Read

1 Samuel 2:8 “He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap; he seats them with princes and has them inherit a throne of honor.”

Think

If you were writing the Christmas story from scratch, you probably wouldn’t start with shepherds.

They were poor. Unimpressive. Unreliable. Social outsiders. In that time and culture, shepherds were considered so untrustworthy they weren’t even allowed to testify in court. Their work was necessary but looked down on. They slept outside. They smelled like sheep. They weren’t on anyone’s guest list. No one sent them invitations. But God made them the first ones to hear the news.

Not Caesar. Not priests. Not governors. Not even Joseph and Mary’s extended family. The first public announcement of the Messiah’s birth came to the lowest rungs of society. That was no accident. God was making a statement—loud and clear.

He doesn’t just see those in high positions. He sees the forgotten. He doesn’t only work through polished people. He meets us in our mess. He doesn’t send joy down from a distance. He brings it into the dirt, where real life happens.

The shepherds weren’t looking for a Messiah. They were just doing their job, probably counting down hours until their shift ended. And then suddenly, the sky lit up with glory. An angel appeared, not to rebuke them or tell them to clean up, but to announce the best news the world had ever heard.

“Today in the town of David, a Savior has been born to you. He is the Messiah, the Lord.”

Those three titles—Savior, Messiah, Lord—weren’t random. They were layered with meaning. A Savior to rescue us. A Messiah to fulfill every promise. A Lord to rule with justice and peace. And it wasn’t just theology—it was personal. “A Savior has been born to you.”

To you, shepherd. To you, outcast. To you, the one people overlook. Joy had come low. And the only thing the shepherds had to do was respond.

They didn’t delay. They didn’t debate whether they were worthy. They just ran to where the child was. They found Jesus in the most ordinary, humble space—a feeding trough. And they worshiped. Not with incense or gifts, but with presence. With awe. With a heart that said, “We see it. We believe it. We’re here.” The story hasn’t changed.

Joy still shows up in low places. In places we’d rather avoid. In seasons we’d never choose. In hospital rooms, sleepless nights, empty bank accounts, and cracked relationships. Not because joy is pretending the pain isn’t real—but because it dares to believe that the pain isn’t the end.

Real joy doesn’t depend on circumstance. It isn’t born from success or comfort. It’s born from presence—the nearness of God in the middle of it all. And that’s what makes the Christmas story so powerful. It’s not polished. It’s not easy. It’s messy and surprising and full of detours. But it’s also soaked in joy. Because into all of that, God came near.

He didn’t stay distant. He stepped into humanity. Into poverty. Into obscurity. He came not as a king in a palace but as a baby in a barn. And that’s where he still meets us.

Not just in our prayers, but in our pain. Not just in the moments when we feel strong, but when we feel small. Not just when we’re full of faith, but when we’re full of questions. That’s the gospel—God with us. Even here. Even now.

We tend to think we have to rise up to meet God. But the truth of Christmas is that he came down to meet us. And the ones who see him most clearly are often the ones who feel the least qualified.

You don’t have to be impressive to encounter Jesus. You don’t have to be in control. You don’t have to be put together. You just have to come.

The shepherds returned to their fields after meeting Jesus, but they weren’t the same. Scripture says they went back “glorifying and praising God.” Nothing about their circumstances had changed. But something in them had. That’s what joy does. It doesn’t always fix what’s around you. But it transforms what’s within you.

God still lifts the poor from the dust and the needy from the ash heap. He still fills low places with holy joy. If this season finds you in a hard or humble place, don’t believe the lie that joy is out of reach. It may be closer than you think. The good news of great joy wasn’t delivered in a temple. It came to a field. And it’s still coming.

Apply

Make space today to acknowledge a “low place” in your life—somewhere you feel overlooked, overwhelmed, or empty. Then invite God into that specific space. Ask him to meet you there, not by changing everything, but by drawing near in a way that only he can.

Pray

Jesus, thank you for coming near—not just to the powerful and the polished, but to the weak and the weary. You brought joy to low places then, and I believe you still do now. Meet me where I am. Let your presence be enough. And as I draw near to you, fill my heart with the kind of joy that doesn't depend on anything but you. In your name I pray. Amen.