Three shepherds walk into a barn

The product of over a decade of work, this text has been carefully translated from the original Aramaic by yours truly. Scrolls containing this apocryphal nativity story were found in 2012 during an archaeological dig in Nineveh. Researchers on the project looked online for volunteer translators and I was happy to oblige given my training.

I want to express thanks to the Israeli Antiquities Authority, the American Schools of Oriental Research, and the faculty of NYU’s Hebrew and Judaic Studies department for assistance with this translation.

Josaphat stepped out of the barn and was thankful that his eyes finally stopped watering. The air had been thick with the scent of myrrh. Incense always made his eyes water.

“Bro, I have had enough of this Messiah nonsense,” Melchior said. “Haven’t you?”

Josaphat couldn’t disagree. It went beyond the cloying smell of incense.

The birth of the Messiah was pretty cool, but the holy bedlam around the manger also strained everything in his being. Every moment was an existential reckoning. Every glance at the beaming parents was a spiritual blow to the face. And every time the baby gurgled or mumbled it was like the world quivered at the edges. Josaphat had decided to leave the barn after the baby’s adorable belch turned into a dizzying waking dream of vast spiritual energy.

Being outside didn’t stop the thunder of the hosannas in the barn from buzzing his brain, but at least it wasn’t so damn hot. The barn was like one of those olive pit furnaces, but instead the occupants were burning pure, uncut peace on earth.

Josaphat took a deep breath of the night’s cool air. “Just needed a break. I mean, I want to savor every moment of this. Not every day you get to meet a baby this important.”

Melchior shook his long salt and pepper hair. It was oily and the man looked exhausted. A few days of hiking would do that to you. “I need more than a break from this. I gotta get back to the herd, and soon. Old Zebulon was telling me a fortnight ago that there were wolves the next valley over.”

“Zebulon is always stepping in shit.”

“I heard howling last week.”

Josaphat shook his head. “You heard snoring, dumbass. That was Asher. He needs to see a doctor. I heard him swallow his tongue at least six times last night.”

“What can a doctor even do for that?” Melchior said.

“Beats me. I don’t understand how God could create the Messiah but let Asher choke on his own tongue.”

“Wow, you’re so thoughtful,” Melchior said. “You know I’m right. Look, that’s a beautiful baby. It really is. And trust me, I’ve seen some ugly babies in my time. Oh Lord, God bless those little cretins.”

Josaphat said, “I’m sensing a But coming up.”

“The only butt is yours, and by the way it’s smelling up our tent. Shut up and let me get to the point.”

“Oh, you had a point?” Josaphat said.

“I’m trying to say that this is all great, BUT, we should probably get going. Move on. We have responsibilities, lives outside of this. As great as it’s been, we gotta leave some time. Now seems like a good time. The sun will be up soon and I’d rather make it to Mount Tabor before the winds kick up and sweep me ass over elbows down a hill.”

They stood in silence for a moment, taking in the darkest part of the night. Inside the barn, a peal of laughter rang out. Both men smiled. “The parents, what were their names?” Josaphat said.

“Mary. And uhhh, Joram. Joses. Something like that. Say, do you feel like he looked a little out of it? Like maybe it’s not his baby or something. Wouldn’t that be some shit?"

Josaphat couldn’t remember either. “Nah, they just both look exhausted.” Josaphat took a moment and said, “You know, you’re probably right. Maybe us leaving will sort of get the other guys to think about leaving too.”

Melchior rolled his eyes so hard that Josaphat thought he’d fall on his back. “You mean the dorks.”

“Magi.”

“Dorks. I don’t need to repeat myself,” Melchior said.

Josaphat’s patience with the conversation started to erode. Melchior, once he got into one of his moods, was relentless. “I also think we should leave. I’m agreeing with you. See me nodding? Agreement. I’m just saying that a side benefit would be that it might give the magi a clue. They got here at the same time as us and they’ve been way more intrusive, you know? The questions, holy mackerel, you’d think they were the King’s interrogators.”

Before Melchior could say something stupid or degrading, someone else emerged from the barn’s postern door. Thick incense smoke followed him out and began to rise into the sky. Measuring in at barely three cubits, the short man looked frantic, his wide set eyes about to pop out of his head. “GUYS! GUYS! WHERE ARE YOU!”

“We’re right here, doofus,” Melchior said.

