First Sunday After Christmas
Preaching
Lectionary Preaching Workbook
Series VIII, Cycle A
Object:
Theme For The Day
The message of the sad tale of the Massacre of the Innocents is: Herod can't win.
Old Testament Lesson
Isaiah 63:7-9
The Christmas Presence
It's clear to see why this passage appealed to the lectionary editors for the First Sunday after Christmas. It's this line: "It was no messenger or angel, but his presence that saved them" (v. 9). Some things in life simply must be done in person -- as any parent who's ever worried about missing a child's school play or dance recital can attest. Certain tasks cannot be delegated to others. When the time was right to save Israel from her enemies, the God of Israel became present to them in a powerful way: "lifting them up and carrying them," as a parent carries a crying and exhausted child (v. 9). When it came time to save the human race from sin, God did not delegate that task, either. God came in person, in Jesus Christ.
New Testament Lesson
Hebrews 2:10-18
The Suffering Savior
While it may seem incongruous to speak of suffering in connection with a Christmas reading (as does this passage from Hebrews), it's not all that far-fetched. Human life is characterized by suffering, as Job 5:7 attests: "Human beings are born to trouble just as sparks fly upward." In coming into the world as a human being, our Savior was necessarily taking on human suffering. We live in a time and place characterized by declining infant mortality, plentiful food, rapidly increasing life expectancy, and creature comforts unheard of in every other era of human history. We are among the first generations to consider the absence of significant suffering to be not only a possibility, but even a right. ("Patients' Bill of Rights" statements, posted on hospital-room walls, often speak of the absence of pain as a right -- as well they should.) Even the suffering of death, itself, can often be significantly ameliorated through pain medications and hospice care. It's probably harder for Christians in the pews today to grasp the concept of a suffering Savior than ever before -- for many of us have a hard time admitting the reality of suffering itself. Yet, here it is, in the letter to the Hebrews -- and in the feel-good Christmas season, besides! As much as we may be tempted to buy into the contemporary version of the Gnostic heresy that says we are disembodied spirits, imprisoned for a time in human form, before being set free to roam the cosmos, Hebrews 2 corrects that misperception. We share "flesh and blood" with the babe in the manger (v. 14).
The Gospel
Matthew 2:13-23
The Flight Into Egypt And The Massacre Of the Innocents
Today's gospel lesson is a sort of epilogue to the Nativity story -- yet, unlike many epilogues, it's one that a good many readers would prefer to skip over. For who wants to think of the Holy Family as refugees, or the innocent toddlers of Bethlehem put to the sword by Herod's soldiers? It's a bit like getting up from the fireside where the yule log is cheerfully burning and stepping out into an ice storm. Maybe the story of the desperate flight into Egypt can only be fully appreciated by those who have been refugees -- illegal aliens fleeing the Border Patrol, or the "Lost Boys" of the Sudan, arriving in an airport with only the clothes on their backs, and their names pinned to their shirts. As for the massacre of infants, it's the sort of story that engenders universal revulsion. Yet, is this not what war is? Even in modern warfare -- with its "surgical strikes" and so-called "smart bombs" -- children suffer and die in greater numbers than anyone else. And what of the bored and discontented parents who bypass marriage counseling and seek out so-called "no fault" divorces? Do they ever pause to consider the rapidly mounting evidence that the most serious and long-term costs of divorce (emotional as well as economic) are borne by children? No, the Flight into Egypt and the Massacre of the Innocents are no mere footnotes to the Nativity story. Sadly, they are at its very heart.
Preaching Possibilities
The snow that twinkled on Christmas Eve, reflecting back the holiday lights, is a little grayer now. Patches of asphalt, concrete, and soggy lawn interrupt the snowy expanse that used to be pristine white. Underneath the Christmas tree (for those who follow tradition, and keep their tree up until Epiphany), the family presents are no longer mysterious secrets, hidden inside bright packages, lovingly wrapped. They've been opened, handled, played with, perhaps even broken. They're dispersed now, helter-skelter.
