Why Do the Shepherds Hear the Good News? (Luke 2:1-3, 8-10)

A Lowly Bunch

James Rebanks is a shepherd in the Lake District of northwest England, a beautiful region filled with mountains, forests, and lakes. His family has farmed sheep there for a long time, since before the parish church began recording births, deaths, and marriages in the 16^th century. In his book The Shepherd’s Life, he writes tenderly and toughly about all the messy intimacies of farming sheep: breeding, feeding, lambing, clipping, dosing, bathing, shearing, medicating, gathering, herding, chasing, and protecting. The list of responsibilities goes on. Some of the techniques that he uses have been handed down through the centuries, even millennia. The shepherds in the Lake District were tending their sheep there before there were kings, perhaps even before the Vikings landed on the shores of the British Isles. Their care for their sheep goes back a long way. Their care for their sheep is older than thrones and armies and nations.

While James clearly delights in the shepherd’s life, he does not gloss over its difficulties. Today, he farms over 900 sheep and still struggles to make ends meet. It’s nothing new. Centuries ago, he says, shepherds needed to find other work to eke out a living. And they did. Rather than leave the trade behind to find a more profitable line, shepherds stayed with their sheep and scraped by on the other odd jobs they could find. James writes that, growing up, his schoolteachers presumed that education could lift children like him out of the trade, could lead them to “rise above [themselves].” The assumption was clear. A shepherd was not something a child should aspire to be. They could be more.

When James visited the United States for the first time on his book tour, what he saw of our countryside both shocked him and was perhaps all too familiar. He writes, “I saw shabby wood-frame houses rotting by the roadside, and picket fences blown over by the wind. I passed boarded-up shops in the hearts of small towns, and tumbledown barns and abandoned farmland.”[1] In other words, he saw a similar disregard for the people closest to the land.

The disregard for shepherds and farmers today, is nothing new. When Luke writes about the birth of Jesus, he purposefully paints a stark social contrast. The scene opens with Emperor August, the mightiest man in the known world, whose very word has the power to move people from one location to another. But when Jesus is born and the good news is announced by God’s angels, the proclamation does not first issue in a palace as would be customary for a royal birth. Instead it is announced to some peasants, some dirty, stinky shepherds with not even a proper roof over their heads. Earlier, Mary had sung a song that celebrated how God would bring down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly (Luke 1:52). Here is a first illustration of that reversal. It is a reversal we will see time and again in Luke, as Jesus repeatedly welcomes and embraces the last and the least, from the sick and diseased to little children, from prostitutes to Samaritans and gentiles.

Why the Shepherds?

I love these reversals. Yet I wonder at the meaning of them. I cannot help but notice that the angel declares “good news of great joy for all the people” (2:10). All the people. So why is it that on that first night some hear the good news, and others do not? Why do the lowly shepherds hear the angels’ song, but not the mighty emperor Augustus and the governor Quirinius?

There is an old folk tale that the Jewish rabbis tell. Abraham, they say, isn’t the only person who received God’s call. God called other individuals, but they refused. Abraham was the only one who said, “Yes.” And Israel, these rabbis say, aren’t the only people whom God invited into a special covenant. God invited others, but they refused. Israel is the only people who said, “Yes.”

I wonder—I wonder if a similar tale might not also be told about the shepherds. Imagine with me for a moment. Imagine that the angels go announce the good news to the kings and princes of the world. But they are making merry in the radiance of their palaces and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above the noise of their festivities.

And the angels go to the merchants. But they are counting money by well-kept fires and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above the clang of their coins.

And the angels go to the soldiers. But they are bent over maps and planning their next battle and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above their heated discussion.

The rulers, the merchants, and the soldiers are all preoccupied with a world of things to possess and to control and in which to indulge themselves.

But when the angels go to the shepherds who are only caring for their sheep, the shepherds who have no ambitions toward greatness and who are building no kingdoms of their own—they see the angels in the darkness of the night. They hear their song in the silence of the fields.

