By Scott Shephard
When I was a child, Christmas presented some of the biggest mysteries in my young life. One mystery involved spelling. I would see the phrase “good shepherd” and would read about shepherds tending their flock and think, “Can’t anyone spell my last name right? It’s spelled s-h-e-p-H-A-r-d.” I learned later that there are many variations in the spelling of the word that is my last name. Much later, I could only smile when my high school Latin teacher assigned my class name. It was Pastor, which is Latin for shepherd.
The biggest mystery of Christmas, though, wasn’t about spelling or even the birth of a child to a virgin mother in a manger. The mystery was about Santa Claus. How does he get to all of the houses? Does he really have a flying sled powered by reindeer? And as a young child, I was confronted by the first existential question of my life: Is he real?
I got the answer to that question the Christmas eve I stayed awake and hid in a place within sight of our Christmas tree. I heard my parents talking quietly as they left our house through the front door. A few minutes later, they returned with wrapped presents which they put under the tree. They turned off the overhead living room light and retired to their bedroom. In the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, which they left on, I ventured out of hiding and found the wrapped present that “Santa” had left me. “Mystery solved,” I thought. I can’t tell you how I felt but I suspect I felt a mixture of satisfaction and of disappointment.
Today, I realize that I am surrounded by mysteries. Some, like the odd sound my truck makes sporadically when I start it, needs a solution. Some are ineffable - I can’t really put what and how I think into words. Others I choose to leave unsolved or are simply unsolvable. Every time I see a sunrise, for example, I marvel at the clock-like perfection of the universe. But I feel like I imagine the builders of Stone Henge must have felt 4000 years ago: yes, we can very precisely predict certain events but we will never fully understand the awesome forces behind them. And there are countless other mysteries in my life. How did we produce the 2 sons we have, one a passionate and loving husband, father and teacher and the other a confident and capable ship captain? Why do my friends Jack and Bill continue to give me so much when I seem to give them so little back? Why do good people like my father-in-law Clint die long before they should? And what is love?
But the mystery I have been pondering the last few days fits with the season. How has a child, born in humble surroundings, heralded by angels to frightened shepherds become, as Isaiah predicted in the Old Testament, “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” to more than a billion people in an age of science and reason? I don’t have an answer to that and don’t need one.
Duke history of religion professor Kate Bowler wrote recently about a growing Christian movement that believes that prayer done properly by enough people can perform miracles such as bringing dead, beloved children back from the grave. If Jesus resurrected Lazarus, they reason, why can’t they? She says that sometimes, when prayer fails, they voice anger at a God that doesn’t seem to be listening. In the end Bowler says that she understands their anger and their pain but suggests quite simply that “we are not divine. But we are loved. And that is enough.” And the last two assertions are perhaps the biggest and most satisfying mysteries of them all.