Chapter 6

For unto Us a Child Is Born!

Irejoined my companions and found them engaged in astonished conversation. Who could understand the full import of the vision? Why had the angel made the annunciation to us? They stood huddled in a tight clutch, their lamps lit, the night having returned to darkness now. My father sat cross-legged near the group, speechless, his head bowed. As I drew close and put a hand on his shoulder, he lifted his head. His face was pale and tear-stained. I perceived that he was too weak to stand.

“Father?” I knelt beside him.

He looked at me with an expression that I had never seen. In a whisper he asked, “Did you see the angel? Did you hear the hosts of heaven singing?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then it is true. The Messiah is born in Bethlehem, just as the prophets had foretold.” The other shepherds drew nearer and joined in his rejoicing. Reuben bent toward him and asked, “Can you stand, Levi?”

My father answered, “I think so.”

Reuben gestured to the others and said, “Help me lift him.” Gently, they raised my father to his feet. When he was standing, he gazed up into the sky, spread his arms toward heaven and cried out Isaiah’s prophecy: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

As with one voice, we all shouted our rejoicings. We could not hold back. It seemed as if every particle of our being was on fire and demanded a voice to cry out the news. We gloried in the prophecies concerning the Savior. We shouted, “Hosanna! Hosanna, to the Most High God!” We sang the exultation that we had heard the angels sing: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” But the message that continued to resonate within me was the angel’s first declaration, “Fear not.” Those words echoed in my mind. I now found it impossible to harbor anxiety or despair. To my father I said, “We must do as the angel directed.”

He nodded and grasped me by the shoulders. “Yes.” His strength had returned. “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.”

As we started for Bethlehem, little Ephraim, Reuben’s son, asked timidly, “Should I stay with the sheep?”

We halted and looked at each other as if to search for an answer. Never had we left our flock unattended and vulnerable to predators. As we contemplated Ephraim’s question, we felt a sense of calm envelop us. Reuben knelt beside his son and drew him close. “The sheep will be safe,” he assured him. “Another Shepherd will watch over them tonight. You must come with us, my son, for you too are a witness.”

The thought astounded me: We were witnesses! Nevertheless, I sympathized with Ephraim. As much as he felt concern for the flock, I had felt concern for my wife. When I had left her this morning, I had felt that I was abandoning her. Now, as I considered postponing my return home where my wife lay dying or dead, I felt a sharp pang of conscience. Was I doing right? As I pondered the question, the feeling of guilt dissipated like smoke rising in the air; I felt only peace and remarkably a sense of purpose. Somehow I felt that I would find my answers in Bethlehem, and I knew that I must be obedient to the angel’s directive to go and find the Child.

One of the shepherds asked, “Where shall we go? The angel said we would find the Babe lying in a manger. But there are many caves and khans in and about Bethlehem. How will we find Him?” My father smiled knowingly. The questioning shepherd looked at him and asked, “Do you know where we should look, Levi?”

My father answered by quoting the ancient prophecy of Micah: “And thou, O tower of the flock, the stronghold of the daughter of Zion, unto thee shall it come, even the first dominion; the kingdom shall come to the daughter of Jerusalem.”

Astounded, I said, “We will find the Child at Migdal Eder?”

My father nodded, and as he did, I felt my mind open and light began to pour into it. Migdal Eder! I looked up into the eastern sky. There, in breathtaking view stood a gleaming new star, just as Simeon had foretold. I had never beheld it before. It glistened in majestic splendor, glowing like a bright beacon, eclipsing the brilliance of the morning star that heralded each new day. I had never beheld its equal. I was about to draw attention to the wonder when I heard the shepherds excitedly buzzing, “Migdal Eder! Migdal Eder! The Messiah has been born at the Watchtower of the Flock!”

Seeking clarification, I asked my father, “Are you certain that we will not find the Messiah in the manger of a khan?”

He shook his head and affirmed, “No, we shall find him at Migdal Eder.”

I knew the location well; every local shepherd did. Migdal Eder was an ancient place situated on a high hill at the north end of Bethlehem on the road to Jerusalem. Its name literally meant “the watchtower of the flock.” In ancient times, it had been built as a military tower to survey the environs of Bethlehem in an effort to protect the city. Our forefather Jacob had journeyed to Migdal Eder with his flocks, when his wife, Rachel, began hard labor and died giving birth to Benjamin, my ancestor. Mourning bitterly, Jacob built a tomb in Bethlehem and buried Rachel in it. Still in tears, Jacob pitched his tent at Migdal Eder, where later the sacrificial lambs would be born, and still later, where the special Lamb would one day be born to comfort Jacob and his children.