The dark recesses of the refrigerator now hold the biggest secrets. Underneath Tupperware lids or inside shapeless, balled-up masses of aluminum foil, lurk the scraps of the Christmas feast. Should we preserve them any longer? Should we wait a few more days, perhaps, when they'll be easier to throw out?
It's the Sunday after Christmas: the ecclesiastical equivalent of "the morning after" the big party. Reach for the Rolaids and be thankful: for, as they say, "Christmas comes but once a year!"
What we choose to call this day says it all. If it's "the Sunday after Christmas," it's got all the connotations of "the morning after." If, as some do, we borrow the label of the Sunday after Easter, and call it "Low Sunday," then it's hardly more attractive.
Yet, today is neither. It's the First Sunday of Christmas. That name contains within it a promise of good things to come.
The gospel lesson appointed for this day may seem out of step with that understanding. In short, it's a real downer. Just a few nights ago, we read how wise men from the east journeyed to Bethlehem to pay the Christ Child homage. They opened their precious gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh -- and then, smelling nothing good coming from the direction of Herod's palace, they gave the shifty king a wide berth on their journey home.
Yet, once kings' suspicions are aroused, they do not disperse easily. Herod is an old veteran of palace intrigue. He's crushed more than one deadly plot in his time. Having heard about this child the country-folk are calling "king of the Jews," and having failed in his diplomatic scheme to get the wise men to reveal him, Herod resolves to act, and act swiftly. You don't survive long as supreme lord of a backwater province in a vast and corrupt empire without a certain talent for ruthlessness.
So, it comes to pass that Herod sends a detachment of his most loyal troops to Bethlehem and the surrounding region, with orders to murder every child two and under. It's a grim and grisly business, but these soldiers are battle-hardened and all too obedient. Jesus survives because Joseph has been warned in a dream to flee with Jesus and Mary to Egypt; but, for the hapless families who are not forewarned, there is only what Jeremiah refers to as "Rachel weeping for her children: she refused to be consoled, because they are no more."
There's a Christmas carol that sings about this woeful business. It's called "The Coventry Carol." Ironically, it has one of the most achingly beautiful melodies of all Christmas music. The words are a melancholy lullaby, sung by grieving mothers to their dead children:
Herod the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day,
His men of might, in his own sight,
All young children, to slay.
Then woe is me, poor Child, for Thee,
And ever mourn and say,
For Thy parting, nor say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.
What part does this dark episode have to play in the bright and joyous tale of Christmas? It seems such a discordant note, struck in the closing bars of a beautiful melody. Until now, everything has been sweetness and light. True, there is a certain menacing aspect to Herod's dealings with the wise men, but God seems quickly to dispose of him, sending the magi home by another way. But then, Herod returns with a vengeance; and the mothers of Bethlehem weep their bitter tears and cradle their lifeless babes in their arms:
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Some have called this the shadow side of the Nativity story. Where great light breaks into our world, there is very often present, along with it, terrible darkness. This is not to say that the darkness is part of the light, or somehow belongs to it, but merely to observe that wherever the power of God enters into the world, evil very often rises up to challenge it.
The Christian writer G.K. Chesterton wonders whether, if a person of supernatural vision had gazed intently at the baby Jesus and his parents, that seer...
"... might perhaps have seen something like a great grey ghost that looked over his shoulder; have seen behind him filling the dome of night and hovering for the last time over history, that vast and fearful fact that was Moloch of the Carthaginians; awaiting his last tribute from a ruler of the races of Shem. The demons, in that first festival of Christmas, feasted also in their own fashion."
So, what does it mean, for us and for our lives, if we make this observation that evil so often rises up to meet the challenge of good? Does it mean that we should quit seeking after good -- that we should spend our lives, instead, prudently keeping our heads down, so as not to catch any stray bullets in the skirmish between good and evil?
