On Shepherds (and our ignorance of simplicity)

Text: Luke 2:1-20

            You don’t hear much about shepherds anymore. I mean, I don’t know anybody who went to shepherding school or wrote that grade-school essay on what they wanted to be when they grew up and chose to be a shepherd. Nobody’s parents—that I know of—are pushing their kids into the shepherding vocation, and anyway, shepherds aren’t exactly high in terms of earning potential. Even if you really wanted to be a shepherd it is hard work to find, and even if you did somehow become a shepherd it’s not exactly the kind of profession that stirs up Christmas-time conversation around the dinner table. 
            “What do you do?”
            “I’m a shepherd.”
            “Oh yeah? What does that entail?”
            “Watching sheep.”
            “I see… can you pass me the chicken?”

             Nobody much cares about shepherds anymore. Even where there is still shepherding work to be done these are people who are completely apart from society. It’s awfully hard to update your Facebook status while you’re out watching over the sheep no matter how strong your IPhone signal is. Moreover, the markets simply don’t value the work of shepherds. It’s not practical—or even possible in most places—to have sheep ranging the countryside. No longer is shepherding a recognized skill in the modern world. In part, this is because the land has been bought up just about anywhere where domestic sheep would range, partly it is because predators have been virtually eliminated in many places where shepherds were once necessary, and partly it is because there are few people who would want the ascetic life of a shepherd.

            This is a world that does not remember shepherds.

One of the few certainties in life is that those who do work for the helpless will always be under-appreciated, whether they are shepherds or day-care workers or nurses or Special Ed teachers or social workers or countless other professions. In Jesus’ time, no vocation better exemplified keeping watch over the helpless than the shepherd. So, of course, it is to shepherds that the angel of God comes. The under-appreciated guardians of helpless creatures are given a front row seat at the birth of our Lord. That is how the kingdom of God works. In Luke’s Gospel there are no kings or wise men, and no honoring of the baby Jesus with expensive gifts; it is just Mary and Joseph and those shepherds, no longer just watching the sheep but now looking over the Savior of the world.

            The Christmas story our world wants to tell is the one about kings. We have no interest in shepherds whatsoever. When we go through the yearly ritual of unpacking our nativity sets there is a hierarchy of importance in the Christmas scene. It’s really important to get the three kings together with their very shiny looking presents, and all the animals as close as can be, looking over toward Mary and Joseph and the little baby Jesus nestled in his manger, then of course there’s the star—that Bethlehem star, we need that—and maybe a couple of angels on wires floating up above (the Bible doesn’t mention them being there but it just looks nice, so let’s go with it); then, if you’re like me growing up, there’s a velociraptor and a TIE fighter on the roof, maybe some ivy because it fits the season, and don’t forget Rudolph and Santa (they have to be there too) and maybe Frosty the Snowman (who could keep his corn cob pipe out of the nativity scene?), and then of course we add any other wooden, marble or plastic characters that happen to be lying around the house, and by the end of it all, the shepherds are usually still sitting in their box, left for the cat to play with, or they have such a poor view of Jesus through Darth Vader and the Incredible Hulk that they might as well just return home with the sheep.

            That’s about how much we care about the shepherds.

            At Grace Lutheran, here in Hallock, our nativity scene bears this out. There are three kings, a couple of cows, Mary and Joseph, the baby Christ, an angel, and then there’s this little shepherd boy with a mischievous grin, who looks like he must have snuck in uninvited for the show.

            All of this is to be expected, of course, because following the birth of Jesus the shepherds return again to anonymity. They didn’t receive anything tangible for this detour into Bethlehem. They certainly stressed out their flock by heading into town—not a metropolis but not exactly prime sheep-grazing territory either—and what did they get out of it? Just a baby in a manger.

            I don’t know about you, but this is a stressful time of the year for me. I was sitting in my office this past Friday preparing for three very different services—a funeral, the last Sunday in Advent and Christmas Eve, my car had died for the second time (out of three, including yesterday) in the past week, it was the shortest day of the year, Kate was facing the same busy schedule as me, we still had to clean the house for family to come…things were just crazy. If only the apocalypse had happened as planned it would have saved us a good deal of stress. I’m sure you each had your own crazy lead-up to today. It’s so easy to just go-go-go, because the big picture is so stinking overwhelming.

But on Friday afternoon I just stopped, took a big, long breath, and remembered what we’ve focused on this entire Advent season. The temptation is to think big. Two Sundays ago, when we all had Newtown, Connecticut on our minds, we were reminded by Isaiah that God’s kingdom is for the little people; it does not come by solving big “issues;” it comes in little acts of kindness and love. Yesterday, while some of us were still stressing over last-minute Christmas shopping (or doing the entirety of our Christmas shopping because we don’t ever plan ahead), Luke was reminding us that joy is just a little seed planted by our sorrow and grief. The thread that has woven through this Advent season for us has been little things, little acts, little hopes and dreams, because it is when we return to the littlest things that we find Christ in the manger.

            Jesus was born small, as are all of us. He was also born in a dirty stable, accompanied by some woe-begotten human beings. Mary, Joseph, some shepherds, maybe some animals—that’s about it. The Savior of the world could not have come into a more humble place. Into that quiet stillness was born a baby that changed everything... but actually, it wasn't that quiet. Bethlehem was filled that evening with thousands of people who had come for the census; there was no room anywhere; and thousands of people were going about their busy lives doing busy things while in their midst one of most seminal events in human history was happening without their knowing.

And the same thing happens every year—right under our noses.

It’s so hard to slow down, especially when there are so many things to do! And we kind of like it—or at least we convince ourselves that it’s worth it. None of us want to be a shepherd. They don’t live sexy lives or have big, important-looking offices. They don’t earn company recognition, receive Christmas bonuses or go on holiday vacations to exotic locations. Shepherds just watch sheep. That’s it. Their entire job description can fit on a single line.

And it is to them that Christ came first.

Christmas isn’t complicated. It is simple. Just a baby in a manger—a small, small thing. It takes a shepherd’s eye to see the beauty in that simplicity. That is the challenge for each of us—to look beyond the glitter and the glitz and the gifts and grandma’s grotesque garb—and anything else that starts with “g” or any other letter that’s going to over-complicated your lives. So when we enter into silence tonight my challenge for you is not to think about all the things that are coming, but to focus on the only one that matters. You might not be shepherds, but you all have it in you.

May your Christmas be simple and small, whether it looks that way or not.

Amen.