The Lutheran Hour

"Let Us Go To Bethlehem and See"

#73-15
Presented on The Lutheran Hour on December 25, 2005
Speaker: Rev. Ken Klaus
Copyright 2025 Lutheran Hour Ministries

Text: Luke 2:8-10

Christ is born. He is born indeed!
This Christmas day, the Lutheran Hour message does not come from the confines of a studio, as it has for the last forty years. Today we are over 6,500 miles away from the electronics and gadgetry of our St. Louis headquarters. Now you know why, during this message you might hear noises from the road, or people as they pass by. Don’t worry, next week, we’ll be back at our normal location. But today, this Christmas day, our broadcast comes from… a field. That’s right, a field. I’ve dragged my recording crew, along with a half-a-hundred friends, a third of the way around the world to show them… a field. Many of my farmer friends who are here with me, having inspected this field, have shaken their heads and said, “Reverend, you can call this a field, if you want, but you’re preaching a Christmas sermon and you shouldn’t stretch the truth that much.” “Look around,” they’ve told me, “there’s too much rock and not enough dirt for this to be called a field. There’s too much dry and not enough wet. There’s too much up,” which might be OK, “since there’s just as much down.”

My farmer friends are right. This field is a sad little piece of ground. This field that stretches out in front of me… well, it doesn’t stretch far. That’s partly because it stands on the outskirts of a little town which, anywhere else, might be a suburban bedroom community for the larger city which is to the north. In this sad, sorry little field, every quarter acre seems to be marked by a thick stone fence. The locals around here like to tell about how, when God created the world, He sent out an angel with a bag of rocks and instructed His messenger to distribute those stones all around the world. The angel, following God’s directive, did start out, managed to get about halfway through his task, and then, right around here, somewhere around here, his bag broke. One-half of God’s worldwide supply of rocks landed right here. The people tell me that story is a legend. I suppose it is. From what I can see though, it might be true.

Compared to the blue-green grass of Kentucky, the unique kelly green tinted pasture of Ireland, this field isn’t much to see. Plowing is pretty nigh impossible; it’s really too dry to have an orchard. About the only thing this sad, sorry little field can do is feed the fat-tailed sheep who, even now, under the watchful eyes of their shepherds are grazing with gusto upon the tufts of grass which have sprung up between the stones. There’s just not much you can do with such a field. It doesn’t take much imagination to envision this field as it might have looked thousands of years ago when young David, destined to be Israel’s greatest king, was a shepherd who kept watch over his father’s flocks, just as shepherd’s still do today. True, the lions and bears that David fought off with his slingshot have long since disappeared, but otherwise, things would have been almost unchanged. There’s just not much a man can do with such a sad, little field.

But man’s limitations, are not God’s. Just a little over 2,000 years ago, in the days when Quirinius was governor of Syria, the emperor of the Roman world, Caesar Augustus, wished to have some concrete information about taxes, expenditures, and how many of his subjects were doing what. You know, sort of standard government things. Caesar’s wish became law, and the word went out for those under Roman authority to be counted in a great survey. Complying with Caesar’s decree, a Galilean carpenter, Joseph was his name, set out with his intended bride on an eighty-mile trip. Their destination was the little town of Bethlehem. The town that sits right over there, to my right. They had to go there because that’s the town from which their ancestors had come.

If the phone had been invented, Joseph might have called ahead for reservations. If the Internet had been around, he might have checked out the likelihood of finding a room. As it was, when Joseph and the very pregnant Mary came into town, they found there was no room for them in the inn. They also found nobody was overly eager to turn over their lodgings to a lady who was about to give birth. Finally, out of compassion, or a desire to get the couple off the streets, the innkeeper suggested the couple might stay in his stable. It was hardly ideal, but what else could they do? They agreed, and in a stable with all of a stable’s smells, and sights and sounds, the Baby Jesus was born.

Of course, the shepherds who were watching their flocks that night, would have known nothing about a baby’s birth. In this field, or one very close to here, it would have been business as usual. The shepherds would have watched the familiar stars as they slowly slid across the crystal-clear sky, counting down the passing hours of the night. They would have listened to the sounds that floated up from the town below. The shepherds would have heard the sounds of meals being prepared, of families fighting, laughing, loving. Perhaps the wind brought them the excitement of a family reunion, or the mourning cries of someone whose loved one had just died. Possibly they heard some bawdy drinking songs sung by the soldiers of Rome. I’m fairly sure, as the sheep settled down, their shepherds would have been confident that this night would slowly slip by like hundreds of other such nights. They would share a boring sameness with the centuries of shepherds who had come before them; who had watched over their flocks at night.
But this night was not to be like other nights. This night would be different, special, unique in all of history. The Bible says, “An angel appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them.” We who live in a world where technology has the capability of turning midnight into midday cannot fully understand just how dark, dark can be. We who have light with the flick of a switch cannot comprehend the blackness of the shepherd’s vigil. Which is exactly why we cannot understand the terror they felt when, in a flash, everything around them changed. An angel, God’s messenger, came to them. One moment he hadn’t been there, the next minute he was and they found themselves awash in the reflected glory of God. The brilliance of the light was made even more so by the depth of the darkness which it had dispelled.

