taller than any man-made construction, as a choir they worshipped in song.

Glory to God in the highest,
      and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.

Then as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone.

The night was again black and moonless. No wind whispered a clue to where they had gone. The flock instantly calmed and went back to their night’s routine, as if nothing had even happened.

Finally, I stood on wobbly legs and looked around. I picked up my staff and offered it as an aid to my brothers. The silence rang in my ears and seemed to demand that I say something to acknowledge what we had witnessed.

“Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about,” I said.

My brothers agreed.

We quickly gathered our flock and made our way the short distance to Bethlehem. The journey was silent. We could not understand why this messenger had come to us. Unlike the Pharisees, we are continually unclean. Unlike the scribes who study the law, we are hopelessly unlearned. Yet, as we approached Bethlehem, it was obvious that the city of David slept, wholly unaware of who had been born within its walls.

The echo of the angel’s words overwhelmed me. 

“Savior.” We have been asking God to save us from Roman rule and Parthian threats for generations.

“Christ.” We aren’t trained men, but we knew this Greek word meant “Messiah,” the one who God had been promising for ages. This savior would lead us because he was God’s anointed.

“Lord.” This baby born this night was the one who would be our king!

We entered the city by the sheep gate, as was custom for us to do. We were far from where the wealthy and important families slept. Though we did not know where we were going, we easily found the baby. The child’s father greeted us at the door and he smiled as we told our story. He shared that an angel had visited him, too. He bade us to enter.

Just like the angel said, he slept in a manger, wrapped in cloth. We gathered around the makeshift crib and we simply watched him.

We worshipped him.

I can’t tell you how long we stayed in his presence, but I relive it as though each second was a lifetime. At one moment, the baby woke and stirred. He cooed as babies do, and hiccupped. I stood before him and thanked God for this gift.

He was ordinarily beautiful. Though plainly human, the angel had told us he was divinely regal.

Eventually, we quietly stepped away from his presence.

Light was breaking and this part of the city began to stir as the day’s duties beckoned.

We could not keep this news to ourselves. We ran down the roads telling everyone we met, yelling, “God has kept His promise! He has sent His Savior! The Messiah has been born! To God be the glory!”

***

I remember that amazing night where an angel of the Lord invited me to sit in the presence of our King, and I can scarcely believe that more than thirty years have passed.

I still tend flocks, but long ago I moved my family to Jerusalem. The completion of another Passover usually gives me reason to rest, but today I am troubled in my spirit.

You see, just a few days earlier on the eve of Passover, I watched from afar as Roman Centurions hammered spikes through the wrists and ankles of a rabble-rousing Rabbi.  They nailed him to a wooden cross.

In this time set aside to celebrate how God delivered us from Pharaoh, I was part of the crowd that watched this man—one of our own—be killed because he committed crimes worse than those of Barabbas.

They said that he was guilty of blasphemy. They said he was a threat against Rome. They said he was an agent of Satan.

Others, though, said he was kind. They said he taught the people about God. He healed people. They said he could provide miracles. They said he was a friend to sinners.

He was arrested at midnight and all his followers fled in fear. Alone, he faced this hangman’s jury. If guilty, he should have been stoned to death according to our laws. Instead, he was tried in the Roman court. So Pilate commanded him to carry his own cross to Golgotha.

The news quickly spread. The one known as “The King of the Jews” would be crucified. Just days earlier, crowds were worshipping him.  Now, they gathered and mocked him.

At Golgotha, he was hung from the cross to die. The surrounding audience taunted him. Centurions jammed a crown of thorns atop his head, scorning his reign over us people of Israel.

From a distance I watched this tragedy unfold. I was too afraid to come near. My soul ripped in two as I watched him suffer.

I was too far away to hear the words he spoke to the two criminals on either side of Him. In their dying breaths, one wept in gratitude while the other gnawed his tongue with bitter anger.

Now this man in the middle was alone on his cross, abandoned by everyone. I approached the cross, but was too fearful to draw near, lest someone identify me as one of his followers.

We all abandoned him.

Without warning he cried out, “Father, why have you forsaken me?”

The silence beat against my ears with a violent slap.

 In a voice barely above a whisper he said, “it is finished.”

And he was gone.

Of course, you know these events are connected.

That man who died. He was that baby who was born back when I was a shepherd boy.

I met him laying in the manger. I saw him nailed to the cross.

I met him wrapped in swaddling cloths, and I watched him be stripped of his robe and his dignity.

A choir of angels announced him, but he died rejected and alone.

His name was Jesus.

The angel called him Savior. Christ. Lord.

So did I.

In the shadow of the cross, the manger seems so far away, so long ago.

At his death, the sky went dark and the earth shook. News of the temple’s damage became the gossip of the streets. Some people mourned the death of Jesus, comparing him to the Passover lamb. Most people returned to their quiet lives of desperate faith.

It’s been three days since, his followers took him down from the cross and buried him in tomb belonging to a wealthy friend. The men and women who associated with him mourned there daily, according to our customs.

This morning, though, the most unusual news spread through Jerusalem.

Mary (the one who was once demon-possessed), Peter (the fisherman), and the one Jesus loved like a brother (I think his name is John) all have come announcing that the tomb of Jesus is empty. They claim the stone had been rolled aside and the grave lay empty, except for the burial cloths that once covered him. They say that Jesus is alive!

I had to see for myself. I made the short journey, again feeling as though my steps were guided and the truth unfolded before me. My sorrow changed to hope as I approached the grave and peered inside its dark depths.

The tomb is empty!

Jesus is alive!

He is the Savior!

He is the Christ!

He is Lord!

He is alive!