Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Gathered around a small, smoldering fire, their sheep peacefully ruminating and chewing their cud, the shepherds relaxed to the quiet sounds of their flocks settling for the night. The quiet click and crunch of grass being snipped and chewed. The gentle huffs and sighs of sheep drifting off to sleep. The rustle of wrestling as a couple young rams argued over the spot nearest the prettiest ewe. Sounds of calm and safety. Sounds of trust. Sounds that echoed the confidence each sheep felt in the protection of the shepherds. The men had set up a perimeter. Stationed themselves at the most likely exit or entrance route. Designated a schedule for watchmen to walk among and around the herd throughout the dark hours, ensuring safety from nocturnal dangers. It was all routine. A checklist of sorts. Safety. Settle. Sleep. At the ticking of the final box, those whose watch hour had yet to come slouched against nearby tree trunks to catch up on much-needed rest. The lambs would need chasing again tomorrow. 

Men on watch duty sat closer to the fire, talking in hushed tones, recounting the day’s escapades. The wild animal they’d driven off. The lamb they’d rescued from a thicket. The ewe that could drop her baby at any time. Eventually, the conversation would turn homeward as they wondered aloud what their family was doing, how their siblings were faring, if the pretty girl next door missed them. It was lonely out here. Lonely and a little boring. It was easy to wish for something to break up the predictable monotony. Something to stop that one guy from playing his flute every night. Something to end the familiar jokes. Something exciting to brag about if they ever got to visit home again. Something amazing. Something fantastic. Something unbelievable. 

Not one of them actually expected anything.  It was all dreams and wishes. They weren’t confused about the insignificance of their town. There was really nothing to recommend it. Never had been, apparently. Centuries ago the prophet Micah had called it small. Nothing had changed in the ensuing years. Nobody famous visited their little town. Nothing extraordinary ever happened there. No one with any notoriety planned to dismount in Bethlehem. They knew better than to believe the next big star would be announced in the middle of the barren Judean hillside. Lightly laughing off their lunacy, the men fell silent, each contemplating his own hopes and dreams, while silently accepting his reality. Best to ground their feet on earth, nothing exciting ever happened to shepherds. Until it did. (Micah 5:2)

God must surely have chuckled as He gave the nod for glorious light to fill the shepherd’s sky. His face must have split with a delighted grin as they leaped to their feet, huddled together, and gazed up at the descending angel. They had no idea what was going on. They didn’t know who was pulling shenanigans. They weren’t exactly thrilled about it. No. These shepherds who had bravely faced down ferocious beasts, sharp rocks, steep cliffs and spiny thickets to save their lambs, were absolutely terrified. Frozen stiff. Eyes wide. Mouths hanging open. Sheep left to their own often ill-advised devices. None of it mattered right then. Every human eye on the hillside was glued to the angel who had appeared in the center of the light. 

Unexpectedly insightful, the angel spoke the same words to the shepherds as had been spoken to both Joseph and Mary. “Don’t be afraid.” Of me. Of the news I have to share. Of leaving your sheep alone on this hillside to go corroborate my words. Don’t be afraid to believe what I say. Don’t worry about the ramifications of placing your faith in a tiny Babe. Do it. You won’t regret it. The Baby born this very night in the Bethlehem stable is the Messiah. The One you’ve heard about your entire life. The One Micah spoke about when he dissed your town. The One whose coming has been widely misinterpreted. He’s here. Now. Go see Him. 

Tearing their eyes away from the speaking angel to stare wide-eyed at one another, silent questions ricocheted among them. Could it be true? Was He here? In Bethlehem? In a stable?!?! There wasn’t time to sort it out. God wasn’t done. He was just getting started. At the flick of His finger, the heavenly concert began. An entire choir of angels filled the sky. The orchestra pit of Heaven exploded in music. The sound of glorious singing split the silence, “Glory to God in the highest. Peace to His people on earth.” If whiplash was a medically accepted diagnosis of that day, the shepherds would all have been prescribed physical therapy. Their heads swiveled from one another to the sky and back again at breakneck speed. It took no discussion at all to come to a unanimous decision. They were going to Bethlehem. Now. All of them. The sheep would be fine alone for a few hours. 

Never had the trip been made so quickly. Not when they were headed home for a weekend reprieve. Not when they wanted to see the girl next door. Not when they found out someone was gravely ill. They had never traveled the path with so little care for where their feet landed. Dust flew from their sandals. Their lungs burned. Their legs ached. Everyone had a stitch in their side. It didn’t matter. They kept moving. Nothing would slow them down or stop them. They were on an urgent mission. They needed to see this. They needed to know if it was true. They needed to see their faith made sight.

Arriving in Bethlehem, they slid to a halt, taking time to catch their breath and gather their thoughts. It was the middle of the night. They could hardly go barging into every stable in town to check for a newborn. But there were no signs of the extraordinary happening. No fanfare. No excited crowd. No overjoyed grandparents announcing His arrival. Indeed, the town was silent. Still. Solemn. Strangely quiet for a town overflowing with folks registering for the recently required census. And there were a lot of stables in Bethlehem. It seemed an exhausting search until someone had an epiphany. This was their town. They lived here. Knew everyone who did. Even out in the fields, they would have certainly heard if someone living in their town was expecting to birth the Messiah. No one was. It had to be a traveler. Wheeling around, they raced on tired feet to the stable of the inn. 

It was a good choice. He was there. Tiny. Wrinkled. Red. Wrapped tightly in a swath of cloths. Nestled down in the straw of a manger. Attended only by His parents, a mangy flock of animals, and now a scruffy group of hillside wandering strangers. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t cozy. It may not have been completely clean. Yet the shepherds knew. This was the place. This was the Baby. This was their King. For the first time since the angelic choir had ascended back into Heaven, the shepherds were silent and still. Their tongues stilled in awe. The prophecy was fulfilled. The Messiah had come. Just as He promised. 

They could have stayed to gaze on that tiny, beautiful face until dawn lightened the sky. They didn’t. Even simple shepherds understood the social faux pas that would be. Visitors, noisy or silent, are decidedly unnecessary in the hours directly after a baby is born. Mary didn’t have the energy to entertain strangers. And the shepherds had things to do. Sheep to tend. A story to tell. People to impress with the news that they, simple, uneducated shepherds, had seen the Messiah. He was here and they had seen Him first. 

Bursting out of the stable, their silence broke into joyous shouts. Good job they weren’t told to keep it all a secret! They’d have failed. Their joy erupted. Their excitement overflowed. The news spilled out to all and sundry. Family. Friends. Strangers. The flow of words was impossible to stem. The waiting was over. The prophets were right. The Messiah had come. Here. In this tiny, little town with nothing to recommend it, Jesus was born. Baby. Savior. King. They wanted to tell the world. And they did. As their feet turned back up the hillside to their duty stations, their joyous tongues never stopped. Every person they met heard the news. As they exited the town and began the solitary trek into the countryside, they turned their praise heavenward. Glory. Honor. Praise to God who had promised, performed, and presented the proof to their unworthy eyes. (Luke 2:1-20)

The twinkle must still have been flashing in God’s eyes as He watched and listened to their antics. Knowing what the following years would bring, the elation of the shepherds and their inability to keep the news to themselves must have filled His heart with joy. There wouldn’t always be shepherds to sing His praises. There wouldn’t always be people excited to speak His news. Not everyone would accept His Son as King. Eventually, men would align themselves against Him. Look for ways to trap Him. Search for a reason to kill Him. Drawn into the fray, Judas would betray Him. Peter would deny Him. People for generations to come would defy His commands and disregard His grace. The joy that lit up the sky and fired in the hearts of the shepherds would dim and fade. The story joyously spread throughout Bethlehem would be overshadowed by the results of jealousy and hate. None of that would change the truth. The Messiah had come to save His people, all people, from their sins. (Matthew 1:21, 26:47-50; Luke 11:53, 22:54-62; Mark 3:6; II Peter 3:9)

No part of that message has changed today. Jesus came. Promised Messiah. Sovereign Savior. Reigning King. No amount of denials, betrayals, defiance and disobedience will change the message. Jesus came into the world to save sinners. You. Me. Us. Them. The truth of those words should still fill our hearts with joy. Extravagant joy. Sensational joy. Permeating joy. Joy in a Savior, a salvation, that renders us unable to keep quiet. Joy that must be shared with all and sundry. Strangers. Family. Friends. Unspeakable joy about which we can do nothing but speak. The first words from our lips in greeting. The last words from our mouths in rest. Christ, our Savior, is born! (Psalm 51:12-17; Psalm 35:9; I Peter 1:8; Habakkuk 3:18; Romans 5:11)