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 16th
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
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.
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