Becoming Shepherds in the Night

The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.
—Traditional Christmas Carol

“Why can’t I hear the angels sing?”

The little boy’s question startles me.  At first, I hadn’t even heard his voice. But, now, I feel the tug at my sleeve.

“Why can’t I hear the angels sing?”

It is Christmas Eve, and the little boy is peering up at the nativity scene, looking carefully at the figures of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. He stands so small, that little boy, but his question is so big.

There in front of him is the story he had just listened to, that story told on this night generation after generation, for hundreds and hundreds of years.  The same story we heard when we were small.  As the little boy had listened, he used his imagination, and became a shepherd, sitting up on a hillside, surrounded by the uncertainty of the night.  He was waiting for something to happen, something to remind him that there was more to life than tending sheep, more to life than chasing away the wolves that lurked in the shadows.

“Why can’t I hear the angels sing?” he whispered to me.  “Have they stopped singing their song of peace?”

I think about his question.  Why can’t we hear the angels sing?

I remember the story itself, that miraculous myth. That night, that first Christmas, hardly anyone was able to hear the angels sing.

The innkeeper certainly couldn’t.  She was too busy with the demands of her work, too nervous about making ends meet, too worried whether she’d have a job the next day.  The guests who filled each and every room in the inn certainly didn’t hear the angels sing.  Some were just too weary to do anything, grateful for a moment of rest.  Some were grieving those who were with them no more.  Others were too troubled, concerned about paying their taxes, anxious from the terror and violence that permeated their land, fearful of the war that seemed ready to begin.

Meanwhile, out back in the small stable, Mary couldn’t hear any angels.  She felt too alone and unsure of herself.  She didn’t know how to give birth to anything, and yet, the time had come for her to bring something new into the world.  She gritted her teeth and began pushing her way through.  Joseph certainly didn’t hear any angels as he stood by watching helplessly.

Then there were the Three Astrologers, the Three Magi from the East.  Wise ones, highly educated, even they didn’t hear any angels in the night.  They were moving far too fast to notice any gentle song.  They had a deadline to meet, a destination to discover.

I imagine the angels were pretty frustrated that night.  They were singing their hearts out, but who would listen to their song?  Here they were, filled with such news: Even as the world churned towards another year, a ray of hope was glowing.  And no one would hear of it.  Everyone was so caught in routine that nothing could ever break in, even if it was Wholeness desperately trying to announce herself.
When the angels were about to give up, they spotted a few shepherds sitting on a hillside.  Now, shepherds weren’t much to brag about.  They were rough women and men, unschooled and unskilled.  They lived among the wildness of the earth.  But at least they were sitting still, a good sign—stilling still and open to receive.   And, they were looking up, up towards the limitless sky.  And they were listening—listening to the night, listening to the stars, listening to life stirring.

And then they heard it. Not with their ears, for ears can deceive.  Perhaps it was in their heartbeat. Perhaps it was gentle on their breath.  Perhaps it was an echo from distant voices.  Perhaps it was just a stirring in their minds.  But something whispered inside them: “Do not be afraid.”  “Do not be afraid of this long, shadowy night.  Hear these tidings of great joy! The world will not allow tears to fall forever.  The world will not accept an endless night! The world is renewing herself!

It is happening in the most unlikely of places, through the most unlikely of people, people who realize that hope doesn’t need a tidy room in order to grow, people who come to believe that peace can be something more than just a wish.

It is happening here.  It is happening to us.  It is happening through us. 

“Why can’t I hear the angels sing?” the little boy asks. 

I reach out my hand; he holds it.  “Why don’t we listen together,” I suggest.  “Shut your eyes.  Listen.”

The little boy got very still.  From far away came the sound of carols in the night: “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.” 

After a long, long moment, he smiled.

I think he heard the angels sing. 
Blessed Be.  Amen.

Copyright 2005 Rev. Tim Kutzmark