The adage is “You can’t go home again.”  Wiktionary explains this means “Past times which are fondly remembered are irrecoverably in the past and cannot be relived.”  I’m pretty sure this isn’t universally true since in my life I have left Wyoming three separate times, eventually returning here to feel perfectly comfortable and at peace.  Certainly, the returns brought differences and adjustments, but I don’t believe they demanded more accommodation than would have occurred just by simply living here and embracing the changes life brings.

Tomorrow, Karl and I are testing the adage once more.  We are on our way to St. Croix on a vacation. Our bags are nearly packed – the first thing in were the snorkels –  reservations are made.  We’ve contacted our friends there and are looking forward to being with them, we know what time church starts.  I have a list of where our favorite musicians are appearing so that we can go and listen.

We’re going back to a place we embraced completely and called home for six years.  I’m excited and anxious, even if the trip includes a red-eye flight.  So why is that negative old adage rattling around in my brain today?  Maybe the answer is this: of all the places I have moved to and then eventually left, St. Croix stands alone. It’s the only former home that my new home has been unable to completely overshadow and replace. I’ve truly missed St. Croix. At times, I’ve hurt for it. Somewhere, I suppose, there lurks an urchin of fear. Fear that being on island won’t be as welcoming and comfortable as I hope.  Or, fear that it will hurt just as bad to leave it this time as it did the last.  Huh.  Stay tuned. 

The title of a recent sermon at my church was “In the fullness of time”. When the title flashed up on the screen above the pastor’s head as he began, an hourglass appeared as well. The main thrust of the sermon was that Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem wasn’t a result of happenstance or a change of plan on God’s part, but the culmination of God’s delicately orchestrated eternal plan to send salvation to us. Pastor Troy had barely begun when his first point struck me as significant. You see, since my last birthday, I’ve had moments of angst. Somehow, the number associated with that birthday has been the periodic cause of an urgent ticking sound in my head, one that reminds me that with each day my time here on earth is winding down. It’s not that I’m ill or decrepit, and because of my Hope in Jesus, I’m not fearful, but yet, I’m just seeing life in all its finite glory more than ever before. I recognize that my own hour glass has a dwindling supply of sand in the top, and I’d been considering that as an indication that my time was running out. Expired! Kaput!

But that’s not how the sermon went. From Troy’s perspective, the diminishing supply of sand in the top of the hourglass doesn’t indicate that the time is over, but instead it celebrates completion. Accomplished!  Completed! When the preparation hourglass ran out and Jesus appeared as a child in the manger, it was a new beginning, not an end.  Again, years later when He was in agony hanging on a cross and whispered “It is finished” as the last grains in THAT hourglass dropped, there was cause for celebration of a job well done.

What a refreshing perspective, especially for a person (like me) who needs to feel as if each day has seen me accomplish something and who adores making lists so that I can check off completed tasks and measure how far I’ve come.  What an encouraging way to approach the days ahead. The urgency I feel can be channeled from trepidation and a little nagging dread to joy and determination and hope that I can use each moment, each grain of sand, to add to my preparations for what comes next. And what will come next? No more hourglasses, just an eternity with God. 

Have you ever wondered why it was shepherds that first got the news of Jesus’ birth?  Honestly, until Karl (my husband) made an off-hand observation about it to me recently, I never really questioned it. I just assumed that shepherds were pretty lowly and had no great status in society, and since God wanted to be sure everyone understood He was sending Salvation to the whole world, they were a convenient choice.

Karl’s observation is this:  who else would you announce the coming of the Lamb of God to but shepherds?  Huh. Lamb of God.  Shepherds.   Oh, I get it! 

Shepherds would understand better than anyone else. They had lots of experience with lambs. In the early spring, they’d be up all night checking on the ewes, counting and caring for the new babies on the ground, keeping them warm and protected. They’d be vigilant and determined with the ones that had been rejected while keeping their eyes out for needy ones as well as the healthy ones. As the babies grew, the shepherds would be entertained by the awkward and gangly frolicking of the lambs through the summer. (Watch a couple of Youtubes and you’ll see how endearing their jumping and bumping and kicking and running is.) Always, the shepherds would be observing, protecting, nurturing those lambs along with the rest of the flock. It was their job, their livelihood depended on doing it well. 

Perhaps, though their hands were rough and the skin on their noses tanned and leathered by their lifestyle, just perhaps the hearts of these tough men stayed especially soft for those perfect lambs in the herd. Maybe, while they stroked and fed them as they grew, and as they watched them carefully to make sure they didn’t get into the brambles or take any risk with their perfection, maybe they fell a little in love with them precisely because they were highly aware what these little guys were destined for.  Jerusalem is only twenty miles north of Bethlehem. Sacrificing a perfect, year-old lamb was required for each family under the law.  Without doubt, these shepherds knew the future of the perfect lambs they fostered.

Who better, then, to hear the Good News of God’s Grace than men who already understood the deeper context of a perfect sacrificial Lamb’s arrival to the people? Who better to welcome Him than them? Well, I’ve not lived that life, but because I have the gift of perspective and can see the whole story, from the Lamb’s birth – to His Crucifixion – to His saving Resurrection – and because I have the Hope of Jesus’ return, then I can put myself in those shepherd’s shoes and welcome the birth of the Perfect Lamb, come for me! (and you, too!) 

   Of all the players in the Christmas story, the shepherds are my favorite.  If I could go back in time and shadow anyone involved that night, I’d hang out with the shepherds.  For just that one evening, I wish I’d have been with them.

   First: the night.  Cold, wintery, fresh air makes the stars in the velvet darkness vivid and close.  No light pollution. Can you even imagine what the stars looked like?  Then, add to that a new, bright star.  Unexplained. Perhaps they felt a bit apprehensive when it appeared, not exactly sure what it meant, but unable to take their eyes off its twinkling beauty. 

   Can you picture those men? One, sitting with his back against a rock, is wrapped tightly in a blanket with his toes and nose frosty (low temps in Bethlehem in the winter hover in the low forties). Another hums quietly to himself, thinking of the girl he met on his last trip into town. Another one is strolling calmly through the dark, making sure all the sheep are safely bedded down.

   Then blam! A creature – stark white and shining –  appears, hovering just overhead, but near enough. It is magnificent, imposing, unfathomable.  The men’s eyes are riveted on him, their hearts pounding.  These are fellows who can routinely vanquish the hyena, the wild dog, the lion that accosts their sheep, but now, in this moment, their legs are water, hands are shaking, voices falter.  They stare. Then a voice like they’ve never heard before. Quiet but commanding, warm yet icy. “Don’t be afraid.”

Yeah. Right. But, really, there’s something in the timbre of his greeting that steadies the pulse and fills each soul with peace they’ve never imagined.  “I bring you good tidings and great joy for everyone.” Everyone?  Even a lonely, lowly, uneducated, and smelly shepherd?  The question doesn’t linger. As the night around them shimmers with iridescence they know, they feel that the words are true.

   They glance at each other as they listen, shy smiles, shoulders and fists relax.  They are all on their feet now standing shoulder to shoulder, as this heavenly being tells them the Christ has come. Then, just when they’ve begun to believe their own eyes are actually seeing this extravagantly beautiful angel in front of them, dozens more appear.  A song begins above their heads then permeates the night and their souls.  By the second chorus, the shepherds know the words and the tune, they dance with abandon, joining the choir in praising God. It is the most simple and the most complicated moment of their lives. Pure joy, perfect faith, complete gratitude.

   I can’t help but think that the angels lingered, singing and dancing their praise, treasuring their time with these mortal men, these precious first-to-knows. Later, when the sky was once again black and the music faded, perhaps the shepherds still felt like dancing. There’s no doubt they couldn’t sit down. No one was drowsy or bored or cold. They looked at each other and decided in one heartbeat what they’d do next. With certainty that the sheep would be tended from above for a while, they took off running for town, anxious to find this promised Child.  It didn’t take them long, I’m certain. At the door of the stable, they hesitated.  They straightened their tunics and smoothed their hair.  They each took a deep breath, then went to meet their Savior.

