A shepherd was looking after his sheep one day on the side of a deserted road when suddenly a brand-new Porsche screeched to a halt.
The driver stepped out wearing an Armani suit, Rockport shoes, Oakley sunglasses, a Rolex watch, and a Versace tie.
He looked at the shepherd and said, “If I can tell you how many sheep you have, will you give me one of them?”
The shepherd looked at the man, then at the flock grazing on the hillside, and replied, “Okay.”
The man opened his laptop, connected to his phone, accessed satellite imagery, ran spreadsheets, databases, and calculations, and finally printed out a thick report on a portable printer.
Then he said confidently, “You have exactly 1,586 sheep.”
The shepherd nodded. “That’s right. You can have one.”
The man loaded the animal into the back of his Porsche and prepared to leave.
As he did, the shepherd called out, “If I can guess your profession, will you give me my animal back?”
“Sure,” the man replied.
“You’re an IT consultant,” the shepherd said.
The man was stunned. “How did you know?”
The shepherd answered, “First, you came without being called. Second, you charged me to tell me something I already knew. And third, you don’t understand anything about my business.”
Then he paused and added, “Now can I have my dog back?”
(Let that sit.)
That joke works because it exposes something deeper: the gap between appearance and understanding, between confidence and wisdom.
And it prepares us for an unlikely group of people in Luke’s Christmas story—people almost everyone else misunderstood: the shepherds.
When Luke tells the story of Jesus’ birth, he introduces a very curious cast of characters. God does not send angels to the mayor of Bethlehem. He does not appear to the religious elite in Jerusalem. He does not go to King Herod’s palace.
One might expect that with all those angels lighting up the sky, at least one would stop by Herod’s residence and announce, “Your reign is over. A new King has been born.”
That never happens.
Instead, God sends heaven’s announcement to shepherds—smelly, dirty, sleep-deprived men living on the margins of society. Outcasts. Misfits. People no one else thought important enough to include.
Luke writes, “And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night” (Luke 2:8).
That single phrase tells us far more than it first appears. Shepherds were not just socially overlooked; they were religiously excluded. The nature of their work made them ceremonially unclean. Their constant contact with animals, blood, and the outdoors meant they could not regularly participate in synagogue worship or temple rituals.
To become clean again required a lengthy purification process—one that took time they did not have.
Even worse, the priests and temple assistants could not touch them. Doing so would make the priests themselves unclean. Shepherds were necessary, but they were not welcome. Needed, but avoided. Useful, but shunned.
There is a deep irony here. The shepherds provided the sheep for the temple sacrifices. On the high holy days, the priests depended on shepherds to supply the lambs required for worship. Yet the very men who made worship possible were kept at a distance from it.
Necessary, but rejected. Central, yet excluded.
In first-century Israel, shepherds were also considered untrustworthy. Many were accused—rightly or wrongly—of theft. When shepherds were nearby, people guarded their belongings. Shepherds were assumed to be dishonest, rough, unreliable. Their testimony was not even admissible in court.
And yet, it is to these men that God entrusts the first public announcement of the Savior’s birth.
Why?
Why shepherds?
The Bible is filled with shepherds. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David—some of Israel’s greatest figures had once kept sheep.
By the first century, society had grown “sophisticated.” The very profession once associated with patriarchs was now looked down upon. What had once been noble was now despised.
God deliberately bypasses the powerful and the polished to speak to the people everyone else ignored. God sends angels to outcasts.
These shepherds were likely responsible for the lambs used in temple sacrifice—animals without blemish, carefully raised for holy purposes. Special men, perhaps, but still misfits. Still outsiders.
And as we listen to their story, it becomes difficult not to recognize ourselves.
Because if we are honest, we are all misfits in one way or another.
Some more visibly than others, but all of us know the ache of not fully belonging. All of us have felt the sting of exclusion—whether because of sin, shame, failure, circumstance, or the quiet realization that we do not measure up.
Some carry the pain of addiction.
Some carry the wounds of abuse.
Some bear the burden of poverty or prejudice.
Some are haunted by mistakes that never seem to loosen their grip.
And some simply feel unseen, unnoticed, overlooked.
Sin does that.
Sin separates.
Sin turns every human being into an outsider at some point.