These shepherds may have been uneducated; they may have been declared unworthy by the Pharisees, but their mothers had raised no dummies. They knew what they were seeing wasn’t normal. Angels showed up for a reason, and they had an uncomfortable feeling that the angel’s reason wasn’t going to be good. That’s why their racing minds probably started asking: “OK, who’s messed up so badly that God felt He had to send us a special delivery message?” Each of them, looking at his own heart, his own sin, might well have concluded that he was the one who had been singled out for an angelic tongue-lashing.

We don’t know what the shepherds were thinking. We do know they were terrified. The angel spoke: “Fear not.” You can almost see the shepherds breathe a sigh of relief. “Fear not” would have been a good start. “Fear not, behold I bring you good news of great joy.” Things were getting better. All of them were going to be recipients of something good. “For, in David’s town a Savior has been born. He is Christ the Lord.” David’s town? The angel means Bethlehem. Bethlehem is our village. We know it well. We probably know everybody who is expecting a baby. Maybe we know who this newborn Savior is…

The angel didn’t wait for shepherds to speak. He went on: “This is how you will know the baby, the Savior. You will find Him wrapped in swaddling clothes…” That was not much of a help. That’s like saying, “Look for a baby with a diaper.” But the angel wasn’t done, he continued: “You will find Him wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.” That last part did narrow it down a bit. Then, as if this night hadn’t been different enough, suddenly, there was with the single angel, a great multitude of angels, all praising God. If the shepherds thought one angel gave out a bright light, imagine what they experienced when a multitude of angels turned up the heavenly wattage. That’s what happened, one unique night, over this sad, little shepherd’s field, or one very near here.

And then, having said their “glory in the highest,” the angels went back into heaven. The light was gone; their words reduced to an echo. The shepherds found themselves once again standing in the darkness, in the middle of a sad little, stone-infested field. As I sit here in that field, or one close to it, I cannot help but wonder what would I do if I had been one of those shepherds. There are a number of options, you know. The modern scientist might ask, “I wonder if this event can be repeated and measured?” The historian might comb through the records of other cultures to find other, similar revelations. The skeptic might try to dismiss what had happened as being a bit of mass hysteria, no doubt brought on by loneliness. Some might just settle back, file away what they had seen and heard, and then, years later, describe the evening’s events as they told a bedtime story to their grandchildren.

The shepherds did none of those things. They did not argue about the reality of what they’d seen and heard. They didn’t compare notes. They didn’t set up a congressional fact-finding committee. They didn’t decide to send a delayed delegation to Bethlehem. What they did do, is turn to each other and say, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.” It was just that simple for those shepherds. Sitting here in their field, or one close to it, I can think of a lot of reasons why they should have decided not to go. As I’ve said, this is a rocky field. A shepherd might know the paths from here to Bethlehem, but it still is dark. A guy could fall down, break a leg, crack his cranium. Then there’s the question of the sheep’s welfare. Those sheep were their livelihood. Suppose, while they were gone, a thief, or a pack of wild dogs, or… It would be mighty tough to explain to people, “Why wasn’t I watching the flock? Well, you see these angels told us about a baby being born, and we decided we had to go, right then…” There are a lot of reasons not to go. Sitting here, in this sad little field of the shepherds, I wonder what I would have done.

Sitting here, this Christmas Day, I wonder what you would have done? Most Christians like to think that they would have run across this sad little field to see their Savior. Most skeptics like to think that they would have gone, too. They think that if a scientific mind had observed the evening’s events, all of the mystery would be stripped away, and Jesus would finally, undeniably, unquestionably be shown as a fraud and fake. For whatever reason, most people think they would go.

What would you do? Would you, like the shepherds, realize that you had just received good news, great news, from God? Would you, like the shepherds, realize that nothing in your life would ever surpass what had just happened? Would you, like the shepherds, realize that with the birth of this baby, God’s Son, you now have a Savior who loves you, and listens to you, and comforts you, and forgives you? Would you, like the shepherds, conclude that a God who is powerful enough to turn night into day, is powerful enough to take your soul, blackened by sin, and make it white with forgiveness? Do you understand, like these shepherds, that your life, and the world, would from this moment on be radically, drastically, thoroughly, changed? That is what Jesus does, you know. He changes things. True man and true God, born into the world and history at that little town right over there, Jesus came to change everything. Because He is born, death no longer has the final victory. Satan no longer has to be our master; sin no longer our eternal curse.

