Luke 2:8-20
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
December 20, 2020
It was a deceptively peaceful scene, at least as it is depicted in children’s books and Christmas pageants: shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. From our urban and suburban vantage points, we envision gentle people sitting quietly on a rock in the middle of a field, gazing at the night sky in wonder.
The real scene might have been quiet, but it was probably not peaceful. Shepherds at night are on high alert. There would have been little time to gaze in wonder at the sky; instead they were peering into the distance for any sign of movement, for the glow of a wolf’s beady eyes. Or they were assiduously counting and re-counting sheep, not to help them sleep but to be sure none had wandered away. Their concern for each lamb in the flock may well have come from their love for the creatures; it also came from the harsh economic realities they faced. They were responsible for the well-being of sheep who were probably owned by someone else.
When the angel stood before them and the glory of God shone around them, of course the shepherds were terrified. Any noise, any light, anything out of the ordinary was usually bad news. “Do not be afraid,” the angel said. This time, the angel reassured them, it is good news—news that will bring great joy to all people, including terrified, exhausted shepherds on high alert in the fields.
The shepherds were caught up in the fears and worries of their harsh everyday existence. It took the appearance of a heavenly being to call them beyond their mundane cares and awaken them to something wondrous that was happening. And then the twist—the angel directed them back to the ordinariness of human life: “This will be a sign for you; you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.”
For us, the idea of a child born in a stable and lying in a manger feels exotic, even foreign. I imagine that for shepherds who spent most of their lives amongst the animals, it was a profoundly ordinary picture. The intermingling of the bleating of sheep with the cries of a newborn would have been a familiar sound for them. Perhaps they had lain their own children to rest in a manger at the end of a long day.
Shepherds lived hard lives. Beyond the economic precariousness and physical dangers of their work, they were looked down upon by people whose lives were more settled. Some even considered them ritually unclean—unable to follow the holiness laws that enabled one to approach God. Imagine their surprise—and their joy—when an angel of God pointed them to the holy in the midst of their own lives.
The glorious twist in this reading points us to the heart of the Christmas message: God is not far away, up in the clouds with the angels. God is with us, among us, born in a smelly stable, sharing our lives.
Our anthem, Noel: Christmas Eve 1913, comes to that truth from a different angle. The song is based on a longer poem written by Robert Bridges in 1913, when he was Poet Laureate of England. Like our scripture, the poem begins with a seemingly peaceful picture: on a clear, crisp Christmas Eve, the poet walks alone in the countryside. He hears the bells pealing from the churches of the nearby villages, and it reminds him of the music heard by the shepherds in the fields.
The peacefulness of the scene, like that of the shepherds, is deceptive. It was December of 1913. Within eight months, England would be engulfed in the first World War, with its brutal advances in instruments of destruction, with its all-encompassing dislocation, with the global pandemic that followed on its heels. Beneath the quiet of that night, trouble was brewing—perhaps already felt by the poet and by the young men and women pulling on those belfry ropes in the villages. Did they ring the bells with a sense of foreboding, with an awareness that they would soon ring them for too many funerals?
In the gospel story, a heavenly being draws the shepherds’ attention upward, only to point them back to earth, to a baby born in a stable, to the holy in the midst of ordinary life. In the poet’s story, it is an earthly sound that captures his attention, and then points him toward the heavens. In the original poem, Bridges acknowledges that the bells he hears are rung by ordinary people: “Blessed be…our country folk/ who are wringing for Christ in the belfries tonight/ With arms lifted to clutch the rattling ropes that race/ Into the dark above and the mad romping din.”
While he knows the sound is an earthly one, he hears it as a sound that brings heaven and earth together. “But to me heard afar,” he writes, “it was starry music, angels’ song…” Just as the heavenly angels in the gospel point us to the holy on earth, in this poem our earthly efforts to create beauty point us to the stars and angels, to the holy that is far beyond our comprehension. Our bells, our songs, our prayers, our acts of compassion, our efforts to bring justice and healing are part of the vast wonders of God’s creation, part of the wonders of God’s love.
In the quiet of an anxious night watching sheep, the shepherds awaken to a truth: God dwells among us, dirty and dusty, struggling and yearning, sharing our lives. In the quiet of a frosty and foreboding Christmas Eve, Robert Bridges awakens to that same truth: in the pealing of our bells, whether in joy or in sorrow, in the music of our lives, in our prayers and our acts of faithfulness and compassion, we dwell with God.
For the shepherds and the poet—and for me—this is a truth that changes everything: God is with us. It is also, for me and perhaps for the church throughout the millenia, a truth that is elusive. We know it in a moment of wonder; we touch it in a story or a poem or a carol. When we try to put it in a box so we can grasp it, when we turn poetry into dogma that divides us, when we waste our time with mental gymnastics about Jesus as fully human and fully divine, we distance ourselves from God. We lose the wonder of the shepherds and the poet. We lose our wonder at God who loves us too much to stay away. Christmas is an occasion for us to reclaim wonder, to open ourselves to that truth that changes everything.
For many of us, Christmas this year will be quieter than usual. Some of us will be alone. Some will be grieving. Some will be worrying. Some will revel in a blessed spaciousness that usually eludes us in this season. Whether the quiet of this Christmas feels peaceful or stressful, holy or foreboding to you, I invite you to open yourself to the opportunity it brings. I invite you to join with the shepherds and the poet, to listen, softly, for starry music.
I don’t know where or when or how I will hear starry music this year. I don’t know where or when or how you will hear it. Maybe the music will seem to come from the heavens: as we gaze into the southwestern sky to see Saturn and Jupiter coming into alignment, as we watch an all-too-early sunset or wake up to a glorious sunrise, as we marvel at the persistence of a songbird high up in a stark tree branch. Maybe the starry music will have earthly origins: a favorite anthem revealed through zoom, a scripture spoken by a familiar voice but heard in a new way, a cat on a lap, a phone call from a friend, a neighbor’s greeting as you pick up trash. Perhaps the glow of luminaria or the flame of a Longest Night candle will awaken you to the light of Christ’s love right in your midst.
I requested this anthem to accompany our gospel text because I love the way the shepherds and the poet point us to the Christmas truth. I requested my favorite Christmas carol as a sermon response because the third verse so vividly invites us to join with the shepherds and the poet. “And ye, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow. Look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing. O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.”
Whatever crushing load you are carrying, however low your form is bending, no matter how steep your climbing way might be, the starry music is meant for you. Put down your burdens. Lift up your head. Rest beside the weary road.
The angels are singing. The bells are ringing. Starry music proclaims the Christmas truth: God is with us. Softly, listen. Amen.