The Weekly Screed (#892)

The skeptical shepherd

by David Benjamin

1

A long time ago, on a cold winter’s night that was so deep, a certain poor shepherd was keeping his sheep and trying to catch forty winks. But it wasn’t easy. He was haunted, almost every time he nodded off, by visions he didn’t understand.

The shepherd’s friends kept telling him not to drink the cheap hooch that the bootleggers in Capernaum made from figs and fish liver. But it was the only brew that put him to sleep, although it always woke him later with nightmares and apparitions.

Tonight, the shepherd’s problem wasn’t the usual hallucinations. Beneath his eyelids, he perceived a brilliant light and, on a hillside usually as quiet as the grave, the noise was almost deafening. He opened one eye to peek and saw an angel bending near the earth, to touch his harp of gold. Worse, the angel wasn’t just touching the harp. He was whaling away like Bruce Springsteen.

Of course, the shepherd had no idea who this Springsteen dude was going to be. He had merely seen him in an especially frightening vision one night after too much fig-lightning. Hence, the angel’s licks struck the shepherd as more ghastly than danceable.

“Hey, fella, listen,” he said (well, he actually had to shout). “Could you practice that thing someplace else? I’m trying to get a little shut-eye.”

“I’m not practicing, pal. I’m harking the herald!”

Assuming that he was dealing with a lunatic, the shepherd rolled over.

The angel paused in mid-riff and spoke. “Hey, I’m an angel. Didn’t you notice the star? It’s really bright — to guide our way. I’m harking the herald for the king of Israel, who is born this very night.”

The shepherd recognized the type. He’d met them in taverns. This psycho was not going to quiet down. Reluctantly, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. The lunatic was easy to see because, like the lunatic said, the sky was as bright as daytime, lit by a humongous star the shepherd had never before beheld.

“Why me?” he muttered to himself. He unsquinted his eyes and tried to focus. Somehow, the lunatic was hovering above the ground, flapping his wings. Wings? thought the shepherd. “Nu, maybe this really is an angel,” he said under his breath. “What do I know from angels?”

But, no, he decided. This was just another one of his visions, and the freak with the wings would soon flit off over the hill, lie a big-ass butterfly.

But he stayed. This was becoming the shepherd’s longest nightmare ever, the worst part being whatever slight-off-key song the maniac was trying to play. The “angel’s” instrument was the biggest harp the shepherd had ever laid eyes on. He twanged a G-chord and the shepherd winced.

“Ouch,” said the shepherd. Thankfully, the guy in the sky took a break and started talking.

“Blessings to you from Our Lord on High. How are you called, humble shepherd?”

The shepherd didn’t regard himself as all that humble. But he answered. “Amram. What’s yours?”

“Noel,” said the apparent angel.

“Hm, odd name,” said Amram, who was growing curious about this floating maniac. “You’re the first Noel I’ve ever met.”

The angel’s eyes lit up. “Hey, that’s catchy! The first Noel! You mind if I use that?”

“Use it? For what?”

“Well, my main gig is playing my ax here. But, on the side, I do a little songwriting.”

The shepherd sensed the conversation wandering. He said, “Sure, it’s all yours. But please. What the hell are you doing here on my hill (if you’re actually here at all), stirring up my sheep?”

“I told ya, us angels are here to greet with anthems sweet the coming of the King of kings, who salvation brings,” said Noel. “And you guys are supposed to come along.”

“Which guys?”

“The shepherds! Look around.”

Amram peered across the hills. In the light from the star, he saw all of his fellow shepherds standing up, swaying dreamily to the music while Noel’s back-up band of angels harped away in deafening dissonance.

“Have you… um, angels considered the possibility of hiring an arranger?”

“So,” said Noel, “rise and shine. Time’s a wastin’!”

Amram, who took pride in his education — he had memorized several passages from the Torah — bridled. He shook his head. “I should go along with those shmucks. They’re just ignorant shepherds.”

“You think you’re not an ignorant shepherd?” replied Noel, astutely.

This stung. Amram sighed, but stood his ground. “Where am I supposed to be going?”

“Come to Bethlehem and see him, whose birth us angels sing,” said Noel. “See him in a manger laid…”

“Wait a minute. All the way to Bethlehem? In the dark?”

“It’s not dark,” said the angel. “We’ll be following yonder star.”

