Carl Bloch, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” Luke 2: 8-12

To live in a field among sheep, to stay awake, alone and vigilant, to live in solitude through long days and longer nights. For some, this may sound like a peaceful refuge in the midst of a busy, noisy world; to many others, however, this sounds more like a prison sentence. Separated from family and creature comforts, these shepherds faced considerable physical and emotional trials. To face these trials knowing that others looked down upon you, that you occupied the very bottom of the social ladder, and that you were crude, dirty, and uneducated, this might transform the consolation of solitude into desolation. As this solitude flooded your mind and soul with a tsunami of doubt and fear, you might struggle to maintain any peace and joy you’d found. And in your separation from others, you might also feel separated from God.

In his 2008 article “Shepherd’s Status,” Christian author Randy Alcorn explains the status of shepherds at the time of Jesus’ birth: “[S]hepherds stood on the bottom rung of the Palestinian social ladder. They shared the same unenviable status as tax collectors and dung sweepers.” To share the same status as dung sweepers is to share no real status at all. Add to this the fact that because shepherds were perpetually dirty from living in fields among sheep, they would’ve been regarded as ceremonially unclean, unfit to be in the presence of God. We could argue the stable was already unclean and question whether a few unwashed shepherds could contaminate it further. Still, this was a holy place with a Savior King, and a group of lowly shepherds would’ve been customarily barred entry.

God had another plan, though, as He brought the good news first to shepherds, invited them to see the sign themselves, and to worship the Messiah, their Lord. On a Sunday 30 years ago, God had another plan for the church I was attending. After our contemporary service ended and as we were hauling off musical and sound equipment to prepare for the traditional service which would begin in a few minutes, a man quietly entered the back of our sanctuary. I saw him tentatively make his way down the aisle and went to greet him. I quickly discovered that he couldn’t speak English, and given that my Spanish was woefully limited to a few conversational phrases, I couldn’t really communicate with him. There was an urgency in his voice, though, and as I led him down the aisle towards the front of the sanctuary, I could see that our pastor was already coming to us.

I won’t forget this moment. My pastor stuck out his hand in greeting, but the man shook and lowered his head, ashamed to offer his own filthy hand. He’d obviously not washed for days. His clothing was soiled, his hair matted, and his skin blackened with dirt. But my pastor smiled, never breaking eye contact as he grabbed his hand and welcomed him. This man wasn’t a shepherd, but he was the equivalent. He’d hopped a train at the border and was making his way to his cousin in Kansas. And here he was in southern Iowa, having unknowingly overshot Kansas and traveled many rail miles beyond. As our group stood near the pulpit and parishioners were filing in for the next service, our pastor looked out into the pews and yelled, “Does anyone speak Spanish?” A timid hand went up in the balcony, and a small woman made her way down the stairs. Through her translation, we learned the man’s story and his need to unite with his Kansas cousin.

A period of silence ensued during which the organist didn’t begin the prelude and the church service was delayed. In a huddle near the pulpt, our pastor and several of us formulated a plan. My husband, who worked for the railroad, took him to our home to find him a winter coat and a few provisions for his trip. Then, at some risk to his employment, he drove him to the trainyard and helped him hop the right train, the one that would bring him to his Kansas family. On that Sunday morning, we were less concerned about doing church and more concerned with being the church.

For years, I’ve thought about the courage of this man who was as unclean and lowly as a shepherd. I’ve thought about how he humbly offered his hopes and needs before us–before God. And I’ve thought about this encounter as a powerful affirmation of how God uses the lowly, the sick and weak, the alien and estranged, to bring us back to the manger. At the manger, we are all ceremonially unclean, humbled in our shared humanness. At the manger, we are all shepherds, perplexed and amazed that God would bring the Good News to us. At the manger, we kneel before a baby who will one day sleep, unbathed, under the stars, who will work with his hands, fish for his supper, and ultimately save the world.

On that Sunday morning so many years ago, we were able to offer some consolation to a man in desolation. On that night in fields outside of Bethlehem, God offered great consolation to a group of shepherds who’d undoubtedly experienced the desolation of their position and status. As tinseled and bedazzled as our Christmas seasons often become, this splendor pales in comparison to what must’ve been an amazing sight: shepherds kneeling at the manger and taking their honored place as Jesus’s first visitors. This Christmas, may we take consolation in the assurance that the last will be first, the meek will inherit the earth, and the spirit and good fortune of these shepherds lives in us.