The Shepherd on the Emmaus Road

Good evening, friends. It's good to be here with you tonight. You know, I've been thinking a lot about shepherds lately. And one thing I know about shepherds... ...is they don't wear boots like these when they're sitting around a fire telling stories. They probably wore something more like... well, maybe not exactly like these... ...but something comfortable. Something worn. Something that says, "I'm here to stay a while." There we go.

Much better. Oh.. I lets not forget this….. This is a tallit. A Jewish prayer shawl. Shepherds like Simeon would have worn something like this. Not exactly this—this one's newer, cleaner than theirs would have been. But the idea's the same. In the Jewish tradition, these fringes—the tzitzit—remind you of God's commandments. God's faithfulness. God's covering. When you wrap yourself in a tallit, you're saying, "I'm about to pray. I'm about to enter sacred space.

I'm about to tell a story that matters." Lets begin here… This chair... This chair has a story too. It used to belong to Alicia's grandparents. Sat in their living room for decades. It was new once. Beautiful. The fabric was clean, the cushions were firm, and it probably smelled like furniture polish and hope. But now? Now it's dingy. Stained. The fabric's faded. The cushions sag. You can see where people sat—right here—night after night, year after year.

And you know what? I love that about this chair. Because the best stories—the ones worth keeping—they get handed down like this. Worn. Used. Passed from person to person, generation to generation, until they're so familiar you could tell them in your sleep. Tonight, I want to share with you a poem I wrote. It's about a shepherd. You know, when you read the Christmas story in Luke chapter 2, you meet these shepherds who see the angels, run to Bethlehem, find baby Jesus, and then...

they disappear. Luke tells us they went back to their flocks "glorifying and praising God." And that's it. We never hear about them again. But I started wondering... What happened to them? Did they just... forget? Did they go back to normal life and never think about it again? Or did they tell the story? Did they tell their children? Did they tell it over and over, even when no one would listen, even when people called them crazy, even when the years went by and the baby never came back?

And then I started thinking about the road to Emmaus. You know that story, right? Luke chapter 24. Two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem after the crucifixion. Their hearts are broken. Their hope is gone. And a stranger joins them on the road. They don't recognize Him. But He walks with them. Talks with them. Explains the Scriptures to them. And later—later—they say, "Didn't our hearts burn within us while He talked?" Luke tells us one of them was named Cleopas.

But the other? We don't know. Scripture doesn't say. So I started to imagine... What if…the other disciple on that road was one of those shepherds.. grown up? What if it was a boy who saw the Light come into the world when he was ten years old, told the story his whole life even when no one would listen, watched that same Light die on a cross forty years later...

...and then met Him again on a dusty road outside Jerusalem? What if the fire that burned in his chest as a boy—when the angels appeared—burned again on the Emmaus road? That's the story I want to tell you tonight. It's not exactly in Scripture. But it could be. And I think... I think it's true in the way the best stories are true. It's about a boy named Simeon who never stopped telling the story, even when the world forgot.

It's about a father who passed the flame to his children. And it's about a man whose heart burned twice—once at the birth, and once at the resurrection. So if you'll indulge me for the next few minutes, I'd like to read it to you. This is called The Shepherd. The night was cold. The stars hung low // And distant. Young Simeon didn't know // That heaven planned to tear the veil // Between the worlds.

The wind was stale // And still. His father sat nearby— // Old Matthias, teaching. Every sky, // Every sheep, every lambing time, // The boy was learning. In his prime // The father was a shepherd still, // Keeping watch on Bethlehem hill. "You think Messiah's coming soon?" // The boy asked, mesmerized by at the moon. "I don't know, son. But God knows when." And then—without a warning—when // The sky split open and the night // Exploded into blazing light, // Young Simeon hit the ground.

His face // Pressed to the earth. In that fierce place // Between the terror and the glory, // He heard the angel tell the story: "Fear not! Tonight—in David's town— // The Savior's born! Go hurry down // To Bethlehem! You'll find Him there— // A baby, wrapped with tender care, // And lying in a manger bed." And then—as if one voice had said // Not half enough—ten thousand more // Appeared and sang.

The endless roar // Of "Glory! Glory! Peace on earth!" // Shook Simeon to his core. The birth // Of something bigger than his mind // Could hold. And when the stars declined // To normal and the dark returned, // He lay there trembling. Something burned // Inside his chest. "We go," his father said. They ran. Young Simeon couldn't keep // Up with his father. But the steep // And rocky path—he didn't care.

// His lungs burned. Still he had to share // In this. He had to see. And when // They found the stable, Simeon— // This boy, this dirty shepherd child— // Knelt down beside the mother. Smiled // Through tears. "It's true. We saw the light. // The angels came. And they were right. // He's here." The baby's eyes were closed. // The mother held Him. Simeon froze— // A moment pure and crystallized.