“Oh, right.” Asher staggered toward them. “I just realized that we really messed up, guys. Really bad! Like, we’re going to be punished.”

“Oh?” said Melchior. “Care to tell us how?”

“The gifts! We forgot gifts!”

Josaphat said, “What gifts? I didn’t bring any gifts, Asher.”

“The only thing I brought was a big ol’ pair of balls,” Melchior said, grabbing his crotch.

Asher looked frantic. “That’s my point! We didn’t bring anything! Nothing for the baby, nothing for anyone!”

Melchior said, “Don’t call my balls nothing, mister.”

Asher was ignoring Melchior and appealing right to Josaphat. Ignoring the chatter from Melchior was something the little man had been getting better at. When the trio had first started running sheep together, Melchior had worn Asher ragged with cutting insults, sarcastic commentary, and a lot of jokes about the latter’s short stature. At first it had been funny. A few laughs with the boys. But one night Asher burst into tears and sulked in the tent for a long time afterward. Melchior had laughed. Josaphat - “always the peacemaker,” as his mother used to say - pulled them aside separately and told them to cut the shit. That seemed to help.

“Gifts! We didn’t bring the baby any gifts! Everyone is going to think we’re inconsiderate,” Asher said. Josaphat gave him a signal to go on. “Did you see how much frankincense the guy in purple threw into the brazier? He might as well be melting down denariuses to make horseshoes or something. These guys are loaded and they brought that baby so much stuff. And what did we bring?”

“Our winning personalities,” Melchior said.

Josaphat grimaced. “We told them about the angel. That the angel told us where to find them, and basically predicted everything that happened.”

“Oh, great, Josaphat. So our gift to the Messiah is telling them that an angel told us that what happened, happened?” Asher said.

“I guess when you put it that way, it’s kind of stupid.”

Memory of their meeting with the angel had a fuzzy, dreamlike quality to it. They’d sat by the campfire in a high meadow of waving switchgrass, arguing over the next place to pasture. The trumpet’s cry was earsplitting. The angel that descended had the majesty of a total solar eclipse. Unlike a solar eclipse, though, the skies became white hot. An array of eyes, Josaphat remembered, were set amidst churning machinery. He’d seen water wheels a few times. The heavenly body of the angel looked like wheels on wheels on wheels, all turning together, clashing, grinding reality itself.

“That’s what I’m saying, guys! We didn’t bring anything for that baby, and it’s embarrassing. It’s shameful,” Asher said. He had started to pace. Asher paced when he was nervous. He was nervous a lot of the time. But, Josaphat thought, he might have a point.

“Look at the three of us,” Melchior said. “Do you think the Messiah needs anything that three bums like us could bring? What, am I going to bring him a bag of wool? Some mutton jerky? A lamb? We’re not those dorks with the robes, looking at the stars all day, getting paid by the royal family or whatever. We’re men who work for a living. Whatever I’m bringing him, it’s going to the parents, anyway. He’s a baby for crying out loud.”

Asher’s eyes widened. “I never even thought of that. We should have brought gifts for the parents too. Like, a housewarming gift.”

“That’s not a goddamn house, it’s a barn!” Melchior said.

“The barn is plenty warm now, too,” Josaphat said. “Look at my armpits.”

Melchior said, “How is housewarming our responsibility? An angel had us hike days at a good pace to get here. Were we supposed to stop at a market along the way?”

“Yes, exactly!” Asher said. “It’s tradition to bring someone a housewarming gift where I come from. And also a gift for a newborn baby, or at least for the new parents. Especially if they are first time parents. Like they are, Mary and Joseph.”

“Joseph! That was his name!” Josaphat said, slapping his head. “How the hell did I forget that?”

“That’s what the magi did,” Asher continued. “Brought the baby gifts.”

“What’s a baby going to do with incense and gold? Those are gifts for the parents,” Josaphat said.

Asher waved away the sentiment. “It’s a formidable gift and you know it. They didn’t need to bring a toy or a blanket, or whatever you get a child. They gave his family money for their future.”

“How do you know the baby isn’t using the gold for teething?” Melchior said with a sneer.

Josaphat also ignored Melchior’s baiting. He mused, “Maybe we should have brought the Magi some gifts while we were at it.”

Asher seemed to take the notion seriously. “No, we don’t need to do that, because it’s not their house and they didn’t have a baby,” Asher said.

“So it’s about the baby?” Melchior said.

“OF COURSE IT’S ABOUT THE BABY, MELCHIOR!” Asher exclaimed.

Melchior rolled his eyes.

“Nah, Mel, Asher has a point. The baby is new life on earth. When the Messiah is born, as he surely has been, what’s also born is hope that we’ll have peace and joy. And really, isn’t giving gifts to new families symbolic? Isn’t it about our hope in children, that the new generation will save the world we left them?” Josaphat said.

“Oh, so adults can’t save the world?” Melchior said.

Asher looked wistful as he spoke. “Adults aren’t pure. They’re scarred, tainted, and have lost the best of their hope to circumstance. Babies are pure potential, they might do anything, including saving the world and everyone in it.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for us to get gifts for everyone?” Melchior asked.

“Everyone likes getting a gift.” Josaphat said.

Asher was shaking his head. “Let’s game this out. Say we knew the Magi were coming to the baby’s birthday party. The angel told us, maybe. And we brought the Magi some gifts, maybe a few bags of wool. And for their part, the Magi heard there would be some shepherds. Well, they’d probably try to decide what kind of gift is appropriate. Now we enter into gift math. If they gave us too pricey of a gift, it looks insulting, like they’re lording wealth over us. But knowing what they know about our wealth, they’d probably get us a gift that was worth about as much as a few bags of wool. But we might end up thinking that they cheaped out on us. So they have to find a balance somewhere in the middle of those two extremes.”

“This is the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had in my life,” Melchior said.

“What I’m getting at,” Asher said, “is that when it comes to gifts among adults, it’s a gift exchange. We give gifts to babies and children because they don’t have anything to give us except their potential. In the case of the little Messiah in there, it’s the potential to save the world.”

“So you’re saying it’s kind of pointless to give gifts to adults,” Josaphat said. “Because the gesture is just an act that creates more work for all parties. You end up spending some amount of money while receiving gifts of roughly the same value.”

“Yes!”

“You’re saying we should give gifts to kids and leave it at that. Which I guess makes sense, because kids don’t own anything. They’ll love what you give them, just because it’s all new. Probably would love the box more than the gift inside.”

“Exactly!” Asher said.

“You’re such a cheap son of a bitch, Asher,” Melchior said. “Just get people the damn gifts and stop overthinking it.”

“That’s my point!” Asher shouted. “You’re talking about us all just wandering around, giving gifts without thought for why we’re doing it. It’s an arm’s race! The way if one warlord is smithing spears and swords, the warlord next door has to smith some too out of fear of falling behind.”

“And if you try to save money, if you try to get the smallest gift possible, you look bad if the other person overestimates and gives a gift that’s too valuable to you,” Josaphat said. “I see the trap, here. It’s kind of a war of kindness.”

“So gift giving is now a war? Do you know you sound like assholes, guys?” Melchior said.

“I’m not an asshole, just thoughtful,” Asher said. “Plus, you two still haven’t addressed the fact that we forgot to bring the baby anything!”

Melchior and Asher launched into a duel of insults that threatened to undermine the beatific vibe of the evening. But Josaphat turned to the darkness of Nazareth’s streets. “Do you hear that?” Josaphat said.

“Hear what?” Asher said.

Then they all heard it. Facing the nearby homes, they all were speechless as a shaggy boy came down a dirty alley, a pair of animal skin drums hanging from a leather strap balanced on his neck. He tapped out a rhythmic melody with his thumbs. The boy returned their stare with confidence and drummed all the way up to where they were standing.

“Hi, I’m Peter. I’m here to see the Messiah and play my drums for him.”

Melchior burst into laughter. His laughter intensified when the boy tapped a little diddy on the drum. The shepherd doubled over to gasp for breath. The boy tapped a cadence again. Melchior couldn’t breathe for a full minute. They all had to watch the shepherd pull himself together. When he’d recovered, he said, “Hey, important question for you Peter, and you better be honest or my friend Asher here will give you a lecture: did you bring a gift for the baby? Those drums maybe?”

“These drums are how I make my living. And not a very good one at that, I’m poor as shit. I have no gift to bring that’s fit for the King,” Peter said.

“So what are you going to do?” Josaphat asked.

“I don’t know, play a song. It’s all I know how to do. Plus, babies love music, right? My gift fills time, not cupped hands.”