   In the Bible, we don’t know the shepherd’s names, we never meet them again outside of Luke two.  Yet, I can’t help but be certain of one thing. That night changed them. I’m sure they still had struggles, tick bites, cold toes. They had normal lives. Except – their normal lives had been made extraordinary thanks to a battalion of the Heavenly Host and a Savior that came first to them that night. Troubles were forever put into perspective because of what they’d experienced. My prayer this Christmas for you and for myself is that life’s struggles will always be overshadowed by the gift of Salvation Jesus brings us.

In the past I have skimmed over these two verses in 1 Peter 4:12-13:

Do not be surprised by the painful trial you are suffering, as though something strange is happening to you. But rejoice that you are sharing in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when His glory is revealed. 

I skimmed over it for one main reason, I felt that no matter what I was going through, it couldn’t be important enough or spiritual enough to qualify as ‘sharing in the sufferings of Christ.’  Thinking this way made the passage somehow irrelevant for me. Lately though, I’ve begun seeing things a bit differently. I’ve come to realize that there are times that my difficulties stem not from my own bad choices, nor my own pride, nor my own sin, but because I have been identified as a follower of Christ. (I write this with humble trepidation and be assured that I only come to this thought after lots of prayer, confession, and self-examination and with the full admission that I could be wrong at any time).  In this light, then, there are times that problems come to me as a result of my faith and the stand for Jesus that I take. 

Okay, then NOW these two verses speak to me, and they give me peace.  Peace first off because they remind me I am not alone.  Jesus suffered horribly on the cross (and I realize that for me, any sort of physical martyrdom is highly unlikely). However. He also suffered when He was mocked and ridiculed. Jesus hurt when He was misunderstood (intentionally and in ignorance). He agonized when those He had come to save just didn’t get it.  It is because of those moments that I have peace.  Second, I have peace because of one word in 1 Peter 4:13 – that small word: when.  The verse doesn’t say we might be overjoyed if Jesus finds a path to glory.  It says we will be overjoyed WHEN His glory is revealed.  How amazing!  How comforting!  How beautiful to know that when I am in hard times because of my faith in Jesus, nothing is tentative, nothing is contingent.  When the time comes, I will be overjoyed. Knowing this gives me strength and hope, and allows me to rejoice today, in this moment, and under these hard circumstances.

Being savvy about someone’s feelings and moderating behavior based on anticipating how someone will react can and usually is, in fact, a judicious act. I know a messy kitchen counter bugs my husband and I try to avoid leaving it cluttered when I can. I’m afraid of dogs and a friend of mine has three.  When I go to her house, before she opens the door, she puts the dogs away.  I have a conservative friend who has a very liberal sister.  When they get together or chat on the phone, they (mostly) agree to honor each other by steering away from the most hot button issues between them.  Prudence, kindness, and respect in action. Good choices.

Somehow, this social accommodation is currently on the decline.

Years ago, we had a lesbian couple as neighbors.  I liked them both. They liked us.  We spent time together – shared meals, visited each other’s homes, helped each other out when we could. For many years after we moved from that house, we exchanged Christmas cards. I counted them my friends, and I believe the sentiment was returned.  In that relationship, I remained faithful to my beliefs, and I assume my neighbors weren’t much changed by my faith or my lifestyle choices, but because of mutual respect we could find common ground and enjoy the friendship.

That was years ago when tolerance and civility were much more in fashion.

Today differences are unallowable.  It seems that differing opinions are unpalatable and even the inkling that someone might disagree requires evasion, not accommodation. Today, it is acceptable to avoid and even cancel someone because you refuse to hear them or give them an opportunity at being gracious.  Or worse, acknowledge that a differing outlook is viable.  Giving up a relationship because of differing outlooks is a tragedy.  It is mean and hurtful, and it is detrimental to both the cancellee and the cancelor.   

Detrimental? Yes. Refusing to embrace the act of respectful accommodation and the welcoming of other ideas and opinions – be that of one’s religion, or sexuality, party affiliation, or any other difference –  hurts each individual and our society.  Shunning and effectively silencing opposing voices and cancelling any threat of hearing those voices robs everyone of the chance to grow because it takes away the ability to hear and consider a differing opinion. Respect is sacrificed. Growth is stunted. To shut out or shut up other than homogeneous voices creates narrow, judgmental minds.