Why did the news of the birth of Jesus arrive first, as the evangelist says, to shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night? We can’t say that the shepherds were expecting it. They were keeping watch, sure, but for wolves, those that go on four feet, or those more dangerous that go on two. So it would be a good night if nothing happened. Yet something did happen. Why to them? That’s the question that the author of our Poem of the Week, Henry Vaughan, asks.
For Palestine, he says, was fast asleep, “without one thought of Day.” Why did it not happen in Jerusalem, the holy city? Why did the news not come to the priests giving sacrifice in the temple? It is an irony, but where else should we expect the Savior of mankind to come, but in the humblest of places, and to those whose hearts harbored no expectations of personal greatness? Vaughan asks us to imagine those shepherds might have been like, and what they felt when they left the angels and walked toward Bethlehem. They saw there — one of their own. They saw “their souls’ great shepherd,” the true shepherd of all the sheep. For the shepherds who watched their flocks are themselves sheep to be brought into the flock, while great Kings and Prophets, even those who did look for the Messiah with great and eager expectation, were not granted the grace of seeing the child, as the shepherds did.
And still what they saw is but a shadow, says Vaughan, of the light they were yet to see.
Sweet, harmless lives! on whose holy leisure Waits innocence and pleasure, Whose leaders to those pastures and clear springs Were Patriarchs, Saints, and Kings, How happened it that in the dead of night You only saw true light, While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay Without one thought of Day? Was it because those first and blessed swains Were pilgrims on those plains When they received the promise, for which now 'Twas first there shown to you? 'Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go Who serve Him here below, And therefore might for memory of those His love there first disclose, But wretched Salem, once His love, must now No voice, nor vision know, Her stately piles with all their height and pride Now languished and died, And Bethlehem's humble cots above them stepped While all her seers slept; Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all Polluted through their fall, And those once sacred mansions were now Mere emptiness and show. This made the Angel call at reeds and thatch, Yet where the shepherds watch, And God's own lodging (though He could not lack) To be a common rack. No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury In those thin cells could lie; Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots Which never harbored plots, Only content, and love, and humble joys Lived there without all noise. Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day Did in their bosoms play, As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook, What springs or shades to look, But that was all. And now with gladsome care They for the town prepare, They leave their flock, and in a busy talk All towards Bethlehem walk To see their souls' great Shepherd, who was come To bring all stragglers home; Where now they find him out, and, taught before, That Lamb of God adore, That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished And longed to see, but missed. The first light they beheld was bright and gay And turned their night to day, But to this later light they saw in Him, Their day was dark and dim.
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The Shepherds