They wouldn't eat with them. They wouldn't marry
them. They wouldn't even let them testify. They
didn't even count. It's night. Not the holy kind
yet, just the working kind. A field outside Bethlehem,
cold ground, sheep shifting in the dark. Men
on third shift doing a job nobody's thanked them
for. No temple lights, no hymns drifting through
the air, just a low fire, tired bones, and another
night. It looked exactly like the one before
it. And then, without warning, the quiet broke.
The sky split open like it had been holding its
breath for centuries. Light poured out where
nobody was looking. Heaven aimed its announcement
not at a palace or a pulpit, but at a pasture.
And the first word spoken into that fear -lit
darkness wasn't a command, it was a gift. Do
not be afraid. This is for you. And tonight,
here we are. Small town church, candles and shaking
hands. Wood floors worn smooth by generations
who showed up anyway. For 122 years, folks here
have gathered like this through wars and winters,
births and burials, to sit in the dark together
and listen to the same good news. So wherever
you are, kitchen table, truck cab, living room
chair, consider this your candle. You're invited
into the light. The sky still breaks open. Grace
still knows your address. I'll see you on the
other side. If you have been with us on Wednesday
nights, then you're going to. Probably pick up
that this is actually part four of our four -part
series that we've called Four Nights in Bethlehem.
And we've looked at, well, three so far, different
aspects of the birth story of Jesus. Tonight
is the fourth. This is Wednesday. We didn't have
Bible study, but we still need our Bible study
every week. So the homily tonight, that was the
other thing I was going to point out, that if
you are new, the good news here is homily doesn't
mean sermon. Homily means about half the length.
So that's a good thing, okay? But this fills
us in, for those of us that have been with us
on Wednesday nights, as we have looked at the
birth of Jesus from all of these different perspectives.
And tonight, we're going to look at the shepherds.
Tonight's homily is entitled, The Sky Broke Open.
And let me start by kind of setting our scene.
That's kind of how I want to do. put us in a
right frame of mind to see the story for ourselves
it was a graveyard shift in a field that never
made the papers cold ground sky so clear that
it felt like it hurt maybe a fire low and spitting
smoke in their clothes the kind that just doesn't
wash out Sheep finally settling in for the night,
tired men with cracked hands and dirt ground
into their knuckles, the kind of dirt that doesn't
come out either. Shepherding wasn't a career.
It was what you did when you couldn't do anything
else. No benefits, no pension, no 401k, no seat
at the table. Their testimony wasn't even admissible
in court. That's how far down on the social ladder
shepherds were. A shepherd's word didn't count
in this society. If something went wrong and
they were in proximity, it was their fault. If
everything went right, nobody noticed. They,
the shepherds, they weren't waiting for God.
They were waiting for dawn, same as the night
before, the night before that. Then the quiet
broke. Sky cracked open like something had been
holding it shut for centuries. The glory of the
Lord, not in the temple, not in Jerusalem. Not
in any place the priests had sanctified, but
rather the glory of the Lord showed up in a pasture
to men who smelled like the job. And the first
word out of heaven's mouth to them wasn't a summons.
It was a gift. This is for you. And maybe you
know what it's like to stand outside the light.
You clocked in early, you clock out late. And
somewhere in between, the world just kept on
spinning and never bothered to ask your opinion.
Maybe you're here tonight because someone asked
you to come. Maybe you're here because it's what
your family does. Maybe you're here because the
house got too quiet. You just needed to sit somewhere
that didn't sit next to an empty chair. There's
grief in this room. I know that. There's joy,
too. There's always joy at Christmas, even when
it has to fight for air. But some of you aren't
carrying joy tonight. You're carrying a weight.
And the season doesn't seem to make it any lighter.
It just makes it louder. Every carol reminds
you of someone who isn't singing anymore. Every
light on the tree reminds you of hands that used
to hang them. And you're supposed to smile and
say, Merry Christmas and mean it. And if that's
you, if you feel more like a shepherd than a
wise man tonight, then... You are exactly who
this story was written for. The word became flesh.
And the first people who heard about it still
had sheep on their sandals. The angel said, I
bring you good news of great joy for all people.
All. Not just the cleaned up people, not the
people who remembered what week three of Advent
is. All. And then this. To you, born this day
in the city of David, a savior. To you, not to
the righteous, not to the prepared. To you, the
night shift, sheep smelling, wouldn't hold up
in court. You. Shepherds didn't get a birth announcement
because they deserved one. They got it because
God was already making a point. From the very
first breath, the Savior was for the ones where
there was no room anywhere else. And when the
sky closed back up, when the glory faded and
the night got quiet again, those shepherds, they
didn't go back to sleep. They got up. They went
to see. Story doesn't start in a sanctuary. It
starts in a field in the dark with men who had
no reason to expect anything but another cold
night and another long walk home. And that is
who heaven spoke to first. Not the priests burning
incense in the temple. Not the scribes. Over
their scrolls, not the powerful, not the pure,
the shepherds. The overlooked, the written off.
The ones who didn't get invited in. And that's
still how God works. Doesn't wait for the world
to get its act together. He doesn't require a
cleaned up room or a prepared heart. He walks
right into the mess. He shows up in the middle
of whatever it is you've got going on in your
life and says, I'm here. So, if your year was
hard, and a lot of us, it was. If you lost something
you can't get back, if you've been running on
fumes and calling it fine, friend, this gospel
word, It's for you tonight. Verse 8. In that
region there were shepherds living in the fields,
keeping watch over their flock by night. Living
in the fields, not commuting from town. Living
out there with the animals under the sky, miles
from anything respectable. Picture it. Fire's
dying. Your back hurts. You can see your breath.
You've been doing this since you were old enough
to hold a staff and nobody has ever, ever come
out here to thank you once for it. Nobody has
ever came to you and said the work you do matters.
You're just the help. You're just the labor.
You are the reason the people in town have wool
and meat and don't even think twice about where
it came from. That is where heaven pointed its
announcement. Verse 9. Then an angel of the Lord
stood before them and the glory of the Lord shone
around them and they were terrified. Of course
they were. The whole night sky just lit up like
daylight. Like the world had flipped inside out.
Like every assumption they had ever made about
God shows up and got thrown into that sputtering
fire. And the angel says, first thing, do not
be afraid. Not clean yourselves up. Not you should
have been ready. Just don't be afraid. I've got
news. It's good. Verse 11. To you, this day,
in the city of David, a Savior who is the Messiah,
the Lord, to you is born. The light shines in
the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome
it. That's the Gospel account of John's version
of the story. Not from the hillside with the
shepherds, but from eternity. The same light
that cracked in the sky over Bethlehem was the
light that called the very world into being.
The same voice that said, let there be light,
was the cry of a newborn baby in a borrowed room.
And it did not come with a parade. It came with
crying, it came hungry, it came wrapped in the
smell of hay and the silence between contractions.
Word became flesh and dwelt among us, not above
us, among us. In the grief, in the joy, in the
exhaustion, in the manger, in the mess. Wherever
you are tonight, that's where the world... pitches
its tent for you. So if you feel like one of
those shepherds tonight outside the circle, not
on the list, just trying to make it through the
holidays, here's what I want you to hear. You
are exactly the kind of person heaven is looking
for. God doesn't wait for you to climb the ladder.
You don't need a spiritual resume. God does not
ask for your performance. He just shows up in
the dark where you are and says, this is for
you. Not for somebody better, not for somebody
more ready. For you. So don't come forward tonight.
In that spiritual sense. How about come back?
Come back to the fire. Come back to the story
you heard when you were small. Come back to the
mercy that doesn't ask what you've done or where
you've been lately. Same Jesus who lay in the
manger walks into whatever you carried in here
tonight. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't turn away.
He sits down. He sits down with the grieving.
He sits down with the exhausted. He sits down
with the ones who almost didn't come tonight
because it just felt like too much. He sits down
with you. And maybe that's where the song starts.
Not in your perfection. In your presence. Because.
You showed up. That's enough. Merry Christmas.
Amen? Amen. As the candles burn low and the room
grows quiet again, hear this before you go. You
don't have to carry everything by yourself tonight.
Whatever you brought with you. The ache that
won't name itself the joy that surprised you.
Grief still knows the way home. None of it's
too heavy for God to sit beside. Seeing Christ
who lay in a manger still shows up gently, without
hurry, without demand. Doesn't rush you towards
answers. He stays. He listens. He keeps watch
through the long night. And if all you did tonight
was show up and breathe and listen, that's enough.
Grace knows what to do with that. Now, before
you slip back out into the dark, let me offer
you a small invitation. If this word met you
where you are, if it steadied you or warmed you,
maybe reminded you that you're not alone, you
can toss a like in that offering plate on your
way out. It helps this little church keep the
lights on, lets others find their way in. And
if you'd like to walk with us into the new year,
consider tithing your subscribe. The little red
notification works like the church bells around
here. It lets folks know there's still a gathering,
still a word, still a seat with your name on
it. But no pressure, no pledges. Just an open
door. However you go tonight, go gently. And
remember, you're held and you're welcome. Merry
Christmas.