ALWAYS A SHEPHERD

As in just about every Christian church in the US, my home church had an annual  children’s Christmas pageant. Helen Johnson was in charge—very in charge. She was a fourth grade teacher in my elementary school, and she was also in charge there, so to speak, but that’s another story. Being a soft spoken, timid child, I was intimidated to be in her presence. I’m not sure why. She wasn’t a mean person at all—just strict, and she was a member of my church, Medford Methodist Church.

My parents did not go to church in those days, but they made sure I went to Sunday School. The truth is, though, my sister is the one who took on the responsibility getting me there.  She taught Sunday School and so I would go along with her, though I wasn’t in her class.

Meanwhile, back to the pageant and Helen Johnson. For me, it was always a mixed event. It was exciting because something was happening that was related to Christmas, which was the biggest and most joyful day in the whole year as far as I was concerned. It was magical in the truest sense of a child’s imagination to conceive of. And it wasn’t just about Santa and gifts, though I have to admit that those was certainly important to me. But there was something about the atmosphere of the world and my home and our town’s various festivities that was not like any other time.

So the annual Christmas Pageant was part of the spirit. It was held in the sanctuary with its dark oak pews and woodwork, including the mysterious enclosure for the organ pipes. It would be tastefully decorated for the season—holly, pine branches, red ribbons; and Helen would sit in about the fourth row from the front, from which she would direct the drama and manage the lighting, such as it was. 

Of course we had a couple of rehearsals, but with little children, rehearsals were mainly to familiarize the whole operation for the adults who would be giving us our cues, so to speak. 

Every year that I participated (maybe three years), in spite of my shyness, I would silently hope to be a Wiseman with their royal purple garments and crowns or Joseph the father of Jesus. But, alas, I was always a shepherd. Typecasting, I suppose, since I was more of a blue collar kid (the days before “blue collar” was not necessarily related to political views. In fact, my father, an electrician, was an avid Democrat). 

Truthfully, I don’t know that that had anything whatsoever to do with me being assigned the role of a shepherd. In these days of my life, I have since realized that that was the appropriate role for me. I was not the Magi type nor in any sense did I possess the dignity of Joseph. Also in these days of my life, what’s the matter with being a shepherd?  Answer: nothing. And anyway, I ended up being a shepherd for my career, so they say.  Turns out it was type-casting after all.