From those early days until the present, shepherds had employed the high watchtower and the cave over which it was built to defend and protect Israel’s sheep from enemies and wild beasts. When the temple had been rebuilt and sacrificial ordinances were renewed in it, this sheltering tower and its cave became a special place where shepherds such as us often brought their birthing ewes that belonged to the temple flocks. My companions and I were the most recent shepherds in a long line who cared for the lambs born at the Watchtower of the Flock, lambs whose destiny was to provide an atonement for the sins of the people. Because our charge was singular, we operated under strict rabbinical rule to maintain Migdal Eder as a ceremonially clean stable for birthing the lambs of God. When the lambs were born, we would swaddle them in special cloth to protect them from injury. Now, according to my father, we would also find the Lamb of God wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger at the Watchtower of the Flock.

My father said, “God, through his prophet Micah, gave us a sign seven hundred years ago, predicting where the Messiah would be born. The Savior will come to the tower of the flock, and that place shall become His first dominion.”

I knew that many rabbis had taught that the Messiah would be announced from Migdal Eder in Bethlehem, and apparently it was so. I rejoiced with the shepherds. God could not have chosen a more fitting location. The Messiah had not been born in the filthy stable of a khan where travelers’ smelly cattle and donkeys were kept. No, the Lamb of God had been born in Bethlehem at the traditional birthing place of the sacrificial lambs—the actual location where tens of thousands of lambs of God had been born, prefiguring Him. We shepherds, who had always been the first to witness and receive the announcement of a birth of a lamb of God, were now the ones to witness and receive the first announcement of the birth of the Lamb of God.

We hurried to Migdal Eder as if on the wings of angels, rejoicing and singing praises. Each of us conveyed a lamb as a gift, which was the tradition of shepherds. As we ran, we cried out the prophecies concerning this Child. One shepherd shouted, “This is our God; we have waited for Him, and He will save us.” Another cried, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light. He will open the blind eyes to bring out the prisoners from the prison.” I immediately thought of the glory of the Lord that we had beheld. I wondered had all Israel seen it too? When we arrived, would we be among tens of thousands who had also seen the light and had come to see the newborn king?

My father began to sing the prophecy of Isaiah like a psalm: “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young.” Suddenly, I loved my profession more than I ever had before; to be a good shepherd exemplified the Messiah’s mission.

We arrived at Migdal Eder after midnight. An exulting procession, we were as the rejoicing friends of the bridegroom having finally come for his bride. Now we stood before the Watchtower of the Flock. It was an ancient structure that showed its age and yet was functional and kept in good repair by the shepherds. It stood tall on a high hillside overlooking Bethlehem and the surrounding area. A circular stone tower, the watchtower boasted four levels of windows, each level higher than the last, allowing a shepherd to climb up and peer out in any direction.

The watchtower had a flat, walled top, and its base was as rocky as a stone quarry. I scanned the immediate area and noted that we were alone. I saw no parade of people pouring out of Bethlehem or Jerusalem to see the newborn King—only we poor shepherds. My father was the first to stoop down and reverently enter the cave over which the tower was built.

The large cavity was dark except for a dimly lit area at a far corner behind a shrouded, makeshift curtain. In the darkness I could barely make out the various birthing stalls and some of the implements that we used in our profession. The area was as clean as one could make a cave, but it was empty now that lambing season had ended some weeks earlier. Only one Lamb had remained to be born.

Suddenly, we heard a tiny whimper, which was followed by the soft singing of a young woman. Then there was movement. My father hushed us, and we remained absolutely still, not knowing how to proceed. Within a few moments, an older woman emerged from behind the curtain carrying an armload of linen—a midwife, I presumed. She seemed startled when she saw us. She quickly stepped back behind the curtain and then reappeared with a young man. From across the cave in the dimness of lamplight, I could not make out his features, except that he was head and shoulders taller than the woman. The lambs we were carrying became restless and bleated. My father took a step forward and called out to the young man, “Peace be with you. We are friends. We have brought gifts for the Child.”

The young man stood still as if he were considering my father’s greeting. Then he turned and said something to the older woman. With that, she moved towards us carrying her bundle, and passed us by with an acknowledging smile and nod. When she had exited the cave, the young man stuck his head behind the curtain, spoke quietly, and reemerged. As he approached us he bowed and said, “Peace be with you. Have you traveled far?”

I was struck with his gracious demeanor. Standing now in the glow of our lamplight, he came into focus. He was about my height, but a few years younger, I judged. He might have been the age I was when Miriam and I had wed. He wore an earthen-colored tunic. Glancing beyond him, I noticed the curtain partitioning off the cave for privacy, and I surmised that it was his cloak.