By no means! Christ is our general in this cosmic contest, and his long-term victory is assured. He has called us into the ranks. This means we need to be "wise as serpents and innocent as doves," as Jesus himself puts it, about the true character of the force arrayed against us. We ought not to be naive, imagining that the Christian life will bring us only happiness and never a tear. In the words of Paul, "our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places" (Ephesians 6:12).
Those forces of evil are fully capable of massacring the children of a village -- although rarely, in this modern age, are they so blatant as that. Why should they be when evil can accomplish the same result by selling children vials of crack and inexpensive plastic packets of heroin?
The message of our Christian faith is not that life is to have no pain, but rather that, in Christ, the ultimate victory has already been won. That same Jesus who was gently laid by his mother on the smooth-worn wood of a manger would one day be nailed to the rough wood of a cross. There he would die, taking onto himself the sin and suffering of all the world. Then, from a dark place not far from the place of his dying, he would be raised -- an eternal symbol of the truth that evil is vanquished, once and for all. Herod may still win some battles, but he can't win the war.
There are some who think the Massacre of the Innocents doesn't belong in the Nativity story, who wish Matthew had just left it out. It is a sad and troubling interlude, no doubt about it -- but it has its place. For this little story provides the darkness that is necessary in order for us to discern the light.
And so, when the crying of the Innocents reaches your ears -- and with it the plaintive lullabies of their mothers, keening for the love they've lost -- know that theirs is not the final word. Know that the Lord God has spoken another word: an infinitely more powerful word, one that became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.
Prayer For The Day
We know from experience, Lord, that in this world of ours, life is cheap. It is snuffed out as easily and with as little regret as pinching out the flame of a candle. Truly you, too, must weep with those who weep.
How can we do otherwise? Help us, in our daily living, to be compassionate to those who suffer. May we avoid covering over one another's pain with platitudes. May we be truly present to those whose great need is a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on.
Finally, help us to dedicate our time, talent, and treasure, so the little ones, the Holy Innocents, may come to know, through us, how very precious they are in your sight. Amen.
To Illustrate
There is a well-known story, from the Jewish tradition, of an event that happened during one of the Eastern European pogroms. In one particular village, there was a Jewish grave-digger who saved many lives by hiding fleeing refugees in his freshly dug graves.
One night, as a young woman and her husband were hiding in this grim place, the young woman gave birth to a healthy baby. "This," the grave digger declared, beholding the child nestled in his mother's arms, "is surely the Messiah -- for who else would be born in a grave?"
Who else, indeed? Who else would be born in the grave that is this world -- a place so beset by evil that even the parents of its Lord and Savior must take him up and flee for their lives?
***
Far more people are fleeing, the way Mary and Joseph and their baby had to flee, than we imagine. I know of several in my congregation, and I'm sure there are many I don't know about. One woman regularly locks herself in the furnace room when her husband comes home drunk.
I know what that is like because I remember as a child wanting a safe place to flee. But there was no safe place. We had to go and sit in the car when my father was being angry and abusive. There was no other place to run to even though we were part of a church and many of the people in the church knew what was happening. But none of them offered us children a safe place.
I remember thinking, "Why doesn't somebody save me?" I wanted a savior. And it wasn't until many years later that I found a Savior, a God who provided a haven for me right in the middle of my suffering.
I think God was with my mother through all that. I don't think she knew that, and that is one of the great pains of my life. But God was there with us children cowering in the backseat of the car and with my mother who stayed with my dad in the house and bore the brunt of his rage.
-- David Shearman, a minister of the United Church of Canada, in a posting on the Ecunet computer network
***
Emory University Divinity School professor Kimberly Long tells a story about a couple who had known each other as fellow church members for many years. Somewhere along the line, love blossomed and grew between them, and the whole church rejoiced when they announced their wedding plans.
A couple of years later, the church rejoiced again when this couple announced they were pregnant. They had been older when they'd married and had difficulty conceiving; finally, after fertility treatments, they learned they were expecting twins. That was a double joy, because the doctor told them that, because of their age, this was probably their only chance at having children of their own.