“Right. Well. I can’t leave sheep behind, especially to take a look at a baby in a manger? Who puts babies in mangers?”

The angel was stumped. All the other shepherds were swinging to the beat and ready to hump it to Bethlehem. Except Amram. But Noel had orders from God. “Listen, we can’t leave without you, Amram. We’re running late.”

“No, you listen to me, angel-puss, or whoever you are,” said Amram. “I don’t even know if you’re real. I drink too much, ‘y’know — and my stomach? Oy! You could be an indigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.”

“Do I look like a potato?”

“Honestly, with the wings, you look like a fruit.”

The angel puzzled over this. Clearly, he had not expected any flak from shepherds.

Amram went on. “Give me one reason, besides all of this singing, twanging and razzle-dazzle, why I should lose a good night’s sleep and get blisters hiking to Bethlehem?”

“Well, because,” stammered Noel, “because he’s the Savior.”

“Yeah? Whose savior?”

“Your Savior! Everyone’s Savior?”

“This baby over in Bethlehem. He’s gonna save me from this?”

Noel, for the first time, studied Amram, who was filthy, wearing a ragged robe that was probably his only piece of clothing. He was old beyond his years, with streaks of gray in his dirty beard and scabs on his scalp. His feet, in straw sandals, were blue from the cold.

Amram straightened up and thrust out his chest defiantly. “I know what you mean, angel. I’m no fool. You’re talking about saving us, all of mankind, from the sin and folly of our lives, hauling us up to Heaven and gathering us at the throne of God, right?”

Noel uttered a low whistle. He realized he wasn’t dealing here with a run-of-the-mill wool wrangler. “Well, that’s the plan, more or less,” he said.

Amram snorted. “C’mon, man. That’s not what’s gonna happen,” he said. “Not the way you think it will. I know.”

“You know?” demanded the angel. A few other angels had drawn near, amused by Noel’s argument with the ignorant shepherd. “What? How?”

“I have visions, man. I wish I didn’t.”

“Visions?”

“Yeah, you guys have Heaven and your friggin’ harps. I got visions.”

“Visions? Where does an ignorant shepherd get visions?”

“Beats the hell outa me,” said Amram. “Maybe from God? Maybe he feels sorry for this rotten existence he’s stuck me with. You know I haven’t had a bath for four months. I’ve got balky sheep, my dog Morris hates my guts and my whole scrawny flock is surrounded by marauding wolves who’d just as soon kill me as piss on me. Take a whiff, Noel. I’ve got BO that would gag a camel, I got crabs in my crotch and lice building an entire civilization in my hair, and my clothes stink permanently of sheep shit. And there won’t be a decent laundry detergent on earth for at least 18 centuries.”

Noel interrupted Amram’s bellyaching. “Laundry detergent? What’s that?”

“Search me,” said Amram. “I saw it in one of my stupid visions. I never get explanations. It’s like a damn silent movie.”

“What’s a silent movie?” asked Noel.

“Hey, if I knew, I’d tell ya,” said Amram, spreading his arms in exasperation.

“You get these… visions, often?”

“Seems like every other night,” said Amram. “I think it’s the future, but who knows? But if it is the future, that kid over in Bethlehem, well, trust me. He ain’t gonna make this vale of tears any sweeter.”

“But he’s supposed to,” said Noel. “He will.”

“All better?” asked Amram pointedly.

The question perplexed the angel. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Okay, I keep seeing this symbol in my nightmares — a cross. First time I saw it, there was this guy hanging on it, with nails through his hands. Nails! Through his hands! The poor sumbitch was all cut up, with a crown of thorns, blood running down his face and then — dear God! — this soldier goes up and rams a spear into the poor guy. And that’s when I woke up.”

“Well, that’s awful,” Noel said. He was so distressed that he put down his harp.