Following the Shepherds

Today is the last Sunday of Advent. It’s not quite Christmas, and so I want to be careful that I don’t get ahead of myself in my reflections. The story today is not that Christ is born, but that the good news of Christ’s arrival is announced—and some characters hear the news, while others do not.

The story of the shepherds, then, invites me to ask: Am I able to hear the good news of Christ when it is proclaimed? Am I more like Emperor Augustus? Do I presume that the world revolves around me? Do I presume to stay in control by my words and actions? Or am I more like the shepherds, taking one step at a time and watching for what’s next? In this season, when I am easily caught up in the rush of my plans, the shepherds bid me to slow down for those who are in need, to stop for those who are injured. In this season, when I am easily caught up in the desire for everything to be just right, the shepherds bid me to be content where I am, trusting that God can use me right here.

The ironic thing about the shepherds is that they are held in rather low regard, but their job description is awfully close to God’s. In fact, “shepherd” is one of the most ancient titles for God, not only in Israel but in all the Ancient Near East. It’s no coincidence that David’s most famous song begins, “The Lord is my shepherd…” (Ps 23:1). Over the course of his life, Jesus will demonstrate again and again how God is not the warrior that the world wants, but rather the shepherd that the world needs.

The shepherds, then, are characters after God’s own heart. Their desire is not power but relationship. So, when the angels announce the good news of God’s relationship with humanity, the shepherds are the first to hear. Unlike the others, they have no other  preoccupation, no agenda. They only have hearts hungry for relationship.

Prayer

O great Shepherd of us all,
Who cares for us intimately
From birth to death—
Sometimes we live too fast
Or with too many plans
To receive your love
…
Lead us in the footsteps
Of the shepherds
To desire relationship more than power,
To be hungry for your love, Christ himself. Amen.

---

[1] James Rebanks, “An English Sheep Farmer’s View of Rural America,” https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/01/opinion/an-english-sheep-farmers-view-of-rural-america.html, accessed December 12, 2022.

Magnifying God (Luke 1:46-55)

The Invisible Gorilla

You would think that if a gorilla wandered across your field of vision, you would notice, right? About twenty years ago, a couple of psychologists ran an experiment. They asked participants to watch a video. In the video, two teams are passing around two basketballs, one team in white shirts, the other in black. The psychologists instructed the participants to count the number of times that the players in white passed the ball. At the end of the experiment, they asked the participants, “Did you see the gorilla?” Because, sure enough, in the middle of the video, a person in a gorilla costume wanders into the middle of the screen, beats his chest, and then wanders off screen. Incredibly, only half of the participants noticed the gorilla. The rest were too focused on the basketball.

The creators of the experiment, Christopher Chabris and Daniel Simons, explain that the exercise illustrates the phenomenon of selective attention. The idea is simple and apparently true. We tend to see only what we are looking for. We might think that we would notice something new and unusual—surely we would notice a gorilla!—but in fact we’re liable to miss it because our attention is focused elsewhere. About a century before this gorilla experiment, American philosopher William James made a similar observation. He explained that at any point in time, we are surrounded by infinitely more external stimuli and internal thoughts than we can pay attention to. To prevent us from becoming overwhelmed, our mind chooses to attend to whichever objects we deem relevant, and it disregards the rest.

At the risk of oversimplifying the point, we could summarize it this way. We only pay attention to one thing, when in reality there are many things. We only pay attention to one thing, when in reality there are many things.

From Fear to Joy

When the angel Gabriel visits Mary and says, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you,” Luke tells us that “she [is] much perplexed by his words” (1:28-29). She likely has many thoughts and feels many things, all at once. I am favored? The Lord is with me? I’m just a girl, not even out of her father’s house. Fear is perhaps the predominant feeling, the one she pays the most attention to, because upon seeing her reaction, Gabriel rushes to reassure her, “Do not be afraid, Mary” (1:30). He then promises that her child will be called the Son of God and will inherit the throne of David. Israel has been without a true king now for centuries. It lives under Roman occupation and oppression. A king is a big deal. A king is the promise of freedom and new life.