And with that, Peter the drummer boy went into the barn. After a few minutes, they began to hear some drumming accompany the persistent hosannahs. The combination sounded nice, Josaphat thought. Like a heartbeat.

“This has all been really fascinating, and I’m so glad we all got to stand out here and talk about the dumbest subject on the planet. Let’s leave,” Melchior said.

“Yes, especially before they realize we didn’t buy them anything,” Asher said.

“This shit again,” Melchior said.

They said their farewells to the new parents and the lovely baby. Josaphat could barely look at the child, but caught a glance of calm eyes, irises dark in the closeness of the barn.

His two friends began bickering as soon as they hit the road. Asher held his own. Josaphat was amused to hear the man’s confidence.

Maybe the birth of the Messiah had saved Asher’s belief in himself.

They began their long hike back into the hinterlands. He wondered if he should buy his friends a gift when they were in town next. As a joke, but a friendly joke. But Josaphat decided that Melchior would poke fun at whatever he brought. Asher wouldn’t accept a gift or would be nervous about it somehow. Or Melchior would complain the gift wasn’t big enough and Asher would wax philosophical for the rest of the trip back to the pastures. Josaphat instead listened to the two men argue until they got tired of it. Then he enjoyed the silence and the waking day.

It felt a little surreal to return to shepherding after what they’d witnessed. But in a few hours, he fell back into the work, like he always did. The verdant valley where they’d left the sheep looked sodden. It had rained while they were gone. Fall was coming, and it would be time to come down out of the mountains before the snows started.

No wolves had come after the herds, thank God, and Josaphat even thought the sheep looked healthier without him having been there. Which didn’t say much about his shepherding.

He never saw Mary, Joseph or the baby again.

The Nativity doesn’t really take much space up in the Bible. That’s kind of surprising given that mainstream American culture devotes a quarter of each year to it, if you include Christmas in July, decorating beginning right after Halloween, and the ritual of paying off your credit card balance in January.

The original Nativity story is great and all, but it’s also reinvented every year. Mike Douglas has a classic made up Biblical story. It’s famous in our family. A good example of the remaking of Christmas are all the new Christmas songs attempted by hopeful artists every year.

As my brother Matt said, writing a new Christmas song takes some balls, because you are competing with some absolute bangers.

I contributed this silly story in that spirit of having balls (take that, Matt). The story is fundamentally inaccurate. For instance, careful Bible readers will know that in the Good Book, the shepherds and the wise men came into town at totally different times. There’s more inaccuracies. If you want to leave them in the comments, feel free. I probably won’t read them, because it’s Christmas time and I’m very busy spending $200 a day on gifts.

Post script -

I had to add in this conversation from one of my favorite sci-fi books, Blindsight, because I kept thinking about it when writing this story.

“Well, according to game theory, you should never tell anyone when your birthday is.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s a lose-lose proposition. There’s no winning strategy.”

“What do you mean, strategy? It’s a birthday.”

Chelsea had said exactly the same thing when I’d tried to explain it to her. Look, I’d said, say you tell everyone when it is and nothing happens. It’s kind of a slap in the face.

Or suppose they throw you a party, Chelsea had replied.

Then you don’t know whether they’re doing it sincerely, or if your earlier interaction just guilted them into observing an occasion they’d rather have ignored. But if you don’t tell anyone, and nobody commemorates the event, there’s no reason to feel badly because after all, nobody knew. And if someone does buy you a drink then you know it’s sincere because nobody would go to all the trouble of finding out when your birthday is— and then celebrating it—if they didn’t honestly like you.

…

The math was irrefutable: the one winning strategy was concealment. Only fools revealed their birthdays.

Sascha looked at me. “You ever show this to anyone else?”

“Sure. My girlfriend.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You had a girlfriend? A real one?”

I nodded. “Once.”

“I mean after you showed this to her.”

“Well, yes.”

“Uh huh.” Her eyes wandered back to the payoff matrix. “Just curious, Siri. How did she react?”

“She didn’t, really. Not at first. Then—well, she laughed.”

“Better woman than me.” Sascha shook her head. “I’d have dumped you on the spot.”

Will Caverly is the author of Here, the Bees Sting, a beekeeping thriller, and Tinicum & Eastwick: Environmental Justice and Racial Injustice in SW Philadelphia, a history book.