Parts of me, sitting here at the cold end of the vah-rlli (NB welsh accent; applies throughout) could be described as tepid, right, but the rest of me was having a festival of goosebumps. I always sit as close to the fire as my colleagues will allow, but without much wood it wasn’t exactly roasting.
Yes, it’s a chilly night, isn’t it? Just like last night, look you. The wind whips past the village and over the tump at the top of the hill. It’s downright perishing, I can tell you.
The others were not very talkative, because we’d all known each other for a number of years, and we’d sort of run out of things to say some time ago.
‘There’s nippy, Elias,’ one said.
‘Ach y fie,’ he replied, without hesitation.
Not exactly easy to join in with a conversation of such sparkling wit and repartee…
‘Bitter wind, no end.’
‘Agony, first off. Same as yesterday.’
We usually spent our days looking after the sheep as they grazed on the ropey grassland in Judea, and we always spent the nights making sure the sheep were safely in their fold, all accounted for and protected from wondering off, from predators and from thieves. There were several of us, and I’ll tell you for why; to allow some to sleep while others kept watch. And no, we didn’t wear socks in those days, so there was very little laundering going on. I can’t imagine where that urban myth began, look you.
It was about three in the morning when it happened. Imagine the scene: one of the sheep was a bit fly and frightened and tried to run out of the fold, but with the gaffer, big old Nathaniel Jacobson, lying across the doorway, it didn’t get far.
That was it. That was the excitement for the night.
It got so that we would sometimes wish for a bear or a lion. Madness, I know, look you, but the mind-numbing boredom and sameness and predictability was starting to drive us mad. Mad, I tell you.
I know you’re going to assume (when I tell you what eventually happened) that it was a dream, but you’ll be wrong. My sleep was deep and dreamless, with silent stars going by. I was so entirely under-stimulated that my mind had nothing to work on to create excitement or adventure.
But the next night was very different. The next night, there was a poetical stillness about the sky as the wind dropped. A quiet nothingness that wasn’t quite as cold, but which left the scene lacking even the predictable drop in temperature. Yes, boring wasn’t in it. It was so desperately dull and tedious that it was instantly forgettable.
Ah, but then, the night after that was so completely worth making a fuss over, boyo. This time, like every other time, the expected darkness fell, and the wind sprung up, and I was tepid and chilly and the conversation flagged.
It was my turn to guard the doorway of the fold for the second watch, and everything went off smoothly, right enough. Words that come to mind to describe the scene would include such as silent, calm, how still we see thee lie... you get the picture.
No-one noticed that odd star moving across the heavens until afterwards, but I think it must have been there while we were ignoring it, right enough. Star of wonder! Star of night! Star with royal beauty bright, isn’t it?
Anyway, the night suddenly shone with a brilliant light. Yes, this was towards the end of the second watch, when it should have been rather dark, but while at one moment all was calm, now all is bright. So that was unexpected. I thought at first it must have been a dream, but Nathaniel fell against me as he tried to hide himself, didn’t he, and that woke me up alright! The light was suddenly even brighter, and the figure of a man of considerable heighth appeared! I pitch not a tale, I can tell you. All of the shepherds quaked at the sight.
‘Look sharp!’ one cried.
‘There’s noisy ructions!’ another commented.
I had full fuss, first off, because this sort of thing had never happened to me before (and never again since) but the tall, shining man said there was nothing to fear.
‘Fear not,’ he said. Just like that. Which was easy for him to say.
Meanwhile, look you, mighty dread had seized my troubled mind. His hair was weddol, his robes shone – even his feet were a blaze of shining great brightness. It was like he was from the realms of glory, if you can picture that sort of scene.
He spoke again. ‘I bring you good news of great joy.’ I can remember what he said word for word, because it was so impressive. I’ve always been pretty good at remembering this sort of detail.
We didn’t get a lot of news out there in the fields, since we weren’t the first people everyone ran to tell about politics or whatever, isn’t it? And while news was rare, the things that we did get told were usually disappointments: so-and-so’s caught leprosy; someone’s donkey’s got himself a gammy leg or fallen down a well; those people were cruelly treated by an heavily-handed taxman. Good news was very rare those days. And any level of joy would have been noticeable, let alone ‘great’ joy, most probably.
Glories were streaming from heav’n afar. Anyway the shining man told us there was a baby-bach in a stable in Bethlehem that we should go and visit, because he was the Saviour of the World, surely to goodness.