It creates distance—from God, from others, and even from ourselves.
That is why the shepherds matter.
They represent us.
The question becomes: how do outcasts find Jesus?
Luke tells us what happened next. When the angels finished speaking and returned to heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us” (Luke 2:15).
They did not argue. They did not delay. They did not send someone else. They went.
Luke says, “They went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger” (Luke 2:16).
And when they began telling others what they had seen and heard, people were amazed. Their message carried weight precisely because they had no status to leverage. No credibility to manufacture. No reputation to protect.
God had done something for them that they could not explain away or take credit for.
And when they returned to the fields, Luke tells us, they were “glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them” (Luke 2:20).
That is transformation.
The shepherds show us something essential about God’s heart.
Of all the professions in the ancient world, shepherds most closely illustrated God’s relationship with His people. Isaiah captured it beautifully:
“He shall feed His flock like a shepherd: He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom” (Isaiah 40:11).
David sang it: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want” (Psalm 23:1).
Ezekiel proclaimed it: “I will set up one Shepherd over them… I will seek the lost, bring back the strayed, bind up the injured, and strengthen the weak” (Ezekiel 34).
A shepherd lives with his flock. He knows them. He calls them by name. He protects them in the night, carries the wounded, and stays with the vulnerable. His life becomes bound to theirs.
And Scripture tells us that Jesus knows us that way. “I have called you by name; you are Mine” (Isaiah 43:1).
“I have engraved you on the palms of My hands” (Isaiah 49:16).
Every soul is fully known to Jesus.
Each one is loved as if there were no other.
And that brings us back to the question: how did these outcasts find Him?
That answer begins with a sign.
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The angel said to the shepherds, “This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger” (Luke 2:12).
That word sign matters. God did not leave these men guessing. He gave them something specific—something recognizable—something that would lead them directly to the child.
The first part of the sign was ordinary. Jewish babies were commonly wrapped in swaddling cloths—long strips of linen meant to keep newborns warm and their limbs straight. There was nothing unusual about that. Every baby born in Israel would have been wrapped that way.
The second part of the sign was anything but ordinary.
The baby would be lying in a manger.
A feeding trough. A place for animals. Not a cradle. Not a bassinet. A manger.
That detail narrowed the search dramatically. Newborns were not placed in feeding troughs unless something had gone terribly wrong—or unless God was saying something very intentional.
So how did the shepherds know exactly where to go?
The answer is not found only in Luke’s Gospel. It reaches back into the prophets.
Micah 5:2 tells us that the Messiah would come from Bethlehem. That prophecy was well known. But there is another prophecy—less familiar, but deeply significant—found in Micah 4:8:
“As for you, watchtower of the flock, stronghold of Daughter Zion, the former dominion will be restored to you; kingship will come to Daughter Jerusalem.”
That phrase—watchtower of the flock—is the key. In Hebrew, it is Migdal Eder: the Tower of the Flock.
Migdal Eder was a shepherd’s tower near Bethlehem. Many fields had small watchtowers, but this one held particular importance. It was associated with priestly shepherds—the men responsible for raising and protecting lambs destined for temple sacrifice.
These were not random sheep. These were carefully tended animals, examined for blemish, prepared for holy use.
The tower itself was likely simple. A lower level where animals could be sheltered. An upper level where shepherds could watch over the flock day and night. Not elegant. Not refined. But purposeful.
If the Messiah was to be born near Bethlehem—and if He were to be found in a manger—there is a strong possibility that Mary and Joseph found refuge at or near this shepherd’s tower.
Luke adds an important detail in Luke 2:7: “There was no room for them in the inn.”
The word translated inn is the Greek word kataluma, which does not mean a hotel or roadside lodging. It means guest room.
Luke uses a different word entirely when referring to an actual inn in the story of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:34). And he uses kataluma again when Jesus asks for a guest room in which to celebrate the Passover (Luke 22:11).
This was not a Motel 6 situation. It was likely a crowded home, a full guest space. So Mary and Joseph needed somewhere else—somewhere nearby, sheltered, and available.
Is it possible that they found refuge at the shepherds’ tower?
If so, then everything begins to align.
The Lamb of God—born among the lambs of sacrifice.
