Gospel: Luke 2:1-20
Several years ago I attended a series of lectures on the Stations of the Cross at the seminary from which I’d graduated. For those not familiar, the Stations liturgy leads participants through a series of points, or stations, at which they read passages of scripture and share prayers while reflecting on images of Jesus’ journey from his condemnation to the cross. If you look around this room, you’ll see a series of these images on these two walls.
The two instructors, one a theology professor and the other an artist, led us through discussions on ways of praying and preaching the Stations. We had opportunities to view and discuss some wonderful contemporary works of art portraying different scenes from the Old and New Testaments. One image we saw was a painting of the visitation to the shepherds, the narrative which figured into the passage from Luke’s Gospel we just read. This painting was created by the American artist Henry Tanner in about 1910, and it struck me in a particularly deep way because of the way he illuminated the shepherds.
As you look at the painting, you see a dark sky and landscape, and among the gathering of shepherds only the faintest of glows from a campfire. Yet in the depths of the darkness you discover that the shepherds are reflecting a brilliant white light coming from somewhere beyond the borders of the painting, from even farther away than the forms of the angels appearing at the edge of the scene.
Occasionally when the Christmas reading from Luke comes up, I spend time looking at ways in which other artists portrayed this scene. I’ve looked at versions by the Italian artist Vecchio, the Dutch artist Flinck, and the Portuguese artist Luini. I’ve scrolled through numerous images of icons and modern drawings found on the internet. My family and I even had the opportunity to see – in person – an etching of the shepherds and angels created by Rembrandt, a print of which you’ll find sitting prominently in my office here at the church.
With each new image, the first thing to which I’m drawn is the light. In some, the angels are the most brilliantly lit of the figures. In others, it’s the shepherds bathed in the light. But without exception, each image I’ve found shares a single, powerful trait: light breaking through the darkness.
On that first Christmas night more than 2,000 years ago, the world was dark. The land into which Jesus was born was suffering under Roman oppression, a kingdom governed by a cruel puppet ruler, a people who in the heaviness of their lives cried out for the arrival of the promised messiah. Israel, the nation and the people, was living in that darkness. It was into that darkness – that void – that the light of the infant Jesus burst forth. It would be several years before the entire world would witness the results of what had happened. But on that night, in the darkened fields just a few miles away from the newborn child, the shepherds standing watch over their flocks would know.
At the very beginning of the life of the one who would bring incredible gifts to many through his healing, teaching, preaching, and praying, it was these shepherds who received one of the first gifts. It was the gift of knowledge, knowledge that something wonderful had happened. It was the gift of awareness, awareness that a Savior had entered the world. It was the gift of light, light in a world of darkness. Perhaps most remarkably, it wasn’t a gift received from a single source; it was a gift presented by a multitude of the heavenly host.
Now you may be wondering, “How many are in a multitude?” Well, consider that the full measure of the “heavenly host is beyond counting; the many who appear here do not exhaust it.” Whether it’s the number of angels portrayed in the paintings I looked at or the number of angels that may come to mind when you consider that scene, neither amount is anywhere close to the number in the sky that night. For any total we might come up with, there will be more – far more. The sky would have been filled with a blinding light and an almost deafening sound as they exclaimed, “Glory to God in the highest heaven.”
Now all these years later, in the darkness of this evening and perhaps even the darkness that pushes in on our own lives and journeys, the light of God again bursts forth. Like the shepherds in the fields that first Christmas night, we are the recipients of that good news, the news that something wonderful has happened, the news that a Savior has entered the world. Today, though, our role in has changed. As ones who have received that news, we can now be the multitude. We can now be the ones sent by God to share “good news of great joy for all the people.” We can be the ones, as with the heavenly host, to bring the light of God into the world – to be like the angels of Rembrandt, or Vecchio, or Tanner, reflecting the light of the Father and illuminating the land.
As we leave here this evening and go into the world, rejoicing in the power of the God who created us, the Son who redeems us, and the Spirit who sustains us, may we be the ones proclaiming with a deafening voice and a brilliant light: “Glory to God in the highest heaven!”
Amen.