I thought carefully about this, because it seems to me pretty peculiar that the glowing visitor should seek out smelly low-life shepherds for his announcement of the Saviour of the World. That was news fit for Kings or at least political leaders. On the other hand, ‘let nothing you dismay,’ I thought to myself. ‘These are tidings of comfort and joy.’ We were right bucked, once we got our gummel up.
I didn’t understand fully at the time, but now I realise that the shining man was talking about someone rrrrrrather special who would be around for a while, and that his Saviour-ly qualities would become more obvious in a few years’ time. Babies are mildly interesting within a few days or perhaps up to a fortnight after they are born, but then there’s a long period of wearisome slummocky nothing-muchness until the child becomes a man and he starts to fulfil some of the early promise. Or in this case, the very, very early prophecy.
Now, three decades later, I’ve started to understand a bit more, mainly because last week I munched my way through an amazing picnic provided by the same chap, now all grown up.
I can start to see now why the heavenly heralds would sing ‘Glory to the Newborn King’ upon that midnight clear, right?
Oh, yes, back to my story. There we were, that night, standing on the hillside, listening to this glorious man chatting away, when forthwith appeared a shining thrrrrong – a tidy few of what I can only describe as heavenly messengers appeared and started to sing the most wonderful song I’ve ever heard, as the sky was riv’n with singing – yes, straightway the massive celestial choir in hymns of joy, unknown before, conspire. The lyrics were a touch repetitive, like most choral pieces, but the harrrmonies were incredible, and the passion in their souls came across as if they really meant what they were singing, like a proper Male Voice Choir praising the heavens through the valleys, right enough. They were dab hands at it, look you.
‘Glory to God, glory to God in the highest;
Peace on earth to men, on whom his favour rests.’
It didn’t scan very well, but the sweet singing of the choir really stayed in the memory.
Verse two: ‘Glory to God, glory to God in the highest;
Peace on earth to men, on whom his favour rests.’ Same as verse one.
Verse three… have a guess. But the choirs of angels were singing in exultation – all those citizens of heav’n above!
When it was over, we had plenty to talk about!
‘Did you see…?’
‘And what was…?’
‘What an amazing sound, rending the jocund air asunder!’
‘Did anyone count…?’
‘The shimmering, blazing, brightness was almost painful to watch, isn’t it?’
‘There were at least four harmonies in there.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I counted six!’
‘Where should we look for this baby?’
‘My eyes hurt.’ Sometime Elias misses the point, isn’t it? I could have given him a right lamping.
‘Did he say Christ the Lord? That would be a turn up!’
‘Shape yourself and let’s get straight there. It’s a tidy step!’
‘Mind how you go. The path is rough and steep; we’ll have to tread Caerphilly!’
We all did a bit of pinking up as we set off. Donned we now our gay apparel and were on our way to Bethlehem on a dusty road (where the hopes and fears of all the years were met tonight with the poor, and mean and lowly), and we found this little family staying in a twll of a place – a grotty stable. Actually it was a lowly cattle shed, where a mother laid her baby. There’s lovely!
I have to say he didn’t look much like a saviour, all wrapped up and lying in a feeding trough (no crib for his bed). I wasn’t sure at first if we’d come to the right place, but the parents were strangely pleased to see us. Even the cattle were lowing. We stayed for a tidy spell, but eventually returned to the valley where we’d left the sheep in the fold. Somehow they’d been fine without us.
Later I heard that wise men from the east had come in search of the child, too. They were a bit upper crust, but it made us even more certain that we’d heard right from the glowing stranger. Especially when they explained that to seek for a King was their intent and to follow the star wheresoever it went.
Looking after sheep sort of lost some of its appeal after that. The long, cold nights in the valley were never as interesting as that amazing night, look you.
But as I say, I had an extraordinary picnic today, and I’m convinced it was the same person – having grown up over the years. We all sat there and the provisions just kept on coming. He must have some serious connections with outside caterers, that’s all I can conclude.
The things he was saying were amazing, too. It was as if he had the words of eternal life.
I’m glad the shining man told us who the baby was, and had those incredible wingéd backing vocalists. I don’t know about you, but it really helps me believe someone when 200,000 supernatural voices hum along with what he’s saying…
But the carpenter’s son; well, somehow I don’t need the heaven-sent messengers anymore. What he says has a ring of truth about it. He’s worth listening to, and his sardine sandwiches are a knockout, surely to goodness, isn’t it?
An angelic visitation contrasts with the usual tedium
Why do you suppose the angels announced this
hugely important event to simple shepherds?
Which is the most significant festival: Christmas, Easter,
Hallowe’en, Guy Fawkes’ Night, or Pentecost? Why?
How many references to or quotations from
well-known Christmas songs can you find?
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