A Gift for Messiah: A Christmas Story for the Wintry Heart
A GIFT FOR MESSIAH
by Brad Beals
Copyright©2006 by Brad Beals
A Gift for Messiah
The prophet Micah had named the little village of Bethlehem as the one to watch for the coming of the Christ. So there was nothing strange in the notion that the three shepherds tending their flocks on this night should be thinking of Messiah.
“If he were to come tonight,” said Joshua, who enjoyed—above all things—talking, “I would play him a psalm: the Maskil of Ethan.”
He blew the cold from a flute he had made from the hollowed-out leg bone of a ram, then played an intricate scale, up…and then down. “I have spent months learning it. Would you like to hear?” And before either could answer, before either could remind him that they’d heard it every night for many months, the music came—a psalm of high praise, a blessing to God.
He had in fact worked on it for nearly a year, and he fancied that it might now be worthy of the temple itself. When he had finished, he sighed and listened to the notes still ringing in the air. “Have you ever heard anything so…noble?” He seemed to ask himself this, then turning to the younger of his companions said, “And what will you give to Messiah, Iskail, should he come this night?”
“If Messiah were to come tonight,” Iskail said quietly and slowly, for he was deliberate about his words, “I would offer up myself as a herald. I would run to the ends of his kingdom, bringing his words and news of his victories to all people.” He said no more, for his eyes were closed, and he watched himself being summoned to high courts, trusted with royal edicts, lauded by grateful crowds.
Joshua nodded at this as there was none in all of Israel better suited for such an office. God had gifted his friend with careful words and the legs of a roe buck. “As Hermes was to Zeus, so you would be to Messiah,” he said to Iskail.
But Eliah, silent until now, had heard enough. “Put away your talk and tend to the fire—it’s famished.” Eliah was much older than the others and, having seen more of life, was not one for games. He rolled over, turning his back to the younger shepherds, but continued to mutter. “Zeus indeed. Messiah would like that, hm? Pagan stories for the Christ King? Go to sleep, the both of you.”
Every night in Bethlehem, no matter the hillside or the company, the boys’ talk would turn to Messiah. And every night it would end with Eliah saying something very much like, “go to sleep the both of you.” But on this night there was something in the air that hinted at adventure and even scandal, so Joshua decided that he would not put away his talk. “And you, Eliah Ben Elam? What would you offer Messiah should he come before the dawn?”
Eliah raised himself as if to scold the youth for his impudence, but stopped suddenly, just as the harsh words were coming. He glared beyond the boys, beyond the hills toward Bethlehem, and thought for a long moment, searching. Then he said heavily, “I have nothing for Messiah. For he has already taken everything from me.”
Joshua would press no further, for he knew that Eliah was a hard man and that he had suffered much.
Sleep would not come that night. Both flocks and men were restless. The sky and the air around them seemed to be charged with something unusual. The shepherds lay silently, each waking slowly to an awareness they could not have named.
The night was taking a strange turn.
The hillside warmed – suddenly, like a wind blowing in from summer, though the air was perfectly still. The shepherds rose from their beds and turned in circles as they wondered at the heavens, and fear began to spread in their hearts.
"Look," said Eliah, pointing to the east, over Bethlehem, to where the stars in a small piece of sky began to blur and shimmer like moonlight on water.
And then it began.
One of the stars, just a pinprick of light, grew suddenly in radiance. And though the others around it were themselves perfectly white, it was no less true that this one was whiter, somehow whiter than any star in the sky, than anything eyes had ever seen. Then it grew rapidly in size, as though the fabric of the sky were being torn open from the other side, and the same brightness spilled out and over them.
The shepherds fell to the ground as the fear overtook them completely, and then a voice made all of thunder and ocean and gold spoke these words:
Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be for all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: You will find a child wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.
The light, which had no regard for closed eyes, grew even brighter. And it was Eliah who turned his head and looked up, up into a light that should have blinded him, a radiance which was an army of angels singing praise to God. Their words, like a great river or an avalanche or the sky falling, poured down and shook the hills:
GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON EARTH PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARD MEN.
The chorus ended, and the light faded, but it was some time before any of the three stirred, for their souls, still filled with holy fear, were luminous, and none wanted to open his eyes to find that it had been a dream. But it was not long before the angel’s words pierced through, and in a body they were off for Bethlehem, Iskail dumbfounded, Joshua stuttering, stuttering, and Eliah limping along silently and as quickly as his old bones would take him.
The shelter housing the young family, was a small stable cut from the rocky hillside, a cave with an opening just wide enough for two men to pass through together. A heavily woven curtain covered the opening, and inside it was just as the angel had proclaimed: the Messiah, redeemer and deliverer of Israel, lay swaddled in a feeding trough.
And he cried helplessly.
The shepherds were welcomed with warm smiles and kind words but quickly realized that the young parents were in a state of concern. The father--his name was Joseph--explained to them that the child would not be satisfied with food or with his mother’s arms.
“Perhaps he is cold,” said Iskail. “In the field where our flock is pastured are hides of sheep, hart, and bear. More than enough for all of you! God has given me strong legs. It would not take half an hour?” At the suggestion, the mother, whose name was Mary, smiled gratefully, for though the stable and a bed of straw were warmth enough, the thought of real comfort on this long night was inviting.
Iskail looked quickly to Eliah who nodded a yes, then he ran joyfully from the cave to retrieve the hides.
Joseph then took the baby up from the manger and sat down on the straw next to his wife. He said to the child that he would sing a lullaby if he could sing without frightening the animals.
At these words Joshua spoke up. “I have just the thing," he said, and he pulled out his flute to play the only lullaby he had ever learned. He played it all the way through once and a second time, but still the child cried. He played it again, slowly, and then in a different key, and as he began once more, Mary smiled at him, for though the baby cried on, Joseph was snoring happily.
“Hold him while I keep playing,” Joshua whispered to Eliah. So Eliah—reluctantly, gently—took the child from Joseph’s arms.
Joshua played softly. The lullaby again, psalms and prayers, all of the melodies he had ever learned, and some he didn’t quite know, but still the baby cried.
“He is not in pain,” said Eliah, for he had been a father once. His words were matter-of-fact, which comforted Mary. “Though he seems determined to have something.”
The three looked up as Iskail, panting, stepped through the flap and into the cave, his arms heaped with hides. The boys helped to c
over Mary and Joseph and then stood looking over them anxiously.
“I can't hold myself in,” whispered Joshua to Iskail. “I must tell someone.”
“Did you see today how the streets were filled with people," replied Iskail. "Travelers here for the census, looking for lodging.”
“Every home and hostel is filled.” Joshua’s excitement was growing.
“With people from all over Judea!” As was Iskail’s.
And now the two boys stared at Eliah, begging permission with their eyes.
“Go,” he said, and before he could add another word, they were off.
The boys annoyed him often with their games and idle talk and incessant motion, but he felt a responsibility for them. His own son, gone fourteen years this month, would have been about their age. “It