Musings on faith and life from an Alaska Lutheran pastor.

Friday, December 28, 2012

A Shepherd's Story (Sermon 12.24.12)

(This sermon was originally preached on Christmas Eve, 2012, at Central Lutheran Church, Anchorage, AK. It was presented orally, as a dramatic monologue, in some variation of the text below. I was wearing a shepherd's costume. You'll have to use your imagination. The text for the day is Luke 2:1-20.)

Do know you what it feels like to give up? I don't just mean give up on a project or give up on someone you thought was dependable. I mean, do you know what it feels like totally give up on yourself? Do you know what it feels like to give up hope, hope that people will care about you, or that you can make a difference or hope that the world really is a safe and wonderful place to live? Do you know what it feels like when everyone has given up on you?

That's how I felt when I became a shepherd. As you know, it's not a desirable job, it's not a respectable job. It's the job you do when there's no other option besides begging or stealing. And I admit, I've done a bit of that as well. Shepherds are known for being thieves, degenerates and liars. Some towns won't let us into city limits. Our testimony doesn't count in court. We're considered unclean by temple authorities and priests. I haven't given a proper sacrifice in years; there's no way to do it. Everyone else has given up on me, except the sheep. I gave up on God a long time ago, too, because I figured he'd probably long since given up on me.

That's why my story is so amazing. I'd long since given up, until one chilly winter night a few years back. My buddies and I were out a long ways from city limits. It was a clear night and we were watching the stars as much as we were watching the sheep. We hadn't seen any wolves in ages, so we just let them wander. One of the guys had a few small loaves of bread, which barely tamed our appetite. I admit, we were probably having a conversation not fit for mixed company. Suddenly, there was a bright light. I heard some of the other guys gasp for breath; one shouted. I was paralyzed; I couldn't say a word. Out of the light, I saw a figure, some kind of person, or something. It didn't seem real. I was so scared I couldn't even think straight. Was I having a dream or a nightmare? The person, whatever it was, spoke. It said, “Do not be afraid, for see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people. To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and laying in a manger.”

I don't know if you can even believe this, because the story is so crazy, but I swear it's true. This person, this messenger, this angel, was actually sent to us. From God. I know, it's totally crazy. I was raised as a good Jewish boy who went to temple regularly, before my job made me unfit. I know that God spoke to lots of people, like Abraham, Moses and Elijah. But there was no way God would speak to me and my buddies. But when the messenger finished talking, I knew it was true. The messenger was from God. I wanted to interrupt and tell the messengers that they had gotten the wrong people. If it was true, if the Messiah had been born, the news should come first to the priests, or the scribes or at least some faithful Jews. Not us. We're nothing. I wanted to tell the messengers they had the wrong address. But I was too scared. I kept my mouth shut.


And then, something even more crazy happened: dozens more of these messengers, these shining beings, appeared. Just out of nowhere. They started signing. They sang, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth, peace among those whom he favors.” It was the most beautiful music I have ever heard. The sound was so big and the music so rich. I almost forgot to be afraid. Almost!

Just as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. The light went out. There was only the dark of the night, some confused sheep and some even more confused shepherds.

We just stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other. Then one of my buddies decided we might as well go to Bethlehem (that's the city of David) and see if there was actually anything going on. Was there a child born who would become the Messiah, the chosen one the Scriptures fore-tell? We left the sheep (I know, I know) and ran toward the city. I know it seems like we should have gone to the temple   or at least to the homes of some very important Jewish people. That's where the Messiah would have been. But they wouldn't have let us in anyway. We didn't even talk about where we were going; it was like we just knew. We stopped in front of a modest home, we barely even knocked, ran inside and there they were, a woman, a man and a baby, lying in an animal's feeding trough. We knew the child was the Messiah, and we kept interrupting each other, stammering and stuttering out what we had seen and heard. The couple, Mary and Joseph, didn't seem as surprised as you would think people would be if shepherds burst into their guest quarters and called their baby the Messiah. They listened and we talked and then we just stared at the baby.

 And then we went home and found our sheep, but that's not exactly the end of the story. Even though this story is amazing and even outrageous, it's not even the most dramatic part. The most dramatic part happened after we left Mary, Joseph and the baby Messiah.

 Remember when I said that I had pretty much given up on myself, other people and God? Well, it's true. There was no reason to hope for anything better than a few more years out there with the sheep, feeling unwanted and shunned every time I came into town.

 As we left the home where Mary and Joseph and the baby were, I noticed something. There were no angels hovering over the stable that night. In fact, Mary and Joseph didn't even know about the angels. No one else on the streets seemed to know either; no one else was rushing to see the child. The angels didn't come to the temple, they didn't come to the very important Jewish people, and on that night, they didn't even come to Mary and Joseph or their families. The angels came to us. Everyone else had given up on us, except God. The angels came to us. God sent them to us.

 I don't know if you know what it feels like to give up. So I don't know if you know what it feels like to realize that someone hasn't given up on you. God didn't give up on me! God doesn't give up on you! God doesn't give up on any of us. And God comes right into the places where God is needed most. I felt  unwanted and unloved. God came. I felt disconnected and despairing. God came. I felt like the world wasn't fair. God came. I felt like nobody understood me. God came. God comes right into the places where God is needed most. God comes to you, right where you need him most. God comes in the very places it seems as if He has no business being. God comes to you. He might not send a bright and shiny messenger, so you might have to look a little more carefully. But He comes. God will never, ever give up on you.

 I said that the most important part of the story happened as we left Mary and Joseph and the baby. What happened was this: I realized that God cares, God came and God loves. And suddenly, without warning, I began to share the good news with everyone I met. Because God comes. God is here. God never gives  up on any of us. Amen.


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