“Yeah, well, it gets worse,” snapped Amram. “This cross keeps popping up, every time I drink too much fig juice or fall asleep. I see this great wave of men in shining armor, on horses, with crosses on their chests. They’re armed with spears and swords and and they’re killing brown people, burning cities, pillaging the countryside. And the brown people are fighting back. The earth is flowing with blood! But then, I see people — peaceful ones — gathering under the same cross, falling to their knees. I can hear them praising God. I want to understand, but before I can figure it out, I see armies, both carrying banners that bear this cross. They’re charging one another and killing, killing. Again, the earth is red with blood. Then I see a city, magnificent buildings with roofs of gold and great gold crosses piercing the sky. There are priests bedecked in gold and silk and vast crowds kneeling before them, singing, praying. And the priests are feeding the hungry, healing the sick, consoling the bereft and teaching everyone to read the word of God. And I think finally, after all that horror, a sort of Heaven on earth…”

“Okay then! This is what I’m talkin’ about,” said Noel.

“Oh yeah?” said Amram. “Well, then explain this vision. I see a man, naked. I’m close I can see that he’s circumcised, like me. He’s a Jew, poor deluded bastard. I see him in a great mass of people, all naked, being herded by men in uniforms with helmets. And on their collars, I can see: skulls. Above this great mass of soldiers and naked Jews, a black cloud that smells of burned meat. And through the greasy cloud, I see it — the cross, again. It’s black on a blood-red flag. But all its members are bent over, as though to break the arms and legs of those it crucifies.”

“But this is just a dream,” Noel protests.

“Right. You wanna hear last night’s dream?”

“Probably not,” replied Noel, looking mildly nauseous.

“Well, there’s another cross. It’s burning, set on fire by a figure in a white robe, who’s in the middle of a great crowd. They’re all drinking and celebrating. And above them, hanging from a tree, another naked man. This one is black, twitching in the throes of death. He’s all cut up, with a crown of barbed wire, blood running down his face and then — dear God! — this robed figure goes up and rams a spear into the poor guy. His entrails spill out. And that’s when I woke up.”

Noel was silent.

“What does this mean, angel baby?” asked Amram. “Is it the D.T.s or is it prophecy. Is your Savior going to save us from all that?”

Noel picked up his harp. He fluttered away from Amram and signaled to the other angels. “I guess it’ll be okay go on to Bethlehem without you, Amram. Sorry I woke you.”

“Yeah, well,” replied Amram. “Sorry to be a party-pooper.”

And the angels floated down the road, followed by all the shepherds but one.

2

Of course, after all the ruckus, Amram couldn’t sleep, and he was fresh out of fig-lightning. He might have eventually drifted off, but then along came the kid with the drum.

He stopped beside Amram, who opened an eye and talked to himself. “First the harps, now the drums?”

“Shalom,” said the boy, who rattled off a rim shot. 

“Hey! Enough with the drum, fella,” said Amram. “It’s after midnight.”

The kid did a neat little tattoo, but finally stopped playing. “Aren’t you going to Bethlehem?” he asked.

Amram sighed. “Why should I?”

“A newborn King to see,” said the drummer boy.

“Yeah, I’ve heard. A Savior, right?”

“Yes, which road do I take?”

Amram stood up. He was wide-wake and he knew he wouldn’t get any rest that night. Besides, his sheep were all sound asleep, as though the angels had slipped every one of them a mickey.

Besides, despite himself, Amram was getting curious about this newborn King.

“C’mon. I’ll show you the way, son. What’s your name?”

“Krupa,” sad the boy.

As they walked toward Bethlehem, Amram offered a word of advice: “When we get to this stable where the babe’s supposed to be, I’d cool the drum if I were you.”

“But I’m a poor boy, too. I have no gift to give.”

“I just as poor as you, Krupa. But I’ve been around the track a few times,” said Amram. “I’ve never met a mother, especially one who’s just gone through childbirth, who’s gonna appreciate someone whacking away on a snare drum while she’s trying to get her baby to sleep.”

“Gosh, I never thought of that,” said Krupa.

“Well, don’t blame yourself. You’re just an ignorant shepherd.”

“Shepherd? Me? No, I’m not an ignorant shepherd.”

“Look around, son,” said Amram, wearily. “We’re all ignorant shepherds.”

The drummer boy pondered this.

“Look, you want to help?” said Amram. “Forget the drum. Or use the brushes instead of sticks. Think lullaby. Some nice regular rhythm that lulls the brat to sleep. Something, like, let’s see…”

“How about,” said Krupa, working out a silent beat in the air with his drumsticks, “pa rum pum something?”

“Hm, not bad. But it’s a little short.”

“Okay, then. How ‘bout this,” said the boy. “Pa rum pum pum pum, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.”

“Not bad at all. Good beat, easy to dance to,” said Amram. “You could put a whole nursery to sleep with that one.”

The drummer boy beamed. Amram raised his open palm. He said, “High five.”

The boy looked puzzled. “High five? What’s that?”

“No idea. I saw it in a vision.”

As this ragged twosome crossed into the outskirts of metropolitan Bethlehem, the shepherd could be heard mumbling to himself… “Harps, kids with drums, two hundred angels hallelujahing away at the top of their lungs. What’s a guy have to do to get a silent night around here?”

3

The crowd at the stable in Bethlehem was almost impenetrable. Krupa, who was young and thin, plus he could use his drumsticks to beat his way through the mob, worked his way toward the manger. Amram, tired after the long walk, stayed on the fringe and leaned on a donkey.

“Hey, get offa me,” said the donkey.

Amram had never before encountered a talking donkey. “Sorry,” he said, choosing to lean on a hitching post. “I didn’t know donkeys could talk.”

“We can’t,” replied the beast.”It’s a miracle.”

Amram’s curiosity overcame his fatigue. He said, “Oh yeah. When did this miracle happen?”

“Just this minute,” said the donkey. “I think he wants I should talk to you.”

“Who?” asked Amram. There was suspicion in his voice.

“Who else? The Savior.”

“You mean that baby in the manger? C’mon, donkey. The kid was just born.”

“Call me, Dave,” said the donkey.

“Dave,” said Amram, who felt uncomfortable addressing an ass by name.

“I didn’t use to have a name. That’s another miracle,” said the donkey. “He’s gonna be famous for miracles.”

Suddenly, it hit Amram. “Wait a minute! Miracles!” he said. “I think I’ve seen that. There’s this tall thin guy with a clean beard, right? He wears a pure white linen robe and he never has food stains. Yeah! And he’s walking on water. Turning water to wine! Healing lepers! Making blind men see. Multiplying loaves and fishes like a house afire. Could that happen, Dave — what I saw while while I was drunk? Could it be true?”

“Hey, don’t ask me. I may be talkin’, but I’m just a donkey.”

“I think — no couldn’t be. But I’d swear I saw this character raise someone from the dead,” said Amram.

The donkey nodded. “These are visions, right? You get visions?”

Amram nodded.

Dave said, “I think that’s why he wanted me to talk to you.”

“To me? What for? I’m an ignorant shepherd.”

“And I’m a talking donkey. Does any of this conversation makes sense?”

Amram had to think about that.

The donkey said, “Look, all I can figure is your visions were another miracle. You were chosen.”

“Chosen for what? Why? What’s the point? What did he want to tell me?”

The donkey snorted once, softly, and lost the power of speech.

Amram tried to get Dave to answer again. He got nothing but a malevolent glare from the donkey’s jockey.

“I knew this was a waste of time,” said the shepherd.

Just then, the crowd around the manger stirred. Slowly, the throng of shepherds and villagers, cows, goats, sheep, Oriental kings, vagabonds and rabbis, parted, creating a path into the stable for Amram. He felt a nudge on his shoulder. He turned.

Noel, the angel, was hovering there like an overweight moth. “G’head. He wants to see you.”

“Who wants?”

“The Christchild.”

“What’s a Christchild?”

“Just go, will ya? Everybody’s waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you, putz,” said Noel. “Get moving.”

Amram, reluctantly, shuffled into the stable. He saw the baby’s mother, who was wearing a spotless blue gown and matching veil. Her eyes were dark and gentle. She didn’t look as though she’d just been through labor on a bed of dirty straw. She looked more like she was on her way to the junior prom.

Junior prom? Amram asked himself. What the hell is that? 

Approaching the Christchild’s mother, Amram felt ashamed. His sandals were worn paper-thin. He had blisters on his feet and sores on his face. He was unwashed and unshaven, infested with parasites. He knew that he smelled like a burning cowflop. Worst of all, he didn’t believe any of this savior crap. He couldn’t tell if the babe’s mother — or the old guy beside her, probably the husband — believed it, either. But he didn’t want to get into the argument. The lady looked too nice to fight with, and she had to be exhausted.

But the crowd urged him forward. An Oriental guy in silk robes patted Amram on the shoulder. He felt his feet moving to the rhythm of Krupa, the little drummer boy, who was going “pa rum pum pum” like crazy and getting everyone to join in.

“Yo, shepherd,” said Krupa, waving a drumstick.

Amram finally — “pa rum pum pum” — reached the manger. He stood awkwardly before the mother. A cow whispered to Amram that her name was Mary. Amram gave the talking cow a sidelong look. The cow shrugged. Mary reached up and took Amram’s hand. She seemed untroubled by the big scab there, where Amram’s vicious, disloyal sheepdog, Morris, had bitten him. She coaxed Amram to kneel and she placed his hand, gently, on the breast of the sleeping infant, tender and mild.

They stayed in that pose for just a moment. The stable was silent. All was calm. All was bright. Just as Amram was starting to feel awkward and out of place, Mary smiled and released his hand. He stood and, politely, bowed toward Mary, who nodded to him. The old guy spoke the only three words Amram heard in the stable (except for the talking cow): “Go with God.”

It wasn’t ’til he had turned to go that Amram noticed the scab on his hand. It was gone. So were two liver spots and a persistent film of filth. Both of his hands were clean, no dirt under his nails, no grime in the cracks, no cracks in the skin. Outside the stable, clear of the murmuring crowd, Amram examined himself with growing wonder.

His robe, ripped and threadbare, streaked with filth, had somehow cleaned itself, become heavier and warm against his body. He ran his fingers through hair and beard that were silky and untangled. As hard as he dug through his scalp, he couldn’t find any of the lice who had nested there, feasting and copulating, most of his life. He reached ’neath his robe. Not only were his crabs gone — no itch, no sting, no tickle of tiny legs along his skin — but he was wearing underwear, for the first time in thirty years. It was snug and warm, and he suddenly felt like dancing, in sandals of new leather with arch supports. And when he danced, he heard a tinkling. He plunged a hand into his pocket — a pocket! He’d never had a pocket — and drew out a handful of shekels.

He counted it. “Enough to buy a new dog,” he said to himself.

A voice startled Amram. “You won’t have to,” said Noel. “Morris loves you now.”

“Well,” said Amram, “that would be a miracle.”

“It is,” said Dave. The donkey was talking again.

Noting the transformation in the shepherd’s appearance and fortunes, and —  allegedly — in his dog, Noel said, “I hope you see now.”

Amram said, “I’ve seen this before, in my visions. He does miracles. He cleans my clothes. He feeds the hungry, heals the sick, succors the dying, raises the dead. But he’s helpless against the biggest problem of all. The problem that God put on the earth and no savior can fix.”

“What problem?” asked Noel.

“People, angel,” said Amram, who noticed a new scarf around his neck. “People are the problem.”

“You got that right,” said the donkey.

“He knows this,” said Noel. “He came neither to save all men, nor to wipe them righteously from the face of the earth.”

“That’s too bad,” said the donkey.

Noel turned. “I’ll take it from here, Dave.”

With that, the donkey went speechless again, forever.

“He came,” said Noel, “with a message of love, hope and fellowship, for men and woman to heed and follow. Or to choose otherwise, to go on hating and killing, crucifying and lynching, building barriers and making war.”

“Which is what I saw, in those goddamn nightmares” said Amram. “It keeps me up at night.”

“You’ll see no more visions,” said Noel, “save what you choose to see. Darkness or light. Hope or despair.”

“Well, that would be a miracle,” said Amram.

Noel began strumming his harp, Krupa joined in, softly matching his rhythm, the angels broke out into song again. Amram double-timed back toward his field, looking for a little peace and quiet.

He found his sheep undisturbed. As he sat on the hillside, cozier in his new clothing than he had felt for months, he shuddered at the sight of his dog, bounding toward him, his teeth shining in the moonlight. Amram reached out for his staff, which always served to beat off Morris’ frequent attacks.

But the staff was out of reach. Amram raised an arm to protect his face.

A moment later, he had to peer past his defenses. Morris was licking, not gnawing, his hand. The dog was wagging his tail. He wiggled his way into Amram’s lap and started lapping at his face. Irresistibly, Amram started petting Morris, for the first tine since he was a puppy.

Amram couldn’t help but smile, as he scratched the dog’s belly and Morris crooned happily. He remembered Noel’s promise.

“Now this,” he said to himself as he spotted the Christmas star, “is a miracle.”