Sadly, the babies were born many weeks premature; despite all the best efforts of modern medicine, they lived only a few hours -- just long enough for the parents to hold them and bestow upon them the names they had chosen from the start: Abraham Joseph and Sarah Mary, names that, according to their faith, express the fulfillment of God's promise.
And so it happened that, when this couple should have been talking with their pastor about baptisms, they were taking with him about a funeral. Together the three of them planned the service, and when the subject came around to music, the parents asked if someone could play the song, "What A Wonderful World." That struck the pastor as a bit unusual, but under the circumstances, of course he said yes.
The service was emotional for everyone. As the pastor pronounced the benediction, he could see the grief reflected in every face. Then, as had been previously planned, someone punched a button on a CD player, and into the church floated the gravelly voice of Louis Armstrong, singing, "What A Wonderful World."
What happened next, no one expected. It was spontaneous. The husband rose to his feet and opened his arms. His wife stood, too, and drew herself close to him. And then, together, they danced.
The two of them danced a dance of life, clear across the chancel of that church: for they knew, beyond a doubt, that the kingdom of heaven is near, when suffering comes. They knew that life is sometimes ambiguous and filled with contradictions. They knew that sometimes things happen that no one can explain. Yet, they also knew that nothing -- no heartache, no grief, no loss -- could ever separate them, nor their children, from the love of God in Christ Jesus. What a wonderful world: even with King Herod in it!
***
In 1940, Britain's King George VI gave a Christmas radio broadcast. Those were perhaps the darkest days of all for the British people. The war was going badly. Their soldiers had been evacuated from Dunkirk, and the Luftwaffe had begun the bombing raids that would later be known as the Battle of Britain. Death, it seemed, could come raining down out of the sky at any moment.
It was at that moment in history that the king chose to repeat, in his radio address, a few obscure phrases of poetry. The news media, scrambling to find a source for these words the next day, found that they had been written by a Christian missionary from India. They proved to be just what the British people needed, to marshal hope for the ordeal before them. Here is what the king said:
"I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year, 'Give me a light that I may tread into the darkness beyond.' And he said to me, 'Go forth; put your hand into the hand of God; That shall be to you better than a light, safer than a known way.' "
***
There is a Zen Buddhist story about a student who went to visit his teacher one day, just before sunset. They two sat on the floor of the master's hut, drinking tea, and discussing Zen until deep into the night. At last, the teacher said, "It is time you went home."
The student bowed to his teacher, as custom demanded, and walked to the door. Only then did he notice that it had grown completely dark outside.
The master lit a lantern and said, "Why not take this?" Just as the student reached out to take the lamp from his teacher's hands, the teacher blew out the flame. The student suddenly knew everything there was to know.
***
Your sorrow itself shall be turned into joy. Not the sorrow to be taken away, and joy to be put in its place, but the very sorrow which now grieves you shall be turned into joy. God not only takes away the bitterness and gives sweetness in its place, but turns the bitterness into sweetness itself.
-- Charles Spurgeon
The message of the sad tale of the Massacre of the Innocents is: Herod can't win.
Old Testament Lesson
Isaiah 63:7-9
The Christmas Presence
It's clear to see why this passage appealed to the lectionary editors for the First Sunday after Christmas. It's this line: "It was no messenger or angel, but his presence that saved them" (v. 9). Some things in life simply must be done in person -- as any parent who's ever worried about missing a child's school play or dance recital can attest. Certain tasks cannot be delegated to others. When the time was right to save Israel from her enemies, the God of Israel became present to them in a powerful way: "lifting them up and carrying them," as a parent carries a crying and exhausted child (v. 9). When it came time to save the human race from sin, God did not delegate that task, either. God came in person, in Jesus Christ.