Laid not in a crib, but in a manger.
Wrapped not just in cloth, but in prophecy.
Born in a place where shepherds would immediately recognize the sign.
The shepherds did not need a map. They did not need directions. God spoke their language. Heaven gave a sign that made sense to people who lived among animals, towers, and feeding troughs.
And when they arrived, Luke tells us, they found exactly what they had been told.
This is where the Christmas story stops being sentimental and starts becoming confrontational.
Because the manger was not just about humility—it was about purpose.
Jesus was born to die.
Not eventually. Not accidentally. Intentionally.
From the moment of His birth, His life was pointed toward sacrifice. He did not come merely to teach moral lessons or inspire spiritual reflection. He came to deal with sin—to bear it, to confront it, to remove it.
The shepherds who stood before that manger were men who understood sacrifice. They knew what lambs were for. They knew what blood meant. They knew the cost of atonement.
And now they were looking at a child who would fulfill everything those lambs had ever symbolized.
This is why the outcasts were chosen first.
Because they understood the need.
Jesus’ entire ministry would unfold this same pattern. He would consistently move toward those society avoided. He would welcome the people others wrote off. He would touch the untouchable, speak with the unworthy, eat with the condemned.
He included criminals—the thief on the cross.
He included the unclean—lepers, the sick, the bleeding woman.
He included outsiders—Samaritans, Gentiles, the poor.
He included women in a culture that dismissed them.
And He surrounded Himself with a ragtag group of sinners and misfits as His closest companions.
Society sees labels. Jesus sees people.
Even when teaching crowds, Jesus never lost sight of the individual. He paused for blind beggars. He stopped for a woman at a well. He noticed a tax collector in a tree. He was moved by compassion because
He knew that broken people needed more than judgment—they needed a Savior.
That is why the message the angels gave the shepherds still matters.
“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; He is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:10–11).
Not good news for the deserving.
Not joy for the respectable.
Good news for all the people.
When the shepherds saw the child, Luke tells us, “they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child” (Luke 2:17).
What was that word?
That a Savior had been born.
That the Messiah had come.
That God had stepped into human history.
And the irony is this: the first evangelists of the Incarnation were men whose testimony would not have been accepted in court.
God deliberately entrusted the greatest announcement in history to people who had no credibility—so that the credibility would belong entirely to Him.
The coming of Jesus is not just a historical event. It is a declaration of God’s heart. It is a message sent to the waiting, the wounded, the weary.
To the anxious and uncertain. To the marginalized and the forgotten. To those near and those far off.
But there is a response required.
The shepherds did not simply admire the sign. They acted on it. They went. They saw. They told. And they returned changed.
And that brings us to a truth we cannot avoid: before anyone can truly find Jesus, they must first recognize their need.
Grace cannot be received by those who insist they are whole.
That is why Jesus would later say He came not for the righteous, but for sinners. Not because sinners were better—but because they were honest.
To be a “friend of sinners” was not a compliment when Jesus’ enemies used it. They meant it as an insult. But Jesus wore it as a badge of mercy.
To be a friend of sinners meant entering a broken world. It meant being misunderstood. It meant enduring rejection. And ultimately, it meant the cross.
“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23).
Yet, despite our condition, Jesus desires a relationship with us.
He did not condone sin. He did not participate in it. But He extended kindness so that repentance could become possible. “God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance” (Romans 2:4).
Jesus lived a sinless life. He had authority to forgive sins. And because of that, hearts and lives could be transformed.
And that truth brings us to one final story—one that pulls the meaning of Christmas out of theology and places it squarely into lived experience.
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When Jesus’ enemies called Him “a friend of sinners,” they intended it as an insult. They meant to shame Him. They meant to undermine His authority.
To our eternal benefit, Jesus accepted the title.
Scripture tells us that He is “a friend who sticks closer than a brother” (Proverbs 18:24).
That truth is not abstract. It is lived out in moments that expose our assumptions and confront our hearts.
There is a story about a Christian couple traveling from Los Angeles to San Francisco on Christmas Day with their toddler.
Christmas had fallen on a Sunday that year, and work obligations meant they had to be back home by Monday. The road was long, the trip exhausting.
They stopped at a small diner in King City for lunch—road-weary, hungry, and out of place.