If Mary’s first response to the news is fear, her later response is the opposite: joy. In today’s scripture, which takes place while Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth, she erupts into jubilant song. Her song has since become a beloved prayer in the church, known as the Magnificat. Some communities of faith recite it on a daily basis. Mary’s song rejoices in the special attention that God pays to the lowly and left out. Remember how Gabriel’s greeting declared to Mary that she was a favored one and God was with her (1:28)? Now she perceives that the child in her womb will declare this same good news to others, that they are beloved by God, and God is with them. Her song celebrates how God “lift[s] up the lowly” and “fill[s] the hungry with good things” and “help[s] his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy” (1:52-54).

Sometimes I take Mary’s joy for granted. It’s such a familiar part of the Advent story that I just assume anyone would be joyful in her circumstances. But I wonder if that is true. Because Mary’s situation is filled with complications and uncertainties that she could do without. When her pregnancy starts to show, there will be mean stares and sneers and whispers of judgment. Never mind all the responsibilities that will come with having to raise a child before she was prepared to do so. And what if Joseph leaves her? Make no mistake, life is not going according to plan for Mary. Life is being thrown at her.

Yet that initial feeling of fear, human and understandable as it is, fades when Mary focuses on God’s favor toward her, God’s presence with her. When she pays attention to God’s love, she rejoices.

Making a Big Deal out of God’s Love

“My soul magnifies the Lord,” Mary sings. The Greek for “magnify,” megaluno, simply means “make big.” I would compare it to the English expression “to make a big deal out of something.” The reality of our lives is that there are always many things going on, but we selectively pay attention to one thing. We all make a big deal about something.

Some people make a big deal about their boss and how unreasonable they are. Some people make a big deal about money and how they need more of it. Some people make a big deal about their spouse and all their grudges toward them. Some people make a big deal about their misfortunes and how everything seems to be going against them. In my experience, making a big deal out of my resentments has a snowball effect; I see more and more problems all around me, and I am left feeling worried and anxious.

Mary makes a big deal out of God’s love for her. She makes a big deal out of God’s love for everyone, and especially for the people who have been told (or silently shown) that their lives don’t really matter, the poor, the hungry, the homeless. Mary’s song actually echoes much of Hannah’s song from the Old Testament (Hannah was the mother of another miracle child, Samuel), which suggests that Mary has practice in singing this sort of song. She has already made a habit of looking for God’s love in the world. Which explains her joy. Mary could have made a big deal out of the humiliation she would soon experience among her pious neighbors. She could have made a big deal out of not being prepared for a child and all the responsibilities motherhood would entail. She had a lot of possible resentments and anxieties that she could have magnified. But instead she magnifies God’s love for her. And her joy eclipses her fear.

Unlearning and Relearning

Mary’s song invites me this Advent to ask, “What am I making a big deal out of?” What am I magnifying?

The news teaches me to make a big deal out of power. Social media teaches me to make a big deal out of fame and image. The holiday advertisements teach me to make a big deal out of comfort and convenience. All of this can leave me feeling anxious and fearful. Do I have enough? How do other people see me? Is the world falling apart?

I have been taught by the world to magnify power, prestige, and possessions, and to magnify all the problems that result when I don’t have these things. It is not natural for me to magnify God. I have learned from the world a language of control and complaint, but not the language of praise and prayer. All the more reason this Advent to study Mary’s example, to unlearn old habits and to learn instead a new habit of magnifying God. One practice that helps me to learn this new habit is gratitude. I know some people who like to begin their day by making a list of five things they are grateful for. I know others who practice gratitude in a more contemplative manner; they sit patiently and simply wait to see what gratitude arises, if any. In either case, the idea is not to burden oneself with a spiritual duty or a box to check off. The idea, rather, is to exercise one’s attention on God’s love.

