A reflection for Advent 3
In his book ‘Walking backwards through Christmass’ Bishop Stephen Cottrell writes in a first-person style with some of the characters that were around when Our Lord was born. One of these characters was David the shepherd. Bishop Stephen writes
My mother’s sense of humour was noteworthy and renowned. She named me after Israel’s most famous shepherd, but there the resemblance ends.
But this night something remarkable happened. And I feel like a king.
It began the way all our nights begin. With liquor and laughter
Then the waiting began. The jokes gave way to conversation and the conversation gave way to silence. And in the real dead hours of the night, even the silence seems deeper and emptier than at other times.
I didn’t know what time it was. No sun to help me. I looked at the stars. No help there either. The more you looked, the more there seemed to be. I knew they were the very floor of heaven, but it seemed like they went back forever.
Then it happened. out of nowhere and with such a sudden rush of dazzling brightness, it was as if a thousand bolts of lightning had exploded from the heavens at once and cut a swathe of light across the sky. It was like daytime, like noon- time only brighter, and with such brightness came a dreadful clarity, like a thousand piercing shafts of light that could see between bone and marrow, between body and spirit, between flesh and blood. At first it was frightening. I mean terrifying. I was flooded with light. It was consuming me. I felt almost lifted into it. then it was calm assurance: not a break with reality but the dawning of the first real day there had ever been. And a voice. I mean, I heard it as a voice, but it was not a voice like I’m speaking to you now; and nothing to see, like I can see you and you can see me, but not less real, more. And the voice spoke of glory and peace: glory to God in the highest heavens and peace to the earth. or was it singing? Was it the sweetest, loveliest music you have ever heard? Was it one voice or the thousand voices of a heavenly choir?
And we were still afraid. I looked at my comrades as the light rushed around us and the music filled the air. there was fear and wonder in their eyes. I suppose mine were the same. But there was also a sort of reflected glory on their faces. An inner light that almost matched the brightness of the sky.
Angels, they were. I realized it then. A host of angels in the sky. Heavenly messengers, God’s agents. telling us something. not just about God’s glory in heaven, but God’s peace on earth as well. And then a solemn declaration: ‘to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is the Messiah, the Lord. this will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’
Well, you’ve never seen anything like it after that. the whole sky was ablaze with glory. We tumbled down the hill like mad things. The light went as swiftly as it had come, and every- thing was back to normal – only normal would never be the same again. We had seen the heavens open. We had seen with our eyes what the prophets had barely glimpsed. And we, simple men: uneducated, unread, ignorant of the law and all its suffocations. Love God and love your neighbour. that is all I knew. What hope of heaven for me! But now, with the heavens themselves opened to me; open to ordinary men.
We rushed into Bethlehem. We wanted to see what had happened. We had to find this child. So we abandoned our few sheep. We arrived at the outhouse behind the pub laughing and panting; then, aware of the noise we were making, hushed each other up and brushed each other down. We hung about outside the door like nervous lovers on a first date.
And we grinned at each other as we had never smiled before.
Then another silence. But this time not the silence of something empty, something incapable of noise or life. It was the silence of contentment, of arriving, of being held in the arms of one who knows and loves, and where words are no longer necessary. What a noise those angels had made. How come the whole town hadn’t heard it! But what a silence in that stable. the silence of loving and of being loved; of knowing and being known.
We went into the stable then. The door wasn’t barred. It was open to us – and, I suppose, to the whole waiting world.
We went in and knelt down. That's all we did. Fools and idiots, who for no reason of personal merit or insight had just received the richest fortune. We knew this. And we didn’t need to say anything. We saw the child and the child’s mother. We saw her husband. He stood between us and the child for a few moments, but as we were on our knees there was not much to be frightened of – we were hardly a threat, despite our rough appearance – so then he smiled and beckoned us forward. We shuffled across the floor on our knees. It must have been comical to watch. We must have looked a real sorry sight. But it felt right. this was not a place to stand; this felt a holy place – like when Moses saw that burning bush and took his shoes off. this was not a time to speak. Whatever it was that God wanted to say to us that night, he was saying it in the silence of a child born.