Do Not Be Afraid: Shepherds

"Omran, Angels Are Here" by Judith Mehr

December 18, 2016 - Fourth Sunday of Advent

Luke 2:8-14

8 In the region of Bethlehem there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. 9 Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 10 But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: 11 to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. 12 This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” 13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

14 “Glory to God in the highest heaven,

    and on earth peace among those whom God favors!”

Sermon:  “Do Not Be Afraid: Shepherds”

I’m going to start this morning’s sermon with a riddle (that those of you who are Tolkien nerds like me might get):
          “It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,

Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,

It lies behind stars and under hills,

And empty holes it fills,

It comes first and follows after,

Ends life, kills laughter.”

What is it?

Darkness! I’ve been thinking a lot about darkness this Advent. Certainly the events in Aleppo make our world feel like a dark place. The tensions in families and communities. The political games. The exhaustion on the faces of those we love. As the days grow shorter and the nights grow longer, sometimes it feels like darkness abounds. We seem surrounded by it, we even feel it within ourselves, and like children trying to drift off to sleep, we fear it.

But maybe darkness isn’t our greatest fear, however threatening the shadows seem. I came across a quote I found particularly helpful:

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when [adults] are afraid of the light.”

Now, the internet will tell you that Plato said this. Perhaps a reminder of the posts that read “Don’t trust everything you read on the internet!” attributed to Abraham Lincoln will remind us that, just because we’re told someone said something, doesn’t mean they did.  But nonetheless, whether written by Plato or some philosophical grad student in a dorm room, it’s a compelling quote: that fear of the light is the greater tragedy for us grown ups.

Marianne Williamson, later quoted by Nelson Mandela in his inauguration speech, wrote a similar thing, words we’ve been using as our Affirmation of Faith this Advent season: “It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.”

As menacing as the dark seems, as fearful as the night can be, I agree. We will always fear the dark. But we will always fear the light more.

Take the case of those shepherds watching their flocks near Bethlehem.  The text in Luke doesn’t just say they were out strolling with their sheep one night. No, they were living in the fields. They lived in near-total darkness, every single night. Their eyes became adjusted to it, so they could see a sneaky sheep skulking in the inky night in the wrong direction. This pastoral night vision, honed over years of living in the fields, meant the dark was no longer menacing or threatening. It was an old friend, and they could see through it to recognize the real threats of predators lurking beyond the fold.

But one night was not to be like all the others. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them. “Shone around” is so very fun in the original Greek: that word is perilampsen. Lamps, light, all around them.

This word is only used in this form twice in all of scripture: here, in Luke, and also in Acts, describing Saul’s conversion moment on the road to Damascus, when he would receive a new name and a new path. You see, when the perilampsen comes, your life will never be the same.

Maybe that’s why we fear the light the most. The darkness is expected, comforting even, if our souls and eyes adjust to it. It does not demand much of us, except perhaps feeding our most negative anxieties and allowing them to roam as freely as predators in the night.

But the light – the perilampsen – the glory of God stopping us in our tracks, well, that demands much of us. Perhaps this is why the angel’s message of good news for all people, and so many other angelic messages we’ve encountered this Advent, begin with the words, “do not be afraid.” God knows that our first impulse to this blinding light, our first reaction that we have no power to restrain, is fear.

But notice how gentle that angel is!  He/She doesn’t say, “Suck it up, silly! Don’t be a coward!” No, that angel says, “Do not be afraid…for see!” For see. Embrace the light. Study it, allow it to flow around and within you. And then begin to feel its warmth – that this light brings not destruction or threat, but the best news there is: that God is with us all. And, as if the light wasn’t enough, it’s met with angelic choirs singing the words that darkness most fears: glory and peace.

Sometimes, though, like Saul our eyes are blind to this perilampsen and our ears are deaf to this angelic song of glory and peace. Like those shepherds in the field so accustomed to the night, we don’t even notice how little of the picture we’re actually seeing, or how we’re adding to darkness rather than light.  But when this glory of God comes, we see the world and ourselves as we really are, and this terrifies us. 

If we see our pride, our egos, our prejudice, our bitterness, we can’t stay the same. We have to change, because that darkness is no longer cloaked in denial. God’s glory has brought it to light in order to make all things new. Newness is perhaps the most frightening thing of all.

There’s a reason Jesus didn’t appear on the scene as a 35-year-old, or a 70-year-old, or a 90-year-old, or a 17-year-old. Babies literally scream of newness, and nothing is ever the same. Life doesn’t go back to how it was. The very foundation shifts. I was there when my nieces were born. It is beautiful. And it is terrifying.

Because this newness, this light, seems so very fragile. We’re afraid of snuffing its glory with our cynicism or negligence. We’re afraid of tainting it with our preconceptions about the world. We’re afraid of looking so very dim next to it.

But here’s the thing about perilampsen, this brilliant glory of God that came in a newborn refugee child. The more it was oppressed, the more it faced the prejudice and hatred of rulers, and violence and poverty and cynicism, the brighter it shined. The darkness rightly feared it, and still does.

And so, like those shepherds sleeping in the shadows, comforted by them, we must leave our darkness behind, and bask in the glory of this coming child. We must not be like those tragic adults who fear the light, giving ourselves over to the despair darkness brings. If we do that, we will hear stories of violence in Aleppo and Sanford and feel pity and anger and fear, and do nothing. 

But if we give ourselves over to the Light instead, seeing this world as it is but straining our ears for the sounds of angelic music within it, we will do much.  We will reach out to mothers whose children have been enslaved by gang violence in our own community and offer them words of hope and healing. We will give to the White Helmets Hero Fund, that supports rescue workers saving civilians in Syria.  As Duraid, one White Helmet aid worker said, in supporting them “You will restore hope to a person who is hope itself.” 

We will give to the Save the Children Syrian Children’s Relief Fund, recognizing that Jesus was born into a time when children were threatened through the terror of Herod, and he never wants us to forget children enduring similar genocides.  We will name our own fear of welcoming refugees, but let the light of a coming child, and not fear, dictate our path.

Yes, the light, perilampsen, is terrifying. Those shepherds were never the same. Paul was never the same. We cannot play it safe if we are to follow this light.

As Marianne Williamson wrote and we confess this day,

“We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

So let your light, that perilampsen, that glory of God within you. Especially when the night seems dark and full of terrors. For the Light is coming, and it will change us, and we will change the world.  Amen.