In my experience, God’s love is often quiet. (Is it a coincidence, I wonder, that the angels in the Christmas story frequently appear at night, when the day’s work is done, and the world has quieted?) Every week now, I get Christmas cards in the mail with short, hand-written notes. And I am comforted to remember I have friends who care for me. God loves me. Last week, I was at a nursing care center, and a group of children were wandering the halls. I saw how their smiles were infectious, invisibly passing through doorways and lighting up the faces of residents. God loves others, especially the lowly and left out. God makes his face to shine upon them.

Mary’s story teaches me that the joy of Advent (and the joy of our faith) is not the simple high of a good feeling. It is a practiced song. It is an exercise of attention. It is learning and speaking the language of praise and prayer. And, amid the many things of this world, it attunes me to what matters most: God’s love.

Prayer

Tender God,
Whose love lifts up the lowly and left out,
Whose love topples the high and mighty,
Not with force but with a disarming embrace
That invites the surrender of control—
Turn our attention away from the grudges and complaints
That keep us mired in fear
…
And attune our hearts
To your love,
To joyfully sing its praise.
In Christ, whose eternal approach is good news of great joy: Amen.

Making Peace (Luke 1:39-45)

Peace as a “No”

I don’t know about you, but when I hear the word “peace,” my first thought is “the absence of war.” If someone said to me, “I come in peace,” I would think, “This person has no intention of fighting.” In other words, my tendency is to define peace in negative terms. I define peace by what is missing rather than by what is present. I think of peace as a “no” rather than a “yes.” No shouting, no hitting, no guns, no violence, no death.

But I think this definition is missing something.

On the one hand, I remember schoolteachers who preserved peace in the classroom with what I would call a reign of terror. They yelled. They threatened. They smoldered. They did not make me feel safe. Their classrooms were not what I would consider peaceful, even though no one spoke out of turn or fought. Their peace was like the peace of Rome, the pax romana. As the Romans would say, “If you want peace, prepare for war.” In this frame of thought, peace is only ever secured by an iron fist and fear.

On the other hand, I remember schoolteachers who were perfectly peaceful themselves…and also perfectly passive. They were the proverbial doormats. They did not maintain the rules or boundaries of the classroom, and the students were free to do whatever they pleased. The result was chaos. In these classrooms, I did not feel safe. They were not what I would consider peaceful environments, even though the teacher refrained from shouting or harsh discipline.

Both types of schoolteachers—the dictators and the doormats— say “no” to any signs of hostility or violence, either in the students or in themselves. Both aspire toward a kind of peace. Yet in neither type of classroom did I feel at peace.

Where did I feel safe? In classrooms where the teacher was less focused on maintaining control (whether of the class or herself), and more focused on caring for the students. The teachers in whose presence I felt most at peace were the teachers who responded to problems or accidents with compassion. They would not simply punish troublemakers, they would ask them what was the matter. They did not seek to eliminate conflict, but to resolve it by addressing the underlying matters of hurt and misunderstanding. I felt safest—at peace—with the teachers who cared for us.

A Peaceful Pause

When I read today’s scripture, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace. I feel like I’ve climbed through the window of scripture into a home of deep warmth and welcome, a home where I am safe. I feel comforted and nurtured in the presence of Mary and Elizabeth.

I think part of the reason for this experience is that our scripture today gives us a precious glimpse into the personal lives of key characters in the Christmas story. In Matthew, Mary and Joseph are both silent, and we are left wondering how they feel about their experience. Luke, however, rounds out his characters by showing us their reactions and letting us into their thoughts and feelings and conversations. Today’s scripture picks up right after the angel Gabriel’s visit to Mary. Mary has just heard from Gabriel that she will bear the son of God (1:35). She also hears that her relative, the elderly Elizabeth who everyone thought was barren, is sixth months pregnant (1:36). Our scripture tells us the first thing that Mary does after the angel Gabriel leaves. She makes haste to the home of Elizabeth (1:40). Why? I imagine it is because she is desperate not to be alone. Everything we know about Joseph suggests he is a thoughtful guy (cf. Matt 1:19), but in the wake of the impossible news she has just received, Mary needs more than a sympathetic ear or shoulder to lean upon. She needs someone else who knows what she’s going through, who’s going through something similar herself. So she goes to Elizabeth, who also is bearing a miracle child.

The scene of Mary and Elizabeth together is a tender intermission in the Advent narrative. It is a peaceful pause. Mary enters Elizabeth’s home, and blessings immediately pour out of Elizabeth’s mouth. “Blessed are you,” “blessed is the fruit of your womb,” “blessed is she who believed” (1:42, 45). And I imagine that as these blessings flow from Elizabeth, she is embracing Mary and covering her with blankets and whipping up whatever she can in the way of food and gently prodding her bewildered, mute husband, John, out of the way so they can have some privacy and talk about the things that only they can really know.

More Than a Feeling

The peace that I discern in today’s scripture is, on the surface, a good feeling. It just feels good to read about the caring camaraderie of Mary and Elizabeth. I imagine it’s a little bit like the experience some people enjoy when they watch a Hallmark Christmas movie or read an uplifting Christmas memoir. It simply makes them feel good. And I wouldn’t want to diminish that experience.

But I do wonder if the peace on display in this passage isn’t a little bit more than simply the absence of conflict, or even the absence of worry and bad feelings. Because make no mistake, both of these women know adversity. Elizabeth has silently suffered the shame of her culture, in which having no children severely diminishes one’s standing in the eyes of others. Mary will undoubtedly receive similar looks of shame, as her pregnancy starts to show. On top of these personal experiences, both women live as voiceless nobodies, whether in the immediate surroundings of their patriarchal Jewish community, or in the broader setting of Roman occupation and oppression. They must daily submit to other authorities, whether it’s an emperor who orders a census that requires a harsh, impromptu journey, or simply impulsive husbands and greedy tax collectors and aggressive Roman soldiers.

I wonder, then, if their peace is not the fruit of a deeper experience, an experience that knows pain and fear and conflict and yet is not determined by those feelings; an experience that knows adversity and yet insists on blessing. Is it a coincidence that this peaceful scene involves two mothers-to-be? Elizabeth twice makes mention of their wombs, which reminds us that both women are actively carrying and caring for the life that is within them. Could it be that their peace is not so much a feeling, but rather their full-bodied commitment to care? Could it be that their peace has to do with their partnership with God?

Saying “Yes” to God

Later in the gospel, Jesus will talk about peace as something you do, something you make. “Blessed are the peace-makers.” It’s a reminder to me that peace is more than the absence of violence. Peace is more than a feeling. Peace is partnering with God, as Mary and Elizabeth did. Peace is saying “Yes” to God and trusting in God’s work in our world. Peace is what my best teachers made, when they saw the image of God in every child and responded accordingly, seeing them not as problems but as children of God worthy of care and healing. They did not simply say, “No more of that!” They said, “Yes, you are loved. Yes, you deserve goodness.”

The peace of Advent is not the absence of conflict or bad feelings. It is not just something we experience. It is a full-bodied partnership with God. It is not a feeling from which we act, but action from which we feel better. The peace of Advent is caring for the world as God cares for the world. Peace has to do with care, not control. Controlling others is the false peace of the pax romana (and dictator teachers). Controlling ourselves is the false peace of passivity (and doormat teachers). Care is where peace is made. Is born. Here’s how Paul puts it: “Let your gentleness [your care] be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests [your care] be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil 4:5-7). 

Prayer

Most merciful God,
In whose womb creation is reborn—
Where we seek the false peace of control,
Of simply saying “no” to conflict and bad feelings,
Remind us of your care,
Your insistent “yes” to the world
…
May the examples of Elizabeth and Mary
And other Christ-followers then and now
Inspire us to partner with you.
May we know your peace by making it,
By caring for the world around us.
In Christ, the prince of peace: Amen.