O holy night…

He stood silently in the eery quietness of the dirty street.  A gentle breeze whispered between the mud brick buildings.  The skin on his face tingled with the crisp bite of the icy air.  Clear night skies dazzled with countless stars, the crystal light casting deep shadows on to the stony road between the houses.

Peering into the darkness no one was to be found.  The solitude was unsettling. 

The day had been tumultuous.  An assault on his senses.  His ears still ringing from the constant shouting.  The bargaining.  Even arguing.  Men and women trying to make sense of the chaos of the day.  Children laughing.  Children crying.  The clatter of hooves and wheels on the dusty roads only adding to the unceasing, out-of-tune symphony of noise that chose not to silence itself.

At least until now.  Now it was quiet.  He huddles himself into the warmth of his clothing, and turns and walks back inside.  It was darker in here.  The starlight that caressed the sleeping village had little effect through the single window and one opened door.

The village was well known as “the place of bread.”  The aroma of freshly baked loaves fragranced the air throughout the day.  Something delightful amidst the noise.  But no such blessing in here.  The perfume was that of hay and manure.

But it was dry.  It was safe.  And that was good.  For in here the silence was only broken by the sound of his wife labouring with her first child.

She relaxed a little as the warmth of his arms around her brought comfort.  She needed the assurance.  She needed the strength of her husband.

But he was a carpenter.  Not a midwife.

His hands were strong.  The skin was hardened and scarred by years of working the timber.  Creating.  Repairing.  He was a man of skill.  But he was not a midwife.

His hands were also hands of grace.  Hands of humility.  Much had been asked of him.  More than most.  His muscular strength paled into obscurity compared with the strength of commitment to his wife and his God.  Paled into obscurity by his willingness to set himself to the side.  He was truly humble.

The night drifted into timelessness.  The minutes blurred.

But then, in the midst of the barely lit stable the time had arrived.  He kneeled before her.  He spoke words of courage.  Words of kindness. 

Almost suddenly, time became real again.  And the calloused hands that moments ago were holding hers, were now holding the Son of God.

Minutes became exquisite moments, as the pains of labour morphed into a flood of tender tears.  Tears of absolute delight as she held the newborn child to her breast. 

What love is this.

Yet, the chill of the air remained.  It wasn’t warmed by the wonder and joy of the unfolding story.  It was cold.  The carpenter and the beautiful mother busied themselves with the swaddling clothes.  Such a delicate child.  He was wrapped tight.  Kept warm.  Kept secure.

Newly born children need this.

But the carpenter seemed to become distracted.  He turned to thoughtfulness.  Wondering.  She looked upon him lovingly in the dimness of the room.

He whispered to her.  “The Son of God.  And he is fragile.  He feels the world.  He is amongst us.  Heaven is here.  But he is fragile.”

She nodded.  Smiled.  She didn’t reply, but Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

And Jesus slept.  Cosy.  Warm.  On a bed of hay.  In a feeding trough.

The journey for the parents had been long and tiresome.  The muscles in his shoulders tense and strained like tormented strands of a heavy rope.  His arms urged him for rest.  The cold pushed in.  The couple held each other closely and shared their warmth.

His body relaxed in her embrace and his breath softened into the rhythm of peaceful slumber. 

Perhaps he hoped it might have lasted longer.

“Joseph!”

“Joseph!  Wake up.”

“There’s someone outside.”

Yes.  There was.  The silence of the night disturbed by the scuffing and shuffling of sandalled feet.  Then the whispering of voices.  Male voices.

Then a clear sharp knocking on the timber of the opened door.  The starlight that filtered through was quickly filled with the silhouette of a man.  With others outside.

His voice was nervous.  Trembling.  Even stuttering just a little.

“Is the child in here?”

“Yes.”

The gasp was collective.  And loud.

“It cannot be true.  All of this is too hard to believe.”

“But the angel said,” whispered another from beyond the door.

Mary’s eyes widened.  “An angel?”

“May we enter?” asked the silhouette.

“Please do.”

All but one shuffled in.  The other held a rudimentary flaming torch.  The danger of the flame with the dryness of the hay kept him at a safe distance.  But the warm glow gently entered the little stable.  Enough light to fill the space.

The revelation was complete.  The eyes of the dishevelled shepherds open in wonder and filled with tears at the same moment.

“Now we must believe,” echoed amongst them in perfected agreement.

The room was small.  The dusty grimy men drew close to the manger.  Shoulder to shoulder.  Man against man.  Now on their knees.  Gazing.  Astonished.  Silent.  Mouths slightly ajar.

“An angel?” asked Mary.

The question shattered the silence and snatched the attention.

“Yes.  Yes!”

“It was dark.  We could barely see our sheep…”

Excitement swept from one to the other.

“Then it was like daylight,” interrupted the first.

And yet another, “And there was angel!  An angel from heaven!”

“We couldn’t believe it.  How could this be true?  An angel talking to us shepherds?”

Then another interrupted.

“He said, “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 Saviour 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.”

Another voice, “And then the choir!  Glory to God!  Glory to God!”

Silence for a moment. 

The leader spoke again, “But it was too hard to believe.  These things don’t happen to people like us.  It could not be true.”

The silence settled again.  This time a comfortable silence.  The glow of the lamp enveloped them.  The baby slept.  The shepherds deep in thought.  Even Mary and Joseph.  Immersed in an unfolding story that drifted beyond what could possibly be true.

The man at the door whispered, “Heaven has been shown to us.  We have seen the angels.  Now we see the child they spoke of.  We see our Messiah. God has revealed himself to us.”

“Yes.  It’s true,” said another.  “I believe.”

And another, “I believe.”

Before them lay sleeping a babe.  Wrapped tightly in swaddling cloth.  Gentle.  Humble.  Unbelievable.  But true.  Immanuel.  God amongst us.

The night was long for the shepherds.  They usually were.  Together they rise.  They quietly thank Mary and Joseph, and slip outside.  Joseph waited for the shuffling of the feet.  But his thoughtful expression became a magnificent smile.  Then laughter.  The echoes of running and leaping feet and shouts of joy bounced off the clay buildings of Bethlehem.  Then continued along the dusty roads.  And beyond.

Sand continued to fall through the hourglass.  Days became months. 

Joseph did all he was called to do, so that Jesus could do what He is called to do.

The silhouette shepherd?  A quiet nameless figure who drifted back into anonymity.  A story within a bigger story.  A simple man who watched the sheep.  But a man who watched the days as well.  He needed to know the time of year.  His sheep needed him to know the time of year.  He knew the days. 

Every year, on exactly the same day, he would make his way back to Bethlehem.  Every year, on exactly the same day, he would find an unremarkable stable.  Every year, on exactly the same day, he would kneel beside a manger.  He believed.

Mary?  Mary continued to treasure up all these things and ponder them in her heart. 

But it wasn’t the last time her son would be wrapped in cloths.  Her humble and fragile Jesus remained humble.  And fragile.  It pierced her heart that the calloused hands that delivered her boy into this world were so vastly different to the hardened hands that delivered him to the cross of crucifixion.  Her tears of joy at his birth became tears of sorrow, dropping like rain onto the dusty ground of Jerusalem.

Neatly folded in the tomb were the cloths; his burial cloths.  These cloths would not bind him.  The saviour born in a manger.  Messiah.  Death could not contain him.

Hear the angel’s voice, “Today in the town of David a Saviour has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.”  He has won the victory.

Where will we find him?  Where might we look?  Where might we look for Jesus this Christmas?  Perhaps, like the shepherds, in unexpected places?  But, like the shepherds, we must look.  The sands of time continue to trickle.  The nights can still be sleepless.  The world remains weary.  Perhaps it’s time to fall on our knees beside the manger.  Perhaps it’s time to believe.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.  Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!  O night divine, O night when Christ was born.