Christmas in Bethlehem. The ancient dream: a cold, clear night made brilliant by a glorious star, the smell of incense, shepherds and wise men falling to their knees in adoration of the sweet baby, the incarnation of perfect love.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
I have German Shepherds that I train and have brought back to Germany. I love going there.
I'm never without my dog. They would be in every corner of the house, and my wife will not allow me to have any more than that. But I have lots of dogs. I love the dogs. I breed them. I always have a puppy coming. And I show dogs. I show German shepherds.
At Christmas, I am always struck by how the spirit of togetherness lies also at the heart of the Christmas story. A young mother and a dutiful father with their baby were joined by poor shepherds and visitors from afar. They came with their gifts to worship the Christ child.
We are like ignorant shepherds living on a site where great civilizations once flourished. The shepherds play with the fragments that pop up to the surface, having no notion of the beautiful structures of which they were once a part.
I'm Irish as hell: Kelly on one side, Shanley on the other. My father had been born on a farm in the Irish Midlands. He and his brothers had been shepherds there, cattle and sheep, back in the early 1920s. I grew up surrounded by brogues and Irish music, but stayed away from the old country till I was over 40. I just couldn't own being Irish.
I grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania, where my parents raised German shepherds - we had about 30 dogs at any given time.
Christianity began as a religion of the poor and dispossessed - farmers, fishermen, Bedouin shepherds. There's a great lure to that kind of simplicity and rigor - the discipline, the call to action.
Peoples will be as before, the sheep sent to the slaughterhouses or to the meadows as it pleases the shepherds.