(Read Luke 2)
You know how a song can get stuck in your head? No matter how hard you try to shake it, it just lingers. We even have a name for it now an earworm. It does not always happen with a bad song. For me, it is almost always one I genuinely love.
During the Christmas season, we are surrounded by music everywhere we go. Hymns, carols, contemporary arrangements, old classics we have known by heart for decades. I love it. When you are old like me, you know the words without trying, and if you stay open-minded, you can learn to appreciate the newer melodies as well.
This week, one of the most time-tested hymns reached out and grabbed me. Angels We Have Heard on High, written in French in 1805, would not let go. Surprisingly, it was not the hair-raising crescendo of “Gloria in excelsis Deo!”—“Glory to God in the highest”—that held me captive. It was the second verse. And I do not entirely know why.
Perhaps, as Pastor/Author Alistair Begg once paraphrased so memorably, it is “the significance in the insignificant” that keeps echoing. Maybe it is the abundance of joy that utterly transformed ordinary lives in a single night. Or maybe it is the sharp contrast between their dull, down-trodden existence and the privilege of witnessing not merely an event, but the event that altered the course of history forever.
Whatever the reason, this verse followed me everywhere. It surfaced during my quiet time, returned during prayer, replayed itself on long runs, and even slipped into the background of another pablum Hallmark movie.
Shepherds, why this jubilee?
Why your joyous strains prolong?
What the gladsome tidings be
Which inspire your heavenly song?
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
The hymn asks honest questions. Why are the shepherds so joyful? Why are they celebrating so loudly? What news could possibly inspire such praise?
The answer comes quickly:
Come to Bethlehem and see
Him whose birth the angels sing;
Come, adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.
Angels We Have Heard on High
The angels announce the birth of Jesus, promising immense joy not only for shepherds, but for the whole world. So why should shepherds be the ones overflowing with jubilee? Of course they were joyful. Why would they not be?
And yet, when we pause and consider who shepherds were in Jesus’ day, the joy becomes even more striking.
Shepherds occupied the margins of society. They were lower-class laborers, often hired hands rather than landowners, tending flocks for someone else. Their work kept them constantly on the move and separated from settled community life. To the religious elite, they were frequently viewed as ritually unclean or at least religiously suspect. Their constant contact with animals made ceremonial purity difficult, if not impossible. Later rabbinic writings reflect a deep suspicion that shepherds were careless with the Law, unreliable, and morally compromised.
They were often grouped socially with tax collectors and others whose reputations placed them beyond respectability.
In other words, they were overlooked, dismissed, and largely forgotten.
And yet, these very men became the first witnesses to the Messiah’s arrival. The ones no one trusted were entrusted with heaven’s announcement. The invisible became visible. The insignificant were given front-row seats to the unfolding of redemption.
Imagine their lives. Long days and longer nights outdoors. The smell of animals. Constant vigilance. Little pay. Little honor. Probably not much to look forward to. And then suddenly, the darkness was interrupted.
Luke tells us:
Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,
“Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace to those
whom his favor rests”
Luke 2:13–14
And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the angels were gone. The night air returned. The sheep were still there. The cold did not magically lift. The shepherds were still shepherds. But everything had changed.
Luke also says they looked at each other and made a decision that feels almost too simple for what it meant:
“Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”
Luke 2:15
That line matters because it shows what joy does when it is real. Joy moves your feet. Joy interrupts routine. Joy refuses to remain theoretical.
So they went. And what did they find? Not a palace. Not a parade. Not gold and glitter. Not the kind of scene you would expect if God were trying to impress the world. They found a young mother, a weary father, and a baby in a feeding trough.
This is where Christmas begins to preach to us. If you were going to announce the arrival of the King, you would think you would do it in Jerusalem. You would stage it near the temple. You would place it at the center of power and influence. You would invite the right people, the polished people, the people who already have an audience.
Instead, heaven points shepherds to Bethlehem. Bethlehem was not nothing, but it was not Jerusalem. It was not the religious headquarters. It was not the city of fame. It was small enough to be overlooked, the kind of place people passed through on the way to something bigger. Even the prophet Micah highlights its smallness while revealing its hidden purpose:
“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
though you are small among the clans of Judah,
out of you will come for me
one who will be ruler over Israel,
whose origins are from of old,
from ancient times.”
Micah 5:2
Little. Overlooked. Unimpressive. Much like the shepherds.
That pairing is not accidental. God often matches the messenger to the message. A humble Savior is announced to humble men. A lowly town becomes the stage for heaven’s glory. The whole scene is a sermon that says God is not drawn to what we are drawn to. He does not need our platforms. He does not require our polish. He does not wait for the world to agree that something is important before He does something eternal.
And the shepherds respond exactly as the hymn describes. They do not just observe. They adore.
After seeing Jesus, “they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child.” (Luke 2:17) The shepherds became walking billboards for the gospel before they even knew the word “gospel.” They spoke. People listened. People wondered. Mary pondered. The shepherds and the world changed.
And then comes the line that keeps echoing for me, the line that the hymn captures with that word “jubilee”:
The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.
Luke 2:20
Glorifying and praising God. That is not just a Christmas detail. That is a picture of what it means to be restored. Worship is how the human heart comes back to its proper center. Praise is what happens when we finally stop orbiting ourselves and begin to orbit Him.
Notice what the shepherds did not do. They did not throw a drunken rave. They did not turn the miracle into an excuse for excess. They did not treat the moment like a novelty that fades by morning. Their joy had a direction. Their worship had a focus. Their celebration overflowed into witness.
This is why their jubilee feels so pure. It was not merely excitement. It was reverence. It was awe. It was gratitude. It was the kind of joy you cannot manufacture, only receive.
Pastor Andrew Taylor once captioned JOY as “Jesus Over You.” That phrase has stayed with me because it captures what happens when Christ becomes the center of the story. Joy is not denial. Joy is not pretending everything is fine. Joy is not loudness for its own sake. Joy is what rises when Jesus is over you, when He is higher than your shame, your weariness, your cynicism, your fear.
That is what happened to the shepherds. They were not promoted in society overnight. They were not suddenly respected by the religious elite. Their hands were still rough, calloused, and bloody, their clothes still smelled like the field, their responsibilities were still waiting. But their souls had been invaded by glory.
God did not change their job description first. He changed their hearts. And if we want to understand why God chose shepherds, Scripture gives us a pattern. God delights in reversing the world’s assumptions. Paul says it plainly:
But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.
1 Corinthians 1:27–29
That is Christmas logic. God bypasses the impressive so that grace is unmistakable. He goes to the lowly so that nobody can claim credit. He sends angels to shepherds so that the story begins with mercy, not merit. So yes, the hymn asks, “Shepherds, why this jubilee?” Because when you have lived overlooked, and then heaven calls your name, you rejoice.
Because when your life has been reduced to survival, and then God announces peace, you rejoice. Because when you have spent years in the dark, and then the glory of the Lord breaks in, you rejoice. And because when you finally see that God has come not to the deserving, but to the needy, you cannot help but glorify and praise Him.
That is why the invitation still stands: Come to Bethlehem and see. Not just see as in observe from a distance, but see as in behold, consider, receive. Come and look straight at the way God works. Come and let it recalibrate your assumptions about who He comes for and how He saves. Come and adore on bended knee, not because you are worthy, but because He is.
And maybe that is why this verse will not leave me alone. Because with God, there is always a reason. Sometimes He uses a hymn lyric to expose where my joy has become too small, too thin, too tied to circumstances. Sometimes He uses shepherds to remind me that I do not have to be impressive to be included. Sometimes He uses Bethlehem to remind me that small places can hold divine purpose, and hidden seasons can carry holy significance.
The shepherds’ jubilee represents the profound joy found in Christ, the One who answers life’s vital questions, including the ones we are often afraid to ask.
- Am I seen?
- Am I wanted?
- Does my life matter?
Christmas answers with a manger. And the shepherds answer with praise.
May we do the same. May we let the gladsome tidings interrupt our routines. May we hurry to Christ. May we leave worshiping. And may our lives, like theirs, make it obvious that we have heard and seen something true.
Gloria in excelsis Deo.