It is now ten days before the Passover. My family and I are making our yearly journey to Jerusalem for the Feast. The winds are cold, so we light a fire and we all huddle close. I have purposely  stopped outside of Bethlehem for the night. These fields that we now overlook hold tales of glory seen many years ago. I still marvel to believe it is all true. Yes, of course it is true. I was there, and the shadows that darken these hills now serve as a reminder of the glorious light that once cascaded down upon them.

     My daughter approaches me and smiles as she catches me glance upon the hills. She scoops up my grandson, toddling near my feet, and sets him in my arms. “Tell them the story, Father. Was there ever a time more fitting than now?” I nod, and just as she has done every year, my daughter sits down at my feet. She calls to her other children and they come sit around her, and fix their eyes on me. I take a deep breathe and begin.

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     “When I was a young man many years ago, I wandered these very hills taking care of sheep that were to be used in the temple during Passover. They had to be perfect, without any spots or blemishes, for they would be offered up to the Lord as atonement for our sins. Their blood would be put on the door posts of all of Israel, while inside we would feast in remembrance of when the Lord rescued us out of Egypt.

     I had taken care of the temple flocks for years, so had my father and his fathers before him. As Levites, it was our service to the Lord. But one year these fields, the very ones in which you now sit, became witnesses to the Glory of God. Look out upon that hill there. Do you see the sheep grazing in the darkness and the shepherds lying down beside the fire? That was us. Then out of this same night sky, an Angel appeared before us, and the hills were suddenly illuminated with more glory than the sun. We fell to our knees in fear, but our eyes were riveted to his magnificence. And then, children, he spoke to us with a voice of a king, deep and strong and filled with the eagerness of a secret long-kept.

Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find the baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’

     I stared at him wide-eyed for a few moments, as if the more I stared the more glory I could absorb. What was he saying? The Savior? Here? Tonight? Could it be?  As if to confirm what we had just heard, more angels appeared alongside him, and together they began to sing. You all know the song. I’ve taught it to you. Though I assure you, I have not sung it half as well as the angels with all the glory and splendor of The Lord encircling them. Come now.”

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     And we all begin to sing together, the song of the angels, and now the legacy of my family.

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”

     For a few moments, we sing the lines over and over again. I watch my daughter, smiling over at me as she instructs her children to sing louder. And once more, I feel the Hills are soaking up this song of glory. I set my grandson down beside me and stand up.

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     “That was just as we heard it all these years ago.The angels disappeared and we began to finally peel our eyes away from the sky. Our eyes, filled with the glory that we had just witnessed, darted back and forth to one another. We all wanted to speak but no one was bold enough to make the first sound. A Child was born in Bethlehem. But not just any child – the Savior. The Promised One had finally come. And we were being invited to meet him. Whispering quietly to one another, we began to round up the flocks and head toward the city to find our Messiah.

     It took us only a short while to find the newborn. There, in a shack outside of the city, he lay in a manger: small and red and wrapped in rags. As we approached, he awoke squalling and His mother took Him to her breast. Our band of shepherds stood, once again dumbstruck, trying to wrap our minds around the scene in front of us. The Messiah of Israel was a weak, crying child clutching to his mother. His parents were so young, and so helpless. Were they out here by themselves? Who had delivered the child? The mother, who we came to know as Mary, looked exhausted. Though she sat on the ground, she still had to rest herself against the manger as she held the child. Joseph, the child’s father, knelt anxiously beside her, hands outstretched to help her, yet not knowing how. My father went forward and spoke with them, and explained all that had happened. They looked back and forth between us and Father, and finally Mary smiled at us, and frailly waved us closer. We shuffled into their makeshift home, and Joseph addressed us.

“My wife asks that you would sing for us the Angel’s song. We would like to hear it.”

My father turned to us and laughed as he began to sing, as best as he could, what we had heard only moments before.

     We joined in and began to stumble over a tune resembling the Angel’s. As we sang, Mary took the baby from her chest and laid Him before us. There, lying on the dirt before us, was the hope of Israel. My father wasted no time in approaching the child. He dropped his staff, and slowly walked closer, lowering himself to the ground so that he could be face to face with his Messiah. He planted his hands on either side of the child and looked into his eyes. Faintly, he sang the tune of the angels once more. He was mere inches away from the Promised One, and I simply stood there, clutching an unblemished lamb that in a few days would make atonement for the sins of Israel. I wanted to approach, but this child was the One of whom angels sang. This child was the One whom our prophets had foretold, whom all Israel had been yearning for and seeking. And yet He lay there on the ground beside my sheep.

     All the men took time to go and greet the child. Some dared to pick him up. Some to touch his face, but all I could do was to stand and marvel that the hope of Israel, this small child, was here with us. I tried to search through all I knew about the Promised One. Did the prophets know He would come like this? With Angels heralding his coming, but with no one to attend to him or his tired mother but a band of temple shepherds?

     The Messiah began to cry once more and his father stood to pick him up. As he comforted his child, he walked toward me, holding the child out a little so that I might glance on his face. Still clutching the lamb in my arms, I bent to place it on the ground. With empty hands, I reached out to take hold of the Messiah. I hesitated, for who was I to touch this holy child? But Joseph placed Him in my arms and suddenly I was holding the Messiah as he kicked and screamed. I clutched tightly to his small body, mesmerized and not wanting to let go. “His name is Jesus,” Joseph whispered to me, “And He is to be for all people.”

     Joseph remained there beside me as I held Him. Rocking back and forth, I bent down over his face and rested my hand along His cheek that I might touch Glory. I bent my face low to meet His gaze, and sang the old Passover hymn into his ear,

“Elijah the prophet.

Elijah the Tishbite,

Elijah the Gilaite.

In haste and in our days may he come to us

with the Messiah, son of David.”

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     My children, that night I met the Messiah not just of Israel, but of the world. Even in His majesty, He allowed me to hold Him in his humanity. That very night Heaven invaded earth and The Lord fulfilled his promise to Israel in a way far more glorious than our prophets could have ever inscribed. And alongside the pascal lambs of Israel, I was witnesses to it all.

Stay tuned, for the story of this Pascal Lamb continues. Part 2 to come shortly.