Jesus changes everything. Knowing that, the shepherds left this rocky field, or one near here, and went to see their Savior. Jesus changes everything. Knowing that, this Christmas Day, we’ve come back to this rocky field, to a place without Christmas trappings, tinsel, trees, or toys. Look around; there are no Christmas presents, packages, or parties. There are no Christmas cards or Christmas carols. There is only a field, a sad little field where you can hear the angels tell of God’s Good News, just as the shepherds heard it; where you can see the Savior who was born in that little town, right over there. We’ve come to this sad little field so you may see God’s Son, God’s gift which offers forgiveness if you will see Him with eyes of faith.

Jesus changes everything. Knowing that, over the centuries a constant stream of souls have wended their way to these fields, to that little town of Bethlehem. In 1865, that is what brought the great Episcopal preacher, Philips Brooks, to this place. Having spent much of December traveling the Holy Land, he couldn’t resist the idea of spending Christmas Eve in Bethlehem. Brooks hoisted his six-foot-six, three-hundred pound frame onto the back of some poor horse and rode the six miles from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. In his diary, Brooks told how he visited the shepherd’s fields – those same fields where we are now. Then, like the shepherds, he went and worshipped God’s Son, his Savior. As he headed home, Brooks looked over his shoulder for one lasting glimpse of the place where God’s plan for salvation became flesh. He looked back at these fields and the lights of that little town. Later on, remembering what he had seen, Brooks wrote:

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by,
Yet, in thy dark streets shineth, the everlasting Light:
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heav’n.
No ear may hear His coming; But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him, still the dear Christ enters in.

Then, Brooks added, his prayerful petition:
O holy Child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell;
Oh, come to us, Abide with us, Our Lord Immanuel!

Did you hear those words: “Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.” Jesus was born in the hearts of those shepherds. That’s why, after they saw Jesus, they didn’t hurry back to these sad, little fields. No, they went through the town of Bethlehem and told everyone they could about what God was doing, and how the newborn King was going to change their lives. They wanted Jesus to be born in the hearts of their friends. The Lutheran Hour wants the same. That is why, on this Christmas Day we encourage you to join the shepherds and see this thing which has come to pass. You don’t have to travel 6,500 miles as we have done. You don’t have to stumble over a stony field to walk to the little village over there. All you need do is look into the Bible; go to worship in a church. There you will see God’s Son, your Savior wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. But you can see far more than the shepherds did during their stable stop. You can also see Jesus, the man. Jesus’ story doesn’t stop with Him as an infant smelling of baby powder, surrounded by quiet cattle and gentle lambs, laying on fresh hay, while an angel chorus sings lullabies.

Jesus grew into a man. As a man, as our Savior, He walked rocky roads and dusty streets to share His Father’s message of salvation. See the Savior who came to forgive the world… and you. See Him who came to heal the sick… and you; to have compassion for the needy… and you; to love the unlovable, like us. You don’t have to travel 6,500 miles to see where Jesus ministered. You don’t have to go to Jerusalem; it’s only six miles away from here, to see the city where He died. You don’t have to go there to stand before His empty grave and hear the angel say, “Do not be afraid, … Jesus, who was crucified. (He) is not here; He has risen…”

You don’t have to come to any of those places, because this day Jesus comes to you. He, who changes everything, who substitutes life for death, has come to your country, your community, your church, your home, and now He wishes to come into your heart. He is there right now, waiting for you. Will you, like the shepherds, see this thing which has come to pass? The shepherds thought it was important to see the Savior. I pray you do as well. If you need directions on how to get there, call us; we’ll tell you how to see God’s Good News of great joy. Amen.

Music selections for this program:

“A Mighty Fortress” arranged by John Leavitt. Concordia Publishing House/SESAC

“O Little Town of Bethlehem” by John Leavitt. (© 2005 John Leavitt) Concordia Publishing House/ASCAP

“See in Yonder Manger Low” arranged by Henry Gerike. From Gentle Stranger by the Concordia Seminary Chorus (© 2004 Concordia Seminary) Used by permission

“Before the Marvel of This Night” by Jaroslav Vajda and Carl Schalk. From The Marvel of This Night by the American Kantorei (© 1996 Concordia Publishing House) Concordia Publishing House/SESAC

“Vom Himmel hoch, da komm’ ich her” by Johann Pachelbel. From Christmas Pastorale by Minoru Yoshizawa (© 1997 Lutheran Hour Ministries