Sam and David were embroiled in a serious religious debate. They were arguing over the resurrection of the dead. Sam pulled his ratty cloak tighter to his chest and sided with the Sadducees, who said that there was no resurrection, because there was no evidence of that in the scriptures. But David, rubbing his hands near the fire, argued that surely the Pharisees were right, there was a resurrection, because he always sang that song in Sabbath school about the bones coming back to life on the Day of the Lord. “No. That’s a ridiculous thought,” Sam said. You have to look at the text. You have to believe what it says. There’s nothing in the Torah about the dead coming back to life.” “But what about tradition?” David shouted, arms flailing wide, his staff in his hand.
Ben was sitting by the fire, rolling his eyes, as usual. “Could you guys just cut it out” he said, “you know this is all ridiculous legends, taught to us as kids to keep us in line.” Sam and David new better than to argue with Ben. There was no budging him. For Ben, God was just a myth, an illusion, a grand hallucination that people used to help them feel better about their lives. Sam was the scholar. He wanted to read the texts and find the answers, because the answers could always be found in the text. David, on the other hand, was raised in a rich tradition of trust and belief. He believed because his father did, and his father’s father did, and on and on.
As Sam and David argued, and as Ben snoozed, the sheep wandered aimlessly, grazing, resting, butting their heads against the shepherds for a warmer place by the fire. Simeon, the fourth shepherd, was out in the field, staring up at the sky.
A few miles down the road, Mary was in labor. Sweat was dripping from her temples despite the cold night. Her legs were shaking, and between each round of bursting pain, she shook her head at Joseph. She said, “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” Joseph was bewildered, but steady. He said, “Here. Lean on me. I will hold you through this.” She swayed for hours, propped up against Joseph’s chest. He held her through every rolling tremor, whispered “you can do this, yes, just like that” in her ear.
Staring at the sky was nothing new for Simeon. It’s what he loved best about his job. It didn’t pay well, he was usually covered in mud, and the folks in town could smell him before they saw him, but the nights were beautiful. Simeon would stare at the dome of stars, counting the streaks blazing across the sky, breathing deeply, feeling at home in the mystery of the universe. He was at peace among these orbs of fire that he did not understand. He felt at home in all this unknown; everything was a fleck of God, a piece of the whole, a symbol of the great Love that conducted this all. He, like Ben, had had enough of Sam and David’s bickering over who was right and who was wrong, but in some ways, he understood their struggles; it’s hard to find your faith amidst the questions.
Simeon understood where Ben was coming from, too; if he’d had the same traumas in his life that Ben did, he didn’t think he’d believe much in God either.
Mary, in the stable, was lost in pain. Delirious with pain. She cried out to Joseph. She cried out to God. She called for her mother. This was more than she could bear. How could God have asked this of her? Where was God in all of this? Why did God leave her to do this hard, impossible thing, with only Joseph’s wild-eyed panic and the animals’ exhaled breath to keep her warm?
Joseph was trying to hide his wild-eyes from Mary, but he wasn’t a very good actor. The government authorities told him he had to be registered, so he went. The angel told him not to leave Mary, so he didn’t. The stable was warm, they were running out of options, so that’s where they stayed. He didn’t plan any of this. He’d simply stumbled in to this whole situation, this marriage, this strange town, this birth. He simply listened for the next right thing, and did it. He asked for the next right step, and took it. And now he was swaying with his wife, who was surviving simply from one deep breath to the next.
Simeon was the first to see the angels. They glowed like the stars, but came closer, closer. He was both terrified and, somehow, assured. “This must be from God," he thought. He ran to the fire, calling “Sam, Ben, David! Come look!” All three rolled their eyes. This was not the first meteor shower that he’d forced them to see.
But the sky grew brighter, the strange singing grew louder, and they all stood slack jawed, staring at the sky.
Sam, who took his faith quite literally, said, “We should do what the angels tell us.”
David, who’d adopted his faith from his family said, “I’ve heard the stories!”
Ben, who doubted all things, said, “I guess I could use the exercise.”
Simeon, who saw the Holy everywhere, said, “I wonder where this will take us.”
And so all four of these ragged and exhausted boys, despite their varying theological perspectives, nudged their wandering sheep toward the little town, all a little unsure of what they would find.
The baby was crowning. “Just one more push,” Joseph said. And with a loud cry, Mary pushed and then caught her baby. She laughed with joy and relief. She put him to her chest. The baby cried. The most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. She whispered in the baby’s ear, “We did it.” She’d fought for the life of this child, and now, he was here. He reached out for her as if to say, “Thank you for your struggle.” Joseph looked over her shoulder at the child. They locked eyes as if to say, “Thank you for your patience.”
Sam and David bickered all the way to Bethlehem. They were arguing if the mother of the Messiah would simply be a young maiden, as the Hebrew text translated Isaiah 7, or if it would be a virgin, as the Greek version interpreted the text. Ben wasn’t expecting anything except a stinky animal pen, some bales of hay, and, if he was lucky, some shelter from these bitter winds. Simeon tried to cheer him up, saying, “You just never know what mysteries you will encounter when you follow your heart.” Ben rolled his eyes.
But when the shepherds arrived, it was nothing any of them expected. It was so simple. It was so glorious. A young woman, a baby in her arms. The wet warmth of animal breath. Joseph stuffing his cloak with straw for a makeshift pillow. A hush fell over them all.
Sam stopped quoting, and David stopped arguing. Ben stopped grumbling, and Simeon stopped pontificating.
They all just stood in silent wonder. And the baby rested.
As if to say, “Sam, thank you for your study.”
As if to say, “David, thank you for keeping your tradition.”
As if to say, “Ben, thank you for your questions.”
As if to say, “Simeon, thank you for your wonder.”
Tonight we all bring our song to the newborn Christ child, whether it be a song of doubt, a song of confusion, a song of comfort, or a song of confidence.
We come to this sacred, ordinary, glorious place to share our song. And with each of our songs, the harmony they create births the Christ child anew. Christ is born in you. In me. Every time we sing.
And in our hearts, like Mary, like Joseph, like the shepherds, we can all hear the Christ child say, “Thank you. Thank you.”
Thanks be to God.
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