New Testament Lesson
Hebrews 2:10-18
The Suffering Savior
While it may seem incongruous to speak of suffering in connection with a Christmas reading (as does this passage from Hebrews), it's not all that far-fetched. Human life is characterized by suffering, as Job 5:7 attests: "Human beings are born to trouble just as sparks fly upward." In coming into the world as a human being, our Savior was necessarily taking on human suffering. We live in a time and place characterized by declining infant mortality, plentiful food, rapidly increasing life expectancy, and creature comforts unheard of in every other era of human history. We are among the first generations to consider the absence of significant suffering to be not only a possibility, but even a right. ("Patients' Bill of Rights" statements, posted on hospital-room walls, often speak of the absence of pain as a right -- as well they should.) Even the suffering of death, itself, can often be significantly ameliorated through pain medications and hospice care. It's probably harder for Christians in the pews today to grasp the concept of a suffering Savior than ever before -- for many of us have a hard time admitting the reality of suffering itself. Yet, here it is, in the letter to the Hebrews -- and in the feel-good Christmas season, besides! As much as we may be tempted to buy into the contemporary version of the Gnostic heresy that says we are disembodied spirits, imprisoned for a time in human form, before being set free to roam the cosmos, Hebrews 2 corrects that misperception. We share "flesh and blood" with the babe in the manger (v. 14).
The Gospel
Matthew 2:13-23
The Flight Into Egypt And The Massacre Of the Innocents
Today's gospel lesson is a sort of epilogue to the Nativity story -- yet, unlike many epilogues, it's one that a good many readers would prefer to skip over. For who wants to think of the Holy Family as refugees, or the innocent toddlers of Bethlehem put to the sword by Herod's soldiers? It's a bit like getting up from the fireside where the yule log is cheerfully burning and stepping out into an ice storm. Maybe the story of the desperate flight into Egypt can only be fully appreciated by those who have been refugees -- illegal aliens fleeing the Border Patrol, or the "Lost Boys" of the Sudan, arriving in an airport with only the clothes on their backs, and their names pinned to their shirts. As for the massacre of infants, it's the sort of story that engenders universal revulsion. Yet, is this not what war is? Even in modern warfare -- with its "surgical strikes" and so-called "smart bombs" -- children suffer and die in greater numbers than anyone else. And what of the bored and discontented parents who bypass marriage counseling and seek out so-called "no fault" divorces? Do they ever pause to consider the rapidly mounting evidence that the most serious and long-term costs of divorce (emotional as well as economic) are borne by children? No, the Flight into Egypt and the Massacre of the Innocents are no mere footnotes to the Nativity story. Sadly, they are at its very heart.
Preaching Possibilities
The snow that twinkled on Christmas Eve, reflecting back the holiday lights, is a little grayer now. Patches of asphalt, concrete, and soggy lawn interrupt the snowy expanse that used to be pristine white. Underneath the Christmas tree (for those who follow tradition, and keep their tree up until Epiphany), the family presents are no longer mysterious secrets, hidden inside bright packages, lovingly wrapped. They've been opened, handled, played with, perhaps even broken. They're dispersed now, helter-skelter.
The dark recesses of the refrigerator now hold the biggest secrets. Underneath Tupperware lids or inside shapeless, balled-up masses of aluminum foil, lurk the scraps of the Christmas feast. Should we preserve them any longer? Should we wait a few more days, perhaps, when they'll be easier to throw out?
It's the Sunday after Christmas: the ecclesiastical equivalent of "the morning after" the big party. Reach for the Rolaids and be thankful: for, as they say, "Christmas comes but once a year!"
What we choose to call this day says it all. If it's "the Sunday after Christmas," it's got all the connotations of "the morning after." If, as some do, we borrow the label of the Sunday after Easter, and call it "Low Sunday," then it's hardly more attractive.
Yet, today is neither. It's the First Sunday of Christmas. That name contains within it a promise of good things to come.
The gospel lesson appointed for this day may seem out of step with that understanding. In short, it's a real downer. Just a few nights ago, we read how wise men from the east journeyed to Bethlehem to pay the Christ Child homage. They opened their precious gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh -- and then, smelling nothing good coming from the direction of Herod's palace, they gave the shifty king a wide berth on their journey home.
