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Another thought about shepherds.

If Fred Taylor had his way, we'd be Wyoming-bound right now. Well, actually, we'd probably have been residents of the state for several years by this time, if the man had his way.

You have to know something about Fred's background to understand why he's so enthusiastic about the Rockies. He moved with his family to the American West about two decades ago. Up until that time, he had been a life-long Easterner, having been born in the south Bronx and spending many of his years on Long Island. In the shadow of the Big Apple. Part of the urban scene. Right in the heart of the biggest metropolitan area in the U.S. The cultural and commercial hub of the nation, according to many standards.

But then he took Horace Greeley's advice, "Go west, young man." He and his family packed up their belongings and headed for the mountains. From the most densely populated area to the least densely populated. From skyscrapers made of steel and glass to those made of rock and snow. From the noise of jackhammers, car horns, and the cursing of wild men to the sight of jackrabbits, elk horns, and the coursing of wild streams.

Does he miss the excitement of New York City? Not on your life. Does he plan to move back so he can be closer to 24-hour-a- day convenience? You have to be kidding.

It was several years ago that Fred and I collaborated on a musical work, a hymn for Easter. I wrote the text; he composed the tune and harmonies.

Since then, we've worked jointly on a number of songs. I've spoken with Fred many times over the phone lines. We have also kept the U.S. Postal Service and AOL busy with our written communiques. And there hasn't been a single instance that Fred has failed to extol the beauty and grandeur of the Wyoming countryside.

Periodically, Fred contacts the chamber of commerce and the bureau of tourism. Not only in the place where he lives, but other towns. Villages. Settlements. Counties. The state itself. He asks them if they would kindly send brochures and maps to some guy named Weitner. Poor man's stuck on the eastern seaboard, he says to them. He's part of the rat race. He's bombarded by the noise. He has to breathe the pollution. The fellow ought to be coaxed to move out here.

So I get literature. Lots of it. Stacks of it. I have a whole section of my library reserved for it. The way I figure, I'll be busy reading about places like Casper, Cody, Cheyenne, and Chugwater for a long, long time to come.

A package arrived yesterday from Wyoming. From the town of Gillete. It's called the "Gillete Relocation Guide." That publication joins similar relocation packets from about a half dozen other places. No question about it: Fred wants Lynne and me to pack up our furniture and clothing, our children, our dogs and parakeets, and relocate out west. The man eats, drinks, and breathes Wyoming.
* He speaks about the clean air and water.
* He speaks about the virtual absence of pollution.
* He speaks of antelope grazing in the back yard.
* He speaks of mountains capped in snow while lush valley gardens grow.
* He speaks about a land where a person's word is still his bond, and where a contract is still sealed, not in the presence of lawyers, but with a handshake.

I have never been west of Cleveland, Ohio. I have never seen a mountain more than a mile high. I have never lived outside an area where the air is laden with toxins. Yet I can see the towering hills, the wide-open spaces, the big sky and the warm hospitality of the place as clearly as if I were right there. That's the kind of impact the words and the enthusiasm of my friend Fred have had on me.

It makes me think of a scene that unfolded a couple of millennia ago. That's when heaven touched earth with its splendor. That's when angels split the night skies. That's when a guiding star first appeared. That's when the shouts of angels could be heard resounding from hill to hill. That's when, most important of all, God spoke. Not through the written word. Not through the prophetic word. Not through the law. Not through the earthquake, wind, or fire. Not through war. God spoke through the voice of a human being.

Years later, an apostle of the early church would write of the event: "... God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children" (Galatians 4:4, 5).

But what about those who weren't around to see the grand show? The heavenly host? The brilliance of a new luminary in the sky? What about the masses who didn't happen to be in the vicinity of Bethlehem that night? What about the millions of rank and file human beings who may well have run to the primitive stable and witnessed the advent of hope, the birth of God's Son? God wasn't about to duplicate the event, so how in the world were others to know about God's gift to humankind?

At the time, most people thought the testimony of a shepherd was the most unlikely source of news. Not that a shepherd would perpetuate a lie. It was just that shepherds were supposed to know their place. And their place was at the bottom of the heap.

People at the bottom just don't talk to people who are at the top or even in the middle of social strata. It's unseemly. It's rude. It's crude. It's offensive. It's not done.

Until the days and weeks following the Nazarene's birth. Something had happened to the shepherds that was so extraordinary, they had no choice but to tell the story. No matter who or what they were in the brutal and unflattering assessment of their culture, they couldn't keep quiet. A simple truth in the mouths of simple men can have the profound effect of striking even the most learned and scholarly dumb with awed silence. Evidently that is exactly what happened; for, as Luke reports, "... all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them" (Luke 2:18).

I don't know if the shepherds ever considered what they were doing as having the potential to stir up controvery. I don't know if an uncertain thought ever crossed their minds. I do know, however, that if they did have second thoughts, they never allowed them to interfere with what amounted to emotional spontaneous combustion.
* They did not establish a committee to study the theological implications of the concept "Son of God."
* They did not consult with their religious leaders as to the probability of their having seen real angels.
* They did not make Mary produce a deposition which would substantiate her claim to be a virgin mother.

They merely recounted the experience as they had seen it and heard it.

I have never been near the Middle East. I have not seen Mount Horeb or the Mount of Olives. I have not heard the sound of prayers rising up to God at Jerusalem's Western Wall. I have not actually walked where Jesus walked. I have never lived where the disciples lived on the shores of Galilee, nor have I seen the spot from which the Master preached the Sermon on the Mount. And I will likely not stand on the spot on the outskirts of Bethlehem where the infant Christ was laid to rest upon his mother Mary's bosom.

Yet there are certain things that come to the senses of mind and heart as if I had lived there, in ancient Judea, all my life ... as if I had walked its highways, streets, and alleys so often that I could give you directions to any house, inn, or synagogue ... as if I had passed the hillside livery so often that I could say in an instant, "There it is."
* I can smell the pungent-sweet smell of hay and cow dung,
* I can hear the thin cry of a newborn,
* I can see the night sky bright with angelic messengers, as much as if I were right there.

That's the kind of impact the words and the enthusiasm of my friends the shepherds had on me.

They led me to make a careful study of Scripture. There, I was led to consider other words. About what happened after Jesus' birth. His ability, when he was just a lad of thirteen, to teach those who were among the most learned theological professors of the day. His simple but powerful way of teaching people everywhere -- through storytelling -- the love of God and the kingdom of heaven. His criticism of the self-righteously pious leaders of the religious establishment. His concern for the sick, the poor, the powerless, the sinful. His genuine passion that human souls should not be lost in their unbelief.

I was left to wonder. To ponder. To weigh. To seek more.

All because a group of shepherds, who should have known their place in society, rebelled against the conventions of their time for one brief, wonderful moment in history.

One of the most common challenges to the claims of Christianity is expressed in questions like these:
* "How do you know Jesus lived when the Bible claims he did?"
* "How do you know Jesus was God's one-and-only Son?"
* "How do you know Jesus was born miraculously, of a virgin?"
* "How do you know such a person as Jesus ever existed?"

Valid inquiries, these! As honest questions, they demand truthful and forthright answers.

One way to begin to answer those who demand proofs is to direct their attention to those events surrounding Jesus' birth. To Bethlehem. To the hills surrounding that city. More importantly, to the men "... living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night" (Luke 2:8).

When the most unlikely person to testify becomes the star witness, people around them stop what they're doing to listen. When a whole group of such persons begin proclaiming the same thing, news spreads fairly quickly that something important is afoot.

And when people who have been ardent skeptics begin listening to what these improbable witnesses say, the whole world begins to rock with joy.

Right down to the foundation.