Chapter 4
The Ones Who Ran
For those who are intimately familiar with the Christmas story, don’t think much of the angels. It’s easy to be comfortable with Gabriel showing up to talk to Mary and Zechariah, or the angel speaking to Joseph and the wise men in dreams (Matthew 1:20; 2:12–13). Common Christmas decorations don’t help either—most angels in the manger scene are peaceful, almost childlike creatures watching over the gentle birth of the long–promised savior of the world.
But when we read the first two chapters of Luke—slowly and carefully—one thing jumps out about angels: they’re scary.
Zechariah was stunned and afraid when he saw Gabriel in the temple (Luke 1:11–12), and Mary equally felt fear when the same angel appeared to her (1:29–30). But neither of those two encounters brought with it the kind of fear that a group of rural shepherds experience not long after.
After relaying the events leading up to the birth of baby Jesus, Luke provides very little space to the actual arrival of the long–promised child. At the beginning of chapter two, we get a rather quick account of Jesus’s birth. Joseph obeys imperial orders to report to his hometown—Bethlehem—to register for a census. While there, Mary gives birth to her firstborn son and puts him in a manger, because there’s no other space for them.
Luke spends only a handful of sentences on the arrival of the promised infant in order to set the scene for one more encounter with angels. But this time, the circumstances are different.
There’s nothing truly remarkable about the shepherds. Luke only mentions that they were near the town of Bethlehem with their sheep that night. Like Mary, there’s nothing about them that sets them apart for a special task—especially not acting as the heralds of a newborn king. And certainly those shepherds didn’t bed down for the night expecting to meet the vanguard of God’s heavenly army. But that’s exactly what happens.
Gabriel appeared to Zechariah and Mary rather peacefully—if a bit suddenly. But here in Luke’s second chapter it’s not Gabriel but the ancient angel of the Lord that appears on the page. That angel is the one that showed up to Moses in a bush engulfed in flame (Exodus 3:2). It’s the angel that commissioned Gideon to go to war against Midian (Judges 6:11–22). And that angel slaughtered nearly two hundred thousand Assyrian soldiers arrayed for battle against Israel centuries before (2 Kings 19:35–36).
So when that same angel appears to the shepherds surrounded by the shining glory of God himself, it’s understandable that the men are terrified (Luke 2:9). But unlike many of the previous appearances of the angel of the Lord throughout the Bible, this time he brings not warnings of war but promises of peace.
The angel proclaims that he has good news which which will bring joy to all who hear: David’s promised descendant (see Isaiah 9:7; 16:5; Jeremiah 23:5; 33:15–17; Ezekiel 34:23–24; 37:24–25) had come. The promised Messiah. The ruling Lord (Luke 2:11). In many ways, the angel’s proclamation resembles the pronouncements in Imperial Rome, where conquering rulers were proclaimed the “savior of the peoples”—a title often assigned to the emperor. But here, the general of heaven’s armies proclaims that it is Jesus—not Caesar—who is the savior of the world.
As if to put a fine point on it, the entire celestial battalion appears as the angel finishes his proclamation. We tend to think of the host of heaven as a choir—dressed in the same flowy robes and holding sheet music from which to sing. But the language in Luke paints the picture of a squadron of celestial warriors in full battle garb singing the victory song of Israel’s God.
The entire display has a profound effect on the shepherds, who immediately abandon their sheep in the countryside and rush into the city to find the promised baby. And find him they did—just like the angels promised. But the shepherds didn’t stop there. They went out and told everyone they encountered about the angels, the promise, and the baby. The rough herdsmen from the countryside carried on the mission that heaven’s army began: proclaiming the good news that the long–promised savior had finally come.
For those of us who grew up in and around churches and have seen our fair share of Christmas plays or nativity scenes, it’s easy to gloss over the shepherds and what happened to them. They woke up in the middle of the night to a display that left them expecting to die. In the stories of the Old Testament, the army of heaven shows up to bring death (see 2 Kings 6:8–23 and 19:35–36). But the shepherds didn’t hear tidings of death. Instead, they were the first to hear the victory proclamation of Israel’s ancient God: peace had come through the newborn king. For the first time in history, the army of God announced peace, not war.
That message of peace motivated the shepherds to find the newborn Jesus, and their enthusiasm in retelling the story of the angels impacted not only Mary but everyone who heard them (Luke 2:18–19). Rome didn’t disappear that night. The plight of the Jews in Israel didn’t change. But the promise of God that peace had come and peace would reign through Jesus began to change those who heard the message.
In a world where everyone feels pressure to pick a side—whether in football or politics or on the question of pineapple on pizza—the promise of peace has the power to change people. It’s easy to fall into the tribalistic mentality of “us or them” given the tensions everywhere today. But Luke’s story of the shepherds shows that peace—not war—changes hearts. We can choose to lean into the ancient promise that culminated in Jesus and proclaim his peace to those around us. The people at work, the family members at dinner, the relatives on holiday—the message of the long–promised Lord who would set all wrongs right can still change their lives today.
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