The young man’s facial expression and his speech were most congenial, and he offered his smile generously. He wore a dark, neatly trimmed beard, his eyes were black, and his complexion was olive. I could see by his build that his trade required him to work with his hands and body, but because he carried neither rod nor staff, I guessed that his profession was not that of a shepherd. His Galilean accent betrayed him. Men from that province were known to be workers of stone, wood, and metal.

My father offered a slight bow and said, “I am Levi, and these are my companions. We are shepherds from Beit Sahour.”

The young man bowed in return and introduced himself. “I am Joseph, son of Heli. My wife, Mary, and I are from Nazareth in Galilee, and indeed she has borne a son this night. Will you come with me to see him?”

Joseph’s invitation caused my heart to pound hard. As we moved toward the curtain carrying the lambs in our arms, I struggled to control my breathing. Joseph parted the curtain and we entered a tiny area that had served as one of the birthing stalls for ewes. The stone walls seemed to be a harsh backdrop for the holy scene that opened before my eyes. There, in the warm glow of lamplight, lying on a makeshift bed of straw, covered by a blanket, was a young woman of the most exquisite beauty. Except for my Miriam, I had never encountered such loveliness.

She was exceedingly fair and white, uncommon for Judeans. She was as delicate as a rose petal or the whisper of a breeze. Her stunning beauty caused me to halt in temporary paralysis. I remained awestruck and motionless as I gazed at her, and as I did, an impression flowed into my mind that recalled the words of Isaiah: “Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.”

I beheld the young woman in silent wonder. Here was a mother who had just given birth, and yet in truth I knew that somehow she was yet a virgin. An impossibility! But then again, every miracle bears witness of its Author. Clearly, this miracle doubled as evidence of the power of God and a sign of the Messiah’s birth. As I stared at the young virgin mother, I imagined that others might judge her to be nothing more than a lovely peasant girl, and yet in every way she was a royal princess, a precious and chosen vessel, the mother of Immanuel, meaning “God is with us.”

A manger stood before the young mother, a limestone feeding trough hollowed out and lined with straw. There, lying in the manger, was a tiny infant. He was wrapped in crimson swaddling clothes, a red square of cloth with long ribbons to hold the Child’s arms and legs straight. Because the symbol of a lion was prominently stitched into the swaddling cloth, I assumed that the couple descended from the tribe of Judah through the lineage of David.

We stood in hushed reverence, gazing at the Babe. As I looked at him, the psalmist’s question came into my mind: “Who is this king of glory?” And the words of the prophet provided an answer: “I will raise unto David a righteous Branch, and a King shall reign and prosper, and shall execute judgment and justice in the earth. In his days Judah shall be saved, and Israel shall dwell safely; and this is his name whereby he shall be called, THE LORD OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS.”

Suddenly, my father set aside his lamb and fell on his face, prostrating himself before the Child, weeping openly. “Thank you,” he said through tears. “Thank you for coming to me when my wife died. Thank you for walking beside me all these years, for talking with me during the dark and lonely times, for teaching me, and for comforting me. You are my most cherished friend. I love you.” He began to weep uncontrollably, no longer able to speak.

I could not hold back my tears. I had never seen my father affected so. I looked about me and noticed that all the shepherds were weeping, as were Joseph and Mary. Then Reuben approached the Babe in the manger and gazed at Him with profound adoration. Reuben tried to form words, but his effort failed him. It was as though this giant of a man had suddenly been reduced in stature to that of a little child in the presence of this Babe. Reuben began to weep, and all of us wept with him. At length, he dried his eyes, drew a deep breath, and declared, “Thou art truly the Messiah!”

When Reuben had said this, he turned and motioned for his son, Ephraim, to come and see the Child. Ephraim, who had been standing beside me, clung to my tunic. I bent down and met his eyes. “It’s all right, Ephraim,” I said. “Go and see the Child.”

Slowly Ephraim walked to his father and knelt before the manger. He stared at the Babe and then looked up at Mary, who smiled at him. “Have you seen a newborn baby before?” she asked.

Ephraim nodded. “Yes, but I have never seen a king.”

“How did you come to find us here?” she asked him.

“The angel told us.”

Mary looked up at Joseph in apparent astonishment, but then they seemed to understand and smiled at each other. Turning back to Ephraim, she asked, “What did the angel say?”

“‘Fear not . . . ’” Ephraim began.

At this, Mary’s eyes welled with tears.

“Thank you,” she said. “You could not have brought us a finer gift.”

One by one, each shepherd drew near to the Child, presented their lambs as gifts, and worshipped him. I alone stood back and watched the scene, trying to assimilate all that was happening and everything that had occurred that day. As I observed this little family, I could not help but imagine a similar scene, had the events been different. My Miriam could easily have been Mary, cradling a newborn son in her arms. I could easily have been Joseph, proudly entertaining guests who had come to admire our child. As I gazed at Mary with her beauty and tender demeanor, I began to mourn: How shall I ever go on without my Miriam?

As my heart filled with sadness, Joseph stepped toward me. Putting an arm around my shoulder, he said, “I perceive that you have come with a heavy heart, my brother. Let me take you to Him.” I stared into Joseph’s gentle, encouraging face and began to weep. He held me in his strong arms as though we were longtime friends. Without shame, I heaved great sobs as I clung to him. He whispered, “You have been carrying your burden alone for too long. Let us help you.”

With that, Joseph guided me toward the manger, and as he did the shepherds drew back. I knelt before the Child and gazed into His perfect face. I had never beheld anything so beautiful and mild. His eyes closed, and as they did, Mary asked, “Are you married?”

“Yes,” I answered softly. “Her name is Miriam.”

“Like mine,” Mary responded, for her name was a derivative. Then she added, “She must be lovely.”

I nodded. Then looking at Mary, who reminded me so much of my wife, I replied, “Miriam is beautiful.”

“And do you have children?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Our child died recently.”

Joseph put a hand on my shoulder. He and Mary looked at each other as if to communicate with their eyes. She smiled at him. Turning to me she asked, “Would you like to hold Him?”

I began to protest. “Oh, I don’t think I could—”

Joseph knelt beside me. “It’s all right.”

Mary reached into the manger and tenderly lifted the tiny bundle into her arms. “Make a cradle of your arms,” she instructed me. Joseph demonstrated the position. When I had knit my arms together, Mary gently set the Child in them.

The Baby was so very small, as light as lamb’s wool. His tiny eyes, nose, ears, and mouth were perfectly formed. His skin was the color of milk and as smooth as soft butter. He had a hint of light-colored hair that lay flat against His head. He remained very still in my arms. I brought Him close to my ear and listened to His breathing, quick like a bird’s. I kissed Him tenderly on the cheek, and as I did, He opened His eyes and whimpered. I looked at Mary and began to apologize, “I’m sorry. What shall I do?”

“Rock Him and sing to Him,” Mary replied patiently.

I surveyed the shepherds for help but found none. What song do you sing to a king? Ephraim seemed to know. Quietly, he began to hum a familiar melody—the song that the angels had sung tonight. Then Ephraim began to sing the words: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” Ephraim did not sing the song as had the angels: a great anthem of exultation. Rather, he sang it softly, like a lullaby. The song filled me with great emotion.

I looked into the face of the King of kings and began to sing softly to Him the song that the angels had sung to us—the shepherd’s song. While I sang and rocked the Child, He calmed and gazed up into my face, His eyes penetrating me. I studied His features, and a sense of familiarity entered my mind and heart. I knew Him! I had seen Him in every person I had encountered today. Rebekah and her son, the family headed for Jerusalem, Simeon, Anna, the crippled man, and the father and son in the temple.

An expression of gratitude seemed to emanate from the Child: Thank you for blessing my children. I had never experienced the feeling of reverence as I did in that moment.

I thought to myself, “I am looking into the face of God! I am witnessing what righteous men and women have longed to see and did not. I am one of the first to behold the Lord’s salvation.”

I thought of the words of the prophet: “Mine eyes have seen the king, the Lord of Hosts.” That realization flooded my mind with other prophecies my father had taught me about this Child, the mission of His life, and what He would yet suffer for me: “He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter . . . Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows . . . He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities . . . and with his stripes we are healed.”

As I gazed at Him, I felt as though He spoke to my mind: “I was wounded in the house of my friends . . . I gave my back to the smiters . . . [and] hid not my face from shame and spitting. They pierced my hands and my feet.” This communication caused me to shudder, for I suddenly realized that if I had been the only person who had ever been born, He would have willingly come to earth to suffer and give His life to rescue me. Now, because He was here, I knew that He would provide me a way to escape all my troubles. I would no longer be held captive by my mistakes; I could learn from them without being destroyed by them. Then the words of the prophet pierced my heart: “He hath poured out his soul unto death: . . . and he bare the sin of many.”

As I gazed adoringly into the Child’s eyes, a feeling of recognition settled upon me. Astonished, I felt as though the room had emptied and that I was completely alone with Him. All sounds seemed to cease except for the beating of our two hearts. The angel’s words echoed in my mind: “Fear not!”

I looked at the Babe and said, “Thank you for my life. Thank you for giving me Miriam. You have always loved me and overlooked my weaknesses. I know that you will always love me and never leave me, and because I know that, I need never be afraid.” When I had said this, the words of the prophet Isaiah flowed into my mind as if the Child were confirming their validity: “He will swallow up death in victory.”

Knowing this, I realized that my life would never again be the same.