Christmas Letters cont.

Shepherd’s Letter:

Dear Father,

It’s me, Benjamin, your son. I guess you know that much. When I left, you were probably as glad to see the back of me as I was glad to leave, and surely neither of us thought I’d be writing you a letter. But such things have happened lately that an old grudge over sheep doesn’t seem worth the trouble of being angry about anymore.
Nathan and I moved the flock into the fields outside Bethlehem about two weeks ago. The grazing wasn’t bad, but we decided to move on, away from Bethlehem and more to the south. You’re probably shaking your head right now and calling me stupid under your breath, but we had our reasons. That night, everything was as usual. We ate our dinner, and since Nathan said he’d take the first watch, I spread out my blanket to go to sleep. It took me awhile, because I kept feeling a stone digging into my back, but every time I lifted my blanket, I couldn’t find it. I must’ve gone to sleep eventually, though, because the next thing I knew, Nathan was crouched over me and kicking me in the side. If it hadn’t been for that kicking, I might’ve thought I was still dreaming, because a light brighter than anything I’ve ever seen before was shining over the field. And though it seemed like it couldn’t possibly be any brighter than it already was, it just kept getting brighter and brighter. The sheep were bleating and shifting restlessly, but none of them bolted, which, now that I think of it, was incredible. But that was the least of my thoughts at the time. As I said, the light just kept getting brighter and brighter, and Nathan and I didn’t know where to look because it was everywhere. It almost seemed inside of us.
At the point when the light became almost unbearable, a great cracking sound boomed across the field, like the earth itself was breaking in half. I felt like I’d been struck a blow, and Nathan and I both fell to the ground. I thought at first we’d been hit by lightning, but remembered that there was no storm that night. As we began to raise ourselves up again, a being such as I have never seen before burst out before us. Nathan and I clutched at each other like children, shaking with shock and terror, and the words that came out of my mouth were ones that would’ve made you take the strap to me when I was a boy. Not the way I’d have wanted to greet an angel if I’d ever thought before that I’d meet one, but I couldn’t help myself. What words are you supposed to say when you see something like that? I don’t think such words exist, and if they do, they’re not taught to shepherds.
Then the angel began to speak to us and said, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.” I tell you, Father, if it had just been a matter of the angel telling us not to be afraid, I don’t think it would have made much difference. The sight and sound of it was so beautiful and so terrible that at first it made me want to clap my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. But somewhere in the course of his speaking, I became filled with peace and joy—it felt like recognition. Nathan also seemed calmer, because he straightened up and stopped gripping my arm so hard. The angel continued to speak, and announced to us that right there in the city of Bethlehem was born a Savior, who was Christ the Lord, and that we should find him there wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. The moment he finished speaking this, the entire sky was filled with a whole host of angels, singing and praising, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, goodwill toward men!” You can’t even begin to imagine the sight and sound of that. They poured out a flood of ecstasy, and I was swept away. My hand trembles and my eyes fill with tears even as I write this. Just the memory of it still stuns me.
I’m not sure how long they were there and how long we stood in awe, our mouths hanging open—we seemed outside of time—but eventually, the light faded away and we were left once again with a dark night sky pinpricked with stars. I looked at Nathan, and one of us or both of us said, “Let’s go,” and we immediately began to run towards Bethlehem. And yes, Father, we abandoned the sheep. I know that must seem insane to you, that I, a shepherd—even as useless a shepherd as you think me to be—would abandon my flock in the middle of a field in the middle of the night, but I knew then as I know now that it was exactly what we were supposed to do. As we came to the outskirts of town, we paused to catch our breath, and it was then that we first heard the cry. A large and impressive dwelling rose up several yards ahead of us, but the cry did not come from that direction. Instead, the wails of a new baby came from a small structure to the side of the house.
We followed them and found ourselves inside a dimly lit stable. A young woman—just a girl, really—was trying to shush the baby while her husband crouched beside her and clucked his tongue. Nathan and I looked at each other in amazement. Surely this red-faced, screaming baby could not be the Christ the angels sang about! I looked around me at the animals in their stalls, the crude patching on the walls, and smelled the warm aroma of dung. Why on earth would God allow our Messiah to be born here? And then my gaze fell on Nathan and my own rough hands and clothes. I couldn’t remember the last time we had bathed. Our hair was matted with dirt and oil, and our clothes reeked of sheep. You can be sure that the wealthy owner of the house we had seen would have never let us step through his door, but here in this stable, we fit right in. What if—and I’m almost afraid to write this, but I can’t shake it from my heart—what if He was born there so that we might visit? So that two stinking, worthless shepherds might feel the freedom to enter in and see him? And so we did.
You’re probably thinking now that we had too much to drink that night, but I tell you that drunk men’s visions have nothing to do with what we saw. I don’t know why we, of all people on earth, were chosen, why this has happened to me and what it will mean to me in the years to come. I only know that I went to sleep with a pebble in my back and woke to a chorus of heavenly angels. I am speaking this now to all who will listen, and I feel that I must write to you as well, Father, for we are all men in a heavy slumber in the dark marrow of the night. And the time will come when we shall all be wakened by angels blazing glory, who will usher us—blind and stumbling—into the presence of the King.


Simeon’s Letter:

Dear Brother,

This is my last letter to you. The time that all young men think will never come to them has come to me. I am an old man, and the days of my life are small in number. Lately, I have been able to rise from my bed for only short periods of time. The activities of the living slowly fade away, and I spend long hours thinking over my life and contemplating the God I shall soon see.

What I have been remembering lately was how when you were just a boy and I was a young man, I would tell you the stories of the prophets and we would imagine the day of the Messiah, the One who would deliver us from the hands of our oppressors. We would take up sticks in our hands and imagine they were swords, and we would act out our battles against the Romans. You were so fierce, that even though I was so much bigger, I had to guard carefully against your lunges and jabs. I remember how we boasted that we would be at the front of our Lord’s army, following just behind Him in the charge to restore Israel.

But then we grew older and wiser, and the image of an Israel restored to glory faded into the images of our failure. We are a people under the feet of other nations, and I have seen how that has made you bitter. But I have tried not to lose hope. Every day for the past forty years, I have gone to the temple to pray. On your last visit, you asked me what I prayed for and smiled when I told you. It was a small moment—you probably don’t even remember it—but the mockery and doubt you showed me in that smile began to creep into my own heart in the days after. What if I was just an old fool chasing after an old dream? What if all these days and years of my life had been wasted? It began to weigh on my heart, and I feared that even in these last days of my life, I would be lost. But I was not. Seven days ago, I awoke not in a haze as is usually the case, but in an awareness that felt clear and bright, and the Spirit of our God spoke to me and told me that the Consolation of Israel had finally come, and that I would not die until I had seen Him. My limbs were filled with strength, and I rose up from my bed immediately and prepared to go to the temple.

When I entered the temple, I saw only familiar figures, but as I turned to look again, I saw a young couple standing at the entrance. I went to them and saw that the woman was holding a baby in her arms. “What is your son’s name?” I asked them. The father answered, “Yeshua,” and I knew then that he was the One who had been promised—His very name was Salvation. This was not a king of armies before me, but a sleeping child, and instead of the shining sword the hand of my youth imagined, the gnarled hand of my old age took up the baby and lifted him high. A voice that was mine and more than mine came pouring from my mouth, saying “Lord, now You are letting Your servant depart in peace, according to Your word; for my eyes have seen Your salvation which You have prepared before the face of all peoples, a light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel.”

The parents looked a little frightened, and the mother moved as if to take him back from me, but I placed my hand on her head and spoke a blessing upon her and her husband. Her eyes were filled with confusion and wonder, and it was revealed to me that her child was destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and that He would be spoken against so that the thoughts of many would be revealed. I felt filled with compassion for her, for she will be pierced through to her own soul by what shall come to pass. This baby she moves to protect will only belong to her for a short time, as he was in my own keeping for only a moment. He does not belong to her but to the whole world. The days of the law are passing through Him into a new era for both Jews and Gentiles.

These words astonish me as much as they must astonish you, but who are we to question what God has planned? There is a young Roman sentry who stands watch in the marketplace whom I would pass every day on my way to and from the temple. I would see him look upon the people and the dust and knew his thoughts must wander as would anyone’s who looked upon the same scene every day. And it struck me that even these Romans, even our oppressors, have need of consolation. For we are all a people of longing, brother. Even you in your bitterness are longing. My prayers every day of these last forty years were not only for Israel, but also for you and for myself; and God has answered for Israel, and for you and for me and for all people. He has answered beyond what any of us even knew to ask.

I am dying, brother, but I am all joy, because not only has God kept His promise, but He has revealed it to a doubting, dying old man who can now share it with the younger brother he has carried in his heart for so many years. It wasn’t just a childhood tale after all. Christ has come, for you and for us all. May that now be your consolation and hope as it has been mine.

Copyright 2006 by Katherine Lo. Not for public use, reproduction, or distribution without express permission of the author.

Christmas Correspondence

I received my first two Christmas cards in the mail yesterday. My first response was, “Oh, how nice!” This was immediately followed by a sinking feeling of guilt. I may cave in the next two weeks, but as of this moment, I have decided not to do the whole mass mailing of Christmas cards this year. I have been somewhat apathetic and ambivalent about the whole Christmas season in general this year, which is rather unlike me, but which is perhaps understandable given some of the things going on in my life in recent months. I was still waffling about the Christmas card issue this past week, but when I woke up feeling wretchedly ill on Friday, it was decided—definitely no Christmas cards. As I’ve spent the weekend blowing my nose, drinking hot tea, and trying to sleep despite that fact that it is practically impossible for me to breathe, I’ve been reflecting on the emotions my decision has stirred up in me.

Guilt is the biggest one. How dare I just be a receiver and not a giver? All those other people are taking their time to go buy, write, address, and mail Christmas cards—what makes me think I am exempt? And I truly do appreciate the time and effort that goes into those cards, and I enjoy receiving them and seeing the pictures and reading the little updates that accompany many of them. But really, if you were to put things in a different context (which is what I’ve been doing in my hours on my sickbed), a lot of our expectations are a bit insane. For example, if I were to tell you that in the month of, say, March you needed to change the décor in your house, shop and buy gifts for every member of your family and all of your close friends (and then wrap and package them all), attend at least two or three social events every weekend, bake lots of goodies, and correspond with every person you know (including the ones you haven’t spoken with directly for years), wouldn’t you think that was ridiculous? The kind of Herculean accomplishment that only a squirrel on speed could accomplish? And yet, amazingly, people do it. I have done it. But I’m not going to this year. Not even with all the pseudophed decongestant in the world coursing through my system (which is the equivalent of speed).

So I apologize to all of you who will suffer a grave and bitter disappointment upon not receiving a Christmas card from me this year. I know it will be a struggle for most of you, but try not to let it ruin your holiday or your life in general.

Instead of sending you my own Christmas card/letter, I will leave you instead with a different (and un-ironic) set of letters. Last year, I was asked by the staff at my church to write something for the Christmas Eve service, and what I came up with was an imagined series of letters written by a trio of figures who were direct witnesses to the original Christmas event—God’s physical entrance into our own time, space, and history in the form of an infant. I will start with Mary’s letter, and follow up with the other two in subsequent postings. Merry Christmas…

Mary’s Letter:

Dear Elizabeth,

It is many months now since I last saw you, and so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin. As you may have heard, Joseph and I had to travel to Bethlehem for Caesar’s census. The journey was so long and difficult. By the end of it, I felt as if I’d spent half of my life on the back of a donkey. Joseph was very kind and patient with me, but I could tell that our slowness was difficult for him as well. Bethlehem itself was chaos. You can’t imagine the people, how they crushed together in the streets. By the time we arrived, every lodging in the city was packed full to the brim. We spent the first two nights out on the street. On the third day, my contractions began. Joseph was beside himself, running from house to house, begging for a room. He finally found a landowner at the edge of town who was willing to have us in his stable.
I can picture your horror as you read this. As Joseph led me into the stable and settled me onto the straw, I thought of how my mother would have wept and raged to see her daughter in such conditions. I missed her terribly that night, and you also, Elizabeth. How I longed for you both to be with me! Instead, I had dear Joseph, and the landowner’s servant girl, and the animals all around me. It seems quite comical now that I write about it. The oxen and cows would bellow out in response to my cries of labor. It probably sounded as if the whole stable were giving birth. At the time, it just seemed like waves of pain to me. Until he was born—my baby son. I do not have to tell you the joy of that, as I know you must have had your own son by now. When Joseph put him in my arms, we began to weep and laugh at the same time. We were delirious with joy.
I think back often to our time together and what has occurred in both our lives. At times, those events seem like a dream to me, a beautiful, awesome fantasy. He is so tiny, Elizabeth. He has these little shudders every once in awhile while he is sleeping, and he likes to hold my finger while he nurses. When I blow on the fine hair at the back of his neck, he blinks and smiles. I know all mothers marvel at their babies. All think them miracles, all precious. But mine is the Son of God! I marvel even as I write this. I repeat it to myself throughout the day, and still I cannot grasp hold of it. I could not grasp it even when an angel of God stood before me and told me. Would you believe that I even forget, sometimes? But at other times, it is so real that I feel like it will split me wide open. I sing him lullabies and I wonder—is it my voice he hears, or is God whispering in his ear?
Sometimes I will wake in the middle of the night and see Joseph holding him in his arms and pacing back and forth, his mouth moving in silent prayers over him. We are shy in talking about it, but I wonder. Does he ask himself the same things I do? How is it that this has happened to me? Who am I to be a parent to God’s own son? Everything is so uncertain. Word of danger has reached us, and we are on the move again. Back on the donkey.
I long for home and to see the faces of my family once again. I hope it will be safe for us to return someday soon. I would like our sons to know each other and be friends. Do you think it will be so? So many hopes for my baby rise up in my heart, and with each comes a question. What do I hope for him? What is it God wills for him? Right now, it seems his life is a life of troubles. But I think about what the angel told me that day—that my son will have the throne of David. He will be called Son of the Highest. So surely this time of trial is only temporary. Surely Jesus will return to the land of his fathers with a crown of glory. It has been promised, and so I must believe, though the circumstances around me and my very eyes tell me otherwise. When he is a grown man, my baby son will be a king. How proud of him I will be on that day!

Copyright 2006 by Katherine Lo. Not for public use, reproduction, or distribution without express permission of the author.