As the mother lifted their one-year-old son, Erik, into a high chair, she looked around the room and thought, Who eats in a diner on Christmas Day? What am I doing here on the day of my Savior’s birth?
The restaurant was nearly empty. They were the only family. The only child.
Then Erik squealed with delight. “Hi there! Hi there!” His face lit up—eyes wide, gums showing in a toothless grin. He wiggled and laughed and waved.
The mother followed his gaze.
Across the room stood a man wearing a tattered coat—dirty, greasy, worn. His pants hung loosely on a thin frame, frayed at the bottom. His shoes barely held together, toes peeking through. His hair was uncombed. His face misshapen. His hands flapped loosely as he waved back at the child.
“I see you, big boy! Hi there!” the man called.
The parents exchanged a look that said both What do we do? and Poor soul.
Erik laughed harder. “Hi there!” he answered.
Eyebrows rose across the room. Someone cleared their throat loudly. The man was disrupting the quiet. He was drunk. He was loud. He was unwanted.
When the food arrived, the man kept calling out. “Do you know patty cake? Peek-a-boo?” No one thought it was charming. The man was a nuisance.
As the father went to pay the bill, he told his wife to take the baby outside. She lifted Erik from the high chair and headed for the door, praying silently, Lord, just let me get out before he talks to us.
But the man sat directly between her and the exit.
She tried to turn her body away, sidestepping him. And that’s when it happened.
Erik leaned forward, stretched out his arms, and reached for the man in the unmistakable posture of a child asking to be held.
Time stopped.
Before she could react, Erik launched himself from her arms into the man’s.
In a moment of complete trust, the child laid his head on the man’s shoulder.
The man’s eyes closed. Tears streamed down his face.
His hands—grimy, weathered, scarred—cradled the child with surprising tenderness. He rocked him gently, like a grandfather would rock a beloved grandchild.
The mother stood frozen.
Then the man opened his eyes and looked directly at her. His voice, suddenly steady, carried authority.
“You take care of this baby,” he said.
All she could manage was a choked, “I will.”
“God bless you,” he said quietly. “You’ve given me my Christmas gift.”
She took Erik back, hurried to the car, and held him tightly. When her husband asked what was wrong, she could only whisper, “Lord, please forgive me.”
That moment captures something essential about Christmas.
The meaning of Christmas is this: what is good and precious in your life need never be lost—and what is broken and undesirable can be changed.
The fears that the good things will slip through your fingers.
The frustrations that the bad things will never change.
Those are the very things Christmas came to destroy.
Christmas announces that God has drawn near.
The shepherds understood that.
They were outcasts. They were excluded. They were untrusted. And yet God came to them first.
If you recognize yourself as an outcast—there is good news.
God receives outcasts.
If you feel unclean, unseen, or unworthy—there is good news.
A Savior has been born for you.
If you carry shame, regret, or quiet loneliness—there is good news.
Jesus is a friend of sinners.
And that means He is our friend.
The Incarnation tells us that God did not wait for humanity to clean itself up. He entered our mess.
He wrapped Himself in flesh. He lay in a manger. He walked among the broken. He bore our sin. He died our death.
And He did it so that no one would ever have to wonder whether they were welcome.
The shepherds went back to their fields changed. They returned to the same work, the same place, the same social status—but they were no longer the same men. They had seen the Savior. They had been included.
And that invitation still stands.
“Do not be afraid,” the angel said. “I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”
All.
Not just the polished.
Not just the respectable.
Not just the religious.
All.
If Christmas tells us anything, it is this: grace finds us before we belong.
That's why outcasts still find Jesus.
--- Appeal
If you have ever felt unseen, unworthy, or outside the circle of belonging, hear the good news of Christmas: Jesus came for you.
The Savior was born among the forgotten so that no one would ever doubt they are welcome.
Today, receive the grace that finds you where you are and invites you home.
--- Prayer
Gracious Father,
we thank You for sending Your Son into our broken world—not to the powerful, but to the humble; not to the deserving, but to the needy.
Help us to see ourselves honestly, receive Your grace humbly, and extend Your love freely.
May we never forget that in Jesus, outcasts are welcomed and sinners are loved.
We ask this in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
