We were out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over our flocks that night.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't have been there.
I would have sent my sons to stay under the stars.
I'm too old to sleep outdoors these days.
But, it was the census, you see.
Our family were in town, taking up space.
Staying in the guest room overhead and sitting in my spot in the living room.
Eating and talking and arguing.
And eating.
And talking.
And arguing.
They'd bought their children too,
endlessly climbing and quarrelling and asking questions.
When my animals came in at night there was never any quiet.
Ordinarily, I'd find it soothing to have them close by,
their slow breathing and familiar smell.
But they kept chewing and shuffling and snorting,
like something wasn't quite right.
So I escaped our cramped quarters
for the silence of those wide-open spaces outside our City Gate.
Well, we call it a city, our small town.
David's Town. David's City. Bethlehem.
This old backwater where our peoples greatest king, King David,
hiked these hills as a boy, just like me,
just like my children,
just like my children's children.
Our King, he protected and defended his flock.
He protected and defended his people.
Then he died.
And in time, I...well…
In time, everything else began to fade and fall away.
Our people became vulnerable and defenceless,
like sheep mesmerised by the burning eyes of a wolf.
We were conquered, again and again.
Captives to a foreign king.
In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that we should all be counted,
rounded up.
Led by rods and roman spears.
It was something to fear.
I’d spent most of the many years given to me out in the fields
where wild animals are free to roam.
I’d protected my little ones before.
I’d fought for my life before.
I’d been afraid before.
The Romans were wild too. Hungry. Menacing. Unpredictable.
But that night, there was a burning light.
I’d never been more terrified in all of my life.
My boys looked to me, the seasoned shepherd.
I collapsed. Covered my head. Shook with dread.
‘Do not be afraid,’ the voice said.
But I was.
‘Do not be afraid.
I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.’
I remember every single word.
‘Today in the town of David a Saviour has been born to you: he is the Messiah, the Lord.’
Good news!
I couldn’t open my eyes.
Could it be true?
Our king has come?
At last, a protector, a defender for our people?
All this time we’d been like sheep without a shepherd.
Alone. Afraid.
At last, our king has come!
But why would a baby royal be born here? I'd wondered.
There is no palace in these parts.
Maybe the Messenger meant the City of David, Jerusalem.
Maybe I’d misheard him.
He kept speaking.
‘This will be a sign to you:
you will find the baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’
We swaddled our wee ones.
We wrapped them up warm and lay them on a bed of straw.
Our people have been doing this for the longest time.
This new king has come like one of us.
Cradled and cared for.
All of a sudden, there was a sound so loud it hit me in the chest.
Boom.
Boom, boom.
Boom, boom.
A choir calling out:
Glory to God in the highest heaven,
And on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests.
They sang and sang.
Those words sank into me like fresh, cool water from a deep, deep well.
‘Quick!’ one of my boys said.
‘Let us go to Bethelehm and see.’
My sons helped me to stand and steadied my feet.
Just like I’d done for them a thousand times when they were small.
‘Come on, old man,’ they teased. ‘Let's go.’
We found him.
Just like we'd been told we would.
‘Come and see,’ she said. ‘Come and see.’
Ordinarily, I would have stood at a distance.
I was a shepherd straight from the fields.
Unseemly. Unclean.
Yet this baby was extra-ordinary.
He was so small he could fit in the crook of my arm.
‘I’ll protect you, little one,’ I whispered.
I held him close and closed my eyes.
He breathed softly and everything slowed down.
We’d been hurrying about, yet here he was, asleep.
Such peace!
A hush settled over us like morning mist.
I leant down and kissed his head.
Deep breath.
My whiskery chin tickled his nose.
He nestled in.
I could have sat there until the sun rose over the hills behind us.
My sons were skittish though.
Like spring lambs, bouncing to and fro, high and low.
Acting like children all over again.
Before all this they had been quiet and reserved, keeping to themselves.
Now, they spread the word of that strange and wonderful night wherever they go.
'We named him Jesus,' she'd told me as I turned to leave.
'Immanuel. God is with us.'
‘Indeed,’ I breathed.
God has come to be with us.
Our king has come.
Good news.
Great joy.
