The Gospel Is for the Forgotten
When Heaven Skips the Headlines
A.W. Tozer once said something along the lines of this: God has a habit of choosing the obscure, the unqualified, the forgotten, and the overlooked, so that when the mighty thing is done, there will be no doubt about who accomplished it. We live in a world that constantly elevates what is seen and ignores what is unseen—where platforms, titles, “reach,” and influence are celebrated. But heaven moved in a very different way on the night Jesus was born. When God chose to announce the birth of His Son, He bypassed the powerful, the respected, and the important, and instead appeared to shepherds: men living outside the city, men considered unreliable, men frequently excluded from the religious life of Israel. And they became the first to hear the gospel clearly announced.
We’re continuing our Christmas series, “The Gospel Is Rated E for Everyone.” Week 1, we looked at the lowly—the people who would’ve never made anyone’s “Top 100” list. Week 2, we slowed down and examined gratitude, learning to see the blessings right in front of us. This week, we’re looking at the forgotten, the ones who feel left out, unnoticed, or pushed to the margins. And as we’ll see, the first public announcement of Jesus’ birth didn’t take place in a palace, but in a pasture.
If you haven’t read it yet today, pause with Luke 2:8–20. It sets the entire stage for what follows.
We’re continuing our Christmas series, “The Gospel Is Rated E for Everyone.” Week 1, we looked at the lowly—the people who would’ve never made anyone’s “Top 100” list. Week 2, we slowed down and examined gratitude, learning to see the blessings right in front of us. This week, we’re looking at the forgotten, the ones who feel left out, unnoticed, or pushed to the margins. And as we’ll see, the first public announcement of Jesus’ birth didn’t take place in a palace, but in a pasture.
If you haven’t read it yet today, pause with Luke 2:8–20. It sets the entire stage for what follows.
The Gospel Shows Up in Ordinary Places (Luke 2:8–9)
Luke tells us, “And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.” The same region—the same area where Mary and Joseph struggled to find a place to stay, the same outskirts where a manger became a cradle. Nothing about the location was impressive. It wasn’t Roman officials or religious elites who received the announcement. It was just ordinary men doing an ordinary job.
Shepherds weren’t cultural heroes. They were socially marginalized, often ceremonially unclean, and generally viewed with suspicion. These were not the men you’d pick first (or at all) for “Let’s tell them first.” Yet Scripture says, “An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them.” They weren’t in a prayer meeting, weren’t fasting for revival—they were simply working the night shift. In the monotony of a regular night, in the dirt and darkness and boredom of their field, heaven broke in. That’s how the gospel works. It shows up in ordinary places.
Many of us imagine that God only moves in “holy moments” inside a church building, but the gospel meets us on hospital floors, in break rooms, on night shifts, at kitchen sinks, in lonely apartments, and even in the passenger seat on a quiet drive home. The shepherds weren’t looking for a sign. They were just doing their job—and that’s where God found them.
I once talked with a young man who wanted to give his life to Jesus but thought it “only counted” inside a church building. Worse, I once heard a pastor insist that if a student didn’t make their decision during the official service, it didn’t count. But if God limited His presence to four walls and a bulletin schedule, we’d all be doomed. The shepherds show us that the gospel appears in unlikely places, interrupts ordinary routines, sanctifies mundane moments, and reveals God’s glory to the overlooked. If you feel like you’re standing in an “ordinary field” right now—just doing your job, unnoticed and unseen—you are exactly the kind of person and place where heaven loves to show up.
Shepherds weren’t cultural heroes. They were socially marginalized, often ceremonially unclean, and generally viewed with suspicion. These were not the men you’d pick first (or at all) for “Let’s tell them first.” Yet Scripture says, “An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them.” They weren’t in a prayer meeting, weren’t fasting for revival—they were simply working the night shift. In the monotony of a regular night, in the dirt and darkness and boredom of their field, heaven broke in. That’s how the gospel works. It shows up in ordinary places.
Many of us imagine that God only moves in “holy moments” inside a church building, but the gospel meets us on hospital floors, in break rooms, on night shifts, at kitchen sinks, in lonely apartments, and even in the passenger seat on a quiet drive home. The shepherds weren’t looking for a sign. They were just doing their job—and that’s where God found them.
I once talked with a young man who wanted to give his life to Jesus but thought it “only counted” inside a church building. Worse, I once heard a pastor insist that if a student didn’t make their decision during the official service, it didn’t count. But if God limited His presence to four walls and a bulletin schedule, we’d all be doomed. The shepherds show us that the gospel appears in unlikely places, interrupts ordinary routines, sanctifies mundane moments, and reveals God’s glory to the overlooked. If you feel like you’re standing in an “ordinary field” right now—just doing your job, unnoticed and unseen—you are exactly the kind of person and place where heaven loves to show up.
The Gospel Speaks to the Overlooked (Luke 2:10–14)
When the angel appears, the shepherds are terrified—and who wouldn’t be? One moment it’s a normal night; the next, the sky explodes with glory. But listen to the first words heaven speaks: “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” The first public announcement of the gospel wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t shame. It wasn’t a lecture telling them to get their act together. The first words were comfort: “Fear not… good news… great joy… for all the people.”
I need that. Maybe you do too.
For a long time, I didn’t trust Christians much. I didn’t grow up in church; if anything, I was raised to resent Christians. I looked different, thought differently, and was pretty convinced Christians hated people like me. When I was 14, a girl invited me to church (and let’s be honest—when you’re 14 and a cute girl invites you somewhere, you go). I heard the gospel, felt convicted, and asked God to save me. But I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t know how to read the Bible or grow spiritually. My friends gave me clever atheist arguments, and the more I listened, the angrier I became at God for “not fixing me.” So I ran.
I became the kid who knew just enough Bible to be dangerous—using it to talk Christians out of their faith. I smoked, drank, spiraled into depression. I lived the worst version of YOLO. By 18, I was drunk most of the time—drunk at work, drunk at home, drunk to sleep. Eventually even that wasn’t enough. I reached a moment where I didn’t want to live anymore, but I couldn’t even end my own life. There aren’t many places lower than realizing you can’t die and you don’t know how to live.
But that is where Jesus met me. No platform. No spotlight. No stained-glass window. Just me—broken, overlooked, at the end of myself—and God.
That’s why the shepherds matter so much to me. The people others distrusted, ignored, and avoided were the ones who first heard heaven say: Fear not. Good news. Great joy. For all people. Unto you is born… a Savior.
If you’ve ever thought, “I don’t know enough,” or “I’ve messed up too much,” or “I’m not churchy enough,” or “I’m not the kind of person God uses,” then Luke 2 is for you. The gospel is not allergic to your past. It’s not intimidated by your questions. It’s not reserved for people who already look put together. The gospel speaks—directly and tenderly—to the overlooked.
I need that. Maybe you do too.
For a long time, I didn’t trust Christians much. I didn’t grow up in church; if anything, I was raised to resent Christians. I looked different, thought differently, and was pretty convinced Christians hated people like me. When I was 14, a girl invited me to church (and let’s be honest—when you’re 14 and a cute girl invites you somewhere, you go). I heard the gospel, felt convicted, and asked God to save me. But I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t know how to read the Bible or grow spiritually. My friends gave me clever atheist arguments, and the more I listened, the angrier I became at God for “not fixing me.” So I ran.
I became the kid who knew just enough Bible to be dangerous—using it to talk Christians out of their faith. I smoked, drank, spiraled into depression. I lived the worst version of YOLO. By 18, I was drunk most of the time—drunk at work, drunk at home, drunk to sleep. Eventually even that wasn’t enough. I reached a moment where I didn’t want to live anymore, but I couldn’t even end my own life. There aren’t many places lower than realizing you can’t die and you don’t know how to live.
But that is where Jesus met me. No platform. No spotlight. No stained-glass window. Just me—broken, overlooked, at the end of myself—and God.
That’s why the shepherds matter so much to me. The people others distrusted, ignored, and avoided were the ones who first heard heaven say: Fear not. Good news. Great joy. For all people. Unto you is born… a Savior.
If you’ve ever thought, “I don’t know enough,” or “I’ve messed up too much,” or “I’m not churchy enough,” or “I’m not the kind of person God uses,” then Luke 2 is for you. The gospel is not allergic to your past. It’s not intimidated by your questions. It’s not reserved for people who already look put together. The gospel speaks—directly and tenderly—to the overlooked.
The Gospel Sends the Forgotten (Luke 2:15–20)
What begins with one angel expands into a full heavenly choir as “a multitude of the heavenly host” fills the sky praising God. The shepherds don’t shrug it off and return to their sheep. They respond immediately: “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.” They don’t debate. They don’t delay. They don’t wonder whether they’re educated enough or respectable enough. They simply go.
They find Mary, Joseph, and the baby exactly as they were told, and then something crucial happens: they begin telling everyone what they had seen and heard. The very men society dismissed became the first evangelists of the gospel. The forgotten became the first messengers.
They find Mary, Joseph, and the baby exactly as they were told, and then something crucial happens: they begin telling everyone what they had seen and heard. The very men society dismissed became the first evangelists of the gospel. The forgotten became the first messengers.
Where Is the Gospel Sending You This Week?
Over the last few weeks we’ve said:
So now the question becomes:
You do not need a title to be used by God. You just need to be available. Slow down long enough to listen. Be bold enough to speak. Be willing enough to go.
Because the same Savior who showed up in a field for forgotten shepherds is still showing up in ordinary places, speaking to overlooked people, and sending the forgotten out with good news of great joy—for all people.
Even you.
Especially you.
- The gospel is for the lowly.
- The gospel is for the thankful.
- Today: the gospel is for the forgotten.
So now the question becomes:
- Who in your life feels forgotten right now?
- Who needs a call?
- Who needs a text?
- Who needs a visit?
- Who needs to know, “You were on my heart today”?
You do not need a title to be used by God. You just need to be available. Slow down long enough to listen. Be bold enough to speak. Be willing enough to go.
Because the same Savior who showed up in a field for forgotten shepherds is still showing up in ordinary places, speaking to overlooked people, and sending the forgotten out with good news of great joy—for all people.
Even you.
Especially you.
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