// The Light of heaven, humanized. // Messiah. Here. In flesh. In time. // And Simeon—just a boy—could climb // No higher than this moment. Here // Was everything. The waiting year // On year his people longed to see— // And God had shown it first to he, // A shepherd boy. At dawn he ran // To tell the town. "He's here! The plan // Of God! Messiah's born!" But they— // The adults—smiled and turned away.

// "How sweet. The dreams of just a child." // "Go home, boy. Tend your sheep." Defiled // By their dismissal, still the boy // Kept telling. Every bit of joy // He'd seen, he shared. But no one heard // A shepherd boy's unlikely word. The seasons passed. The decades turned. // Young Simeon grew up. Still burned // The memory. The glory. Light. // And still he told it.

Every night // He'd speak of it. But people tired // Of hearing what the boy desired // To share. "Simeon, let it go. // It's been ten years. We all know // The story. Move on with your life." But Simeon married. Took a wife. // They had three children. And each night // The little ones would beg. "The Light! // Tell us, Father! Tell us how // The sky broke open!" Even now, // Though thirty years had come and gone, // He'd close his eyes and carry on // The tale.

His wife would smile and say, // "Again? You tell it every day." "Because it's true," he'd answer back. // "And no one else will fill the lack // Of memory. The world forgets. // But I won't let them. No regrets— // I'll tell my children what I saw. // The glory. Heaven's perfect law // Descending. Light." His youngest son // Would ask, "But Father, where's He gone— // That baby?" Simeon would sigh.

// "I don't know, child. But by and by, // I think we'll see Him come again." And then the rumors. Now and then // He'd hear the stories. News would come // From travelers. "There's someone from // Up north—from Galilee—who heals // The sick. Who makes the lame man feel // His legs again. Who multiplies bread. // Some say He even raised the dead." The name was Jesus.

Simeon's heart // Would quicken. Could this be the start // Of something? Was this Him? He'd hear // The stories and he'd feel the fear // And hope collide. Something. Like waking // Up into a dream. The aching // In his chest—the same he'd felt // That night. "If this is You— // Then let me see before I'm through." That spring he left for Jerusalem— // The Passover.

And everything felt strange. // The crowds. The air. The way the change // Of mood swept through the city streets. // The whispers. Then one day he heard // The shouting from outside. The word // Was spreading fast. "They're crucifying Him." A chill ran down his spine. "Crucifying who?" "That Jesus. From up north. The Jew // Who claimed He was Messiah." No. Simeon left his family. Slow // But steady, climbed to Golgotha— // The hill of skulls.

The brutal draw // Of crowds. The mockery. The blood. // And then he saw them. Where they stood— // Three crosses on the hill. He couldn't // See the middle face at first. He wouldn't // Let himself believe. The crown // Of thorns. The blood that trickled down. // But then the man looked up. And Simeon's // Heart stopped in his chest. He knew. The Light he saw that night—the new // And blazing glory—it was here.

// The same. The baby he held dear— // This broken man. The manger's bed // Replaced by wood. The angels said, // "Peace on earth!"—but now the sky // Went dark at noon. No lullaby— // Just gasping breath. Not glory's song— // But soldiers mocking. All along // The road from Bethlehem to this // Had led to crucifixion's kiss // Of death. And Simeon fell. His sobs— // The same sobs from that night—now robs // Him of his breath.

"It's Him. The Lamb. The Light. // The baby from that holy night." The man // Upon the cross turned. Through the span // Of blood and tears, He looked at Simeon. // And in that gaze—a recognition. "You came," He whispered. "You were there. // That night. I saw you. Shepherd—prayer // Is what I need. Don't leave Me now. // You ran to Bethlehem. Stay. And bow // Before what glory always meant: // Not just the coming, but the descent.

// Not just the birth, but this—the death. // I am the Lamb. My final breath // Will ransom many. And the peace // The angels sang will never cease— // But not till this is finished." Then— "It's finished!" Jesus cried. And when // The words left Him, the earth shook. // The sky went black. And Simeon looked // Up at the darkness. All the Light // Had gone.

He stayed there till the night. // They took the body down. He wept // For hours. Then he slowly crept // Back to his family. Could not sleep. // Three days went by. He couldn't keep // His grief inside. The third day came. // At dawn the women went. The same // Tomb where they'd laid Him. But they ran // Back shouting, "He's alive! The plan // Of God!

The tomb is empty! Come // And see!" But Simeon stayed numb. // He couldn't hope again. Too much // Had broken. He'd lost his touch // With faith. He told Cleopas, // "I have to leave. I cannot stay In this city. Let me go // Back home to Emmaus. I know // The tomb is bare—but where is He? // I can't bear this uncertainty." And so they left.

The seven miles // From shattered hope. Through all the trials // Of Friday still hung heavy, dark. // They walked in silence. Then remark- // ably, a stranger joined the two // And walked beside them. "Tell me—you // Look troubled. What are you discussing?" Simeon stopped. "Are you just passing // Through and haven't heard what happened // Here? The things that we have grappled // With the last three days?" "Tell me." So Simeon spoke.

"The prophecy— // We thought He was the One. Messiah. // Jesus—crucified by the higher // Authorities. We watched Him die. // Three days ago. And now we try // To make sense of it. Some women // Said the tomb is bare. But no one // Has seen Him. So we're going home." The stranger spoke. "Why do you roam // In unbelief? Don't you recall // What Moses wrote?

What prophets all // Declared? That Christ must suffer first // Before the glory? He was cursed // To bear your sin. But didn't they // Say He would rise the third day?" And then—for miles—the stranger taught. // He opened Scripture. Every thought, // Every promise, every word // From Moses to Malachi stirred // Inside Simeon's chest. That burn— // The same he'd felt! The way the turn // Of glory blazed inside him when // The angels came—it burned again!

They reached Emmaus. "Stay with us," // They begged. And so—without a fuss— // He came inside. They sat to eat. // He took the bread. And there—replete // With recognition—Simeon saw // The hands. The scars. The breaking. Awe // Exploded in his chest. "It's You!" The stranger smiled. And then—He flew— // Or disappeared—or something—gone! But Simeon and Cleopas—drawn // By fire and joy—looked at each other. // "Did not our hearts burn?" "Yes, my brother!

// The whole way here! While He explained // The Scriptures—everything He claimed— // The fire! The same fire from that night!" "We have to go back! We must fight // Our way to Jerusalem! They need // To hear! The Lord is risen! Speed— // We have to run!" And so they ran. // The seven miles. And Simeon— // Now forty years from that first night— // Ran like the boy who'd seen the Light.

// The boy was back. The fire again. // The Light had won. They found the men— // The eleven—gathered in a room, // Doors locked. But when they heard the tomb // Was empty and that Jesus came // To them on the road, they all exclaimed, // "The Lord has risen! He appeared // To Peter too!" And Simeon shared // His story then. How as a boy // He'd seen the glory.

Every joy // Of Bethlehem. How no one heard. // How he kept telling. Every word. // How he became a father, told // His children. How he'd grown old // Still waiting. Then how on the hill // Of Golgotha, his heart went still— // He'd watched the Light go out. But then— // The Light came back. Because again // The fire burned—the same as when // The angels sang.

And now he knew // The story. Birth to death. The true // And final path of glory meant // The Light must die and then descend // Into the grave. But death could not // Hold Him. The chains of darkness fought // Against Him—but the Light broke free. "From Bethlehem to Calvary, // From manger-bed to empty tomb, // From glory's birth to death's dark room, // To resurrection—I have seen // It all.

And now I know what meaning // Heaven had in mind. The Lamb // Was born to die. And I—I am // A witness. From a boy to man, // I've watched the fullness of God's plan. // And now my heart burns once again— // The same fire. The same Amen. The Light has come. The Light has died. // The Light has risen. Crucified— // But not defeated. Death is done.

// And I will tell it. Everyone // Must hear: The peace the angels sang // That night when all of heaven rang // With glory—it will never cease. The Light has come. The Light is peace. The Light will save." TRANSITION - GETTING UP & PUTTING BOOTS BACK ON You know... Simeon put his sandals back on that night too. After he met Jesus on the road. After his heart burned.

After he ran back to Jerusalem. He had to put his shoes back on. Because the story wasn't over. It was just beginning. He had to go tell people. He had to run. He had to carry the Light. And so do we. In just a moment, we're going to sing together. And then we're going to light candles. But before we do, I want you to understand something. This isn't just a nice tradition.

This isn't just something pretty we do on Christmas Eve. When we light these candles tonight, we're doing what Simeon did. We're passing the flame. We're saying, "The Light has come. The Light has died. The Light has risen. And the Light will never go out." Every time you tip your candle toward your neighbor tonight and share the flame, you're telling the story. You're saying, "This is real. This happened.

And it's still happening." The Light that burned in Bethlehem, burns here. The Light that blazed I n the hearts of those on the Emmaus road, blazes here. The Light that conquered death, is here. So let's sing. Let's declare it. And then let's light the world. Would you stand with me and sing Light of the World? CANDLE LIGHTING The Light of the world is here. This flame represents Christ—born in Bethlehem, crucified on Golgotha, risen from the grave.

And now we pass it. Row by row, we'll share this Light with one another. When it comes to you, tip your unlit candle toward the flame. Receive it. And then turn and pass it to the person next to you. As we light our candles, we'll sing Silent Night. And as you sing, remember: You are holding the Light that shepherds saw. The Light that died for you. The Light that rose again.

The Light that will never go out. Let us sing. BENEDICTION Look around. This is what Simeon saw. This is what the shepherds saw. Light breaking into darkness. Not because the darkness is gone— but because the Light has come into it. Friends, you are the light of the world. Not because you're perfect. Not because you have it all figured out. But because you carry Him. And tonight, the Light goes with you.

So go. Tell the story. Pass the flame. Live like people who've seen the glory. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit— Go in peace. The Light is with you. Merry Christmas. Be light, go shine. *