Yet, once kings' suspicions are aroused, they do not disperse easily. Herod is an old veteran of palace intrigue. He's crushed more than one deadly plot in his time. Having heard about this child the country-folk are calling "king of the Jews," and having failed in his diplomatic scheme to get the wise men to reveal him, Herod resolves to act, and act swiftly. You don't survive long as supreme lord of a backwater province in a vast and corrupt empire without a certain talent for ruthlessness.
So, it comes to pass that Herod sends a detachment of his most loyal troops to Bethlehem and the surrounding region, with orders to murder every child two and under. It's a grim and grisly business, but these soldiers are battle-hardened and all too obedient. Jesus survives because Joseph has been warned in a dream to flee with Jesus and Mary to Egypt; but, for the hapless families who are not forewarned, there is only what Jeremiah refers to as "Rachel weeping for her children: she refused to be consoled, because they are no more."
There's a Christmas carol that sings about this woeful business. It's called "The Coventry Carol." Ironically, it has one of the most achingly beautiful melodies of all Christmas music. The words are a melancholy lullaby, sung by grieving mothers to their dead children:
Herod the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day,
His men of might, in his own sight,
All young children, to slay.
Then woe is me, poor Child, for Thee,
And ever mourn and say,
For Thy parting, nor say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.
What part does this dark episode have to play in the bright and joyous tale of Christmas? It seems such a discordant note, struck in the closing bars of a beautiful melody. Until now, everything has been sweetness and light. True, there is a certain menacing aspect to Herod's dealings with the wise men, but God seems quickly to dispose of him, sending the magi home by another way. But then, Herod returns with a vengeance; and the mothers of Bethlehem weep their bitter tears and cradle their lifeless babes in their arms:
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Some have called this the shadow side of the Nativity story. Where great light breaks into our world, there is very often present, along with it, terrible darkness. This is not to say that the darkness is part of the light, or somehow belongs to it, but merely to observe that wherever the power of God enters into the world, evil very often rises up to challenge it.
The Christian writer G.K. Chesterton wonders whether, if a person of supernatural vision had gazed intently at the baby Jesus and his parents, that seer...
"... might perhaps have seen something like a great grey ghost that looked over his shoulder; have seen behind him filling the dome of night and hovering for the last time over history, that vast and fearful fact that was Moloch of the Carthaginians; awaiting his last tribute from a ruler of the races of Shem. The demons, in that first festival of Christmas, feasted also in their own fashion."
So, what does it mean, for us and for our lives, if we make this observation that evil so often rises up to meet the challenge of good? Does it mean that we should quit seeking after good -- that we should spend our lives, instead, prudently keeping our heads down, so as not to catch any stray bullets in the skirmish between good and evil?
By no means! Christ is our general in this cosmic contest, and his long-term victory is assured. He has called us into the ranks. This means we need to be "wise as serpents and innocent as doves," as Jesus himself puts it, about the true character of the force arrayed against us. We ought not to be naive, imagining that the Christian life will bring us only happiness and never a tear. In the words of Paul, "our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places" (Ephesians 6:12).
Those forces of evil are fully capable of massacring the children of a village -- although rarely, in this modern age, are they so blatant as that. Why should they be when evil can accomplish the same result by selling children vials of crack and inexpensive plastic packets of heroin?
The message of our Christian faith is not that life is to have no pain, but rather that, in Christ, the ultimate victory has already been won. That same Jesus who was gently laid by his mother on the smooth-worn wood of a manger would one day be nailed to the rough wood of a cross. There he would die, taking onto himself the sin and suffering of all the world. Then, from a dark place not far from the place of his dying, he would be raised -- an eternal symbol of the truth that evil is vanquished, once and for all. Herod may still win some battles, but he can't win the war.
There are some who think the Massacre of the Innocents doesn't belong in the Nativity story, who wish Matthew had just left it out. It is a sad and troubling interlude, no doubt about it -- but it has its place. For this little story provides the darkness that is necessary in order for us to discern the light.
And so, when the crying of the Innocents reaches your ears -- and with it the plaintive lullabies of their mothers, keening for the love they've lost -- know that theirs is not the final word. Know that the Lord God has spoken another word: an infinitely more powerful word, one that became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.
Prayer For The Day
We know from experience, Lord, that in this world of ours, life is cheap. It is snuffed out as easily and with as little regret as pinching out the flame of a candle. Truly you, too, must weep with those who weep.
How can we do otherwise? Help us, in our daily living, to be compassionate to those who suffer. May we avoid covering over one another's pain with platitudes. May we be truly present to those whose great need is a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on.
Finally, help us to dedicate our time, talent, and treasure, so the little ones, the Holy Innocents, may come to know, through us, how very precious they are in your sight. Amen.
To Illustrate
There is a well-known story, from the Jewish tradition, of an event that happened during one of the Eastern European pogroms. In one particular village, there was a Jewish grave-digger who saved many lives by hiding fleeing refugees in his freshly dug graves.
One night, as a young woman and her husband were hiding in this grim place, the young woman gave birth to a healthy baby. "This," the grave digger declared, beholding the child nestled in his mother's arms, "is surely the Messiah -- for who else would be born in a grave?"
Who else, indeed? Who else would be born in the grave that is this world -- a place so beset by evil that even the parents of its Lord and Savior must take him up and flee for their lives?
***
Far more people are fleeing, the way Mary and Joseph and their baby had to flee, than we imagine. I know of several in my congregation, and I'm sure there are many I don't know about. One woman regularly locks herself in the furnace room when her husband comes home drunk.
I know what that is like because I remember as a child wanting a safe place to flee. But there was no safe place. We had to go and sit in the car when my father was being angry and abusive. There was no other place to run to even though we were part of a church and many of the people in the church knew what was happening. But none of them offered us children a safe place.
I remember thinking, "Why doesn't somebody save me?" I wanted a savior. And it wasn't until many years later that I found a Savior, a God who provided a haven for me right in the middle of my suffering.
I think God was with my mother through all that. I don't think she knew that, and that is one of the great pains of my life. But God was there with us children cowering in the backseat of the car and with my mother who stayed with my dad in the house and bore the brunt of his rage.
-- David Shearman, a minister of the United Church of Canada, in a posting on the Ecunet computer network
***
Emory University Divinity School professor Kimberly Long tells a story about a couple who had known each other as fellow church members for many years. Somewhere along the line, love blossomed and grew between them, and the whole church rejoiced when they announced their wedding plans.
A couple of years later, the church rejoiced again when this couple announced they were pregnant. They had been older when they'd married and had difficulty conceiving; finally, after fertility treatments, they learned they were expecting twins. That was a double joy, because the doctor told them that, because of their age, this was probably their only chance at having children of their own.
Sadly, the babies were born many weeks premature; despite all the best efforts of modern medicine, they lived only a few hours -- just long enough for the parents to hold them and bestow upon them the names they had chosen from the start: Abraham Joseph and Sarah Mary, names that, according to their faith, express the fulfillment of God's promise.
And so it happened that, when this couple should have been talking with their pastor about baptisms, they were taking with him about a funeral. Together the three of them planned the service, and when the subject came around to music, the parents asked if someone could play the song, "What A Wonderful World." That struck the pastor as a bit unusual, but under the circumstances, of course he said yes.
The service was emotional for everyone. As the pastor pronounced the benediction, he could see the grief reflected in every face. Then, as had been previously planned, someone punched a button on a CD player, and into the church floated the gravelly voice of Louis Armstrong, singing, "What A Wonderful World."
What happened next, no one expected. It was spontaneous. The husband rose to his feet and opened his arms. His wife stood, too, and drew herself close to him. And then, together, they danced.
The two of them danced a dance of life, clear across the chancel of that church: for they knew, beyond a doubt, that the kingdom of heaven is near, when suffering comes. They knew that life is sometimes ambiguous and filled with contradictions. They knew that sometimes things happen that no one can explain. Yet, they also knew that nothing -- no heartache, no grief, no loss -- could ever separate them, nