2 weeks Ago
Every boy who grew up in the 1950s who did not have the religious credentials to portray Joseph or the height or majesty to be one of the Three Kings usually found himself among the shepherds. The shepherds were usually the bad boys of the Christmas pageant. We dressed in bath robes, sandals, and do-rags.
We spent a lot of time backstage waiting to be awed by the angels. We had no lines. No speeches about God’s glory.
A narrator usually read the words that shuffled us off to Bethlehem. Our low status in the pageant was aligned with actual status of shepherds in biblical times. They were outcasts, unclean, destined to live with the animals of the village.
Yet it was to them that the angels appeared on the night of the nativity. Lowly, yes, but significant. In trying to construct a new religion that reached beyond the chosen people, the shepherds were stand-ins for the gentiles who were called to believe.
These days I am not a shepherd. But I like to spend time outside, and while I am out there, I do spend time looking at the sky. I have not seen any angels, although I live among people who may be angels here in the hill towns.
I am an uncertain believer. But as a shepherd at heart, I am waiting for my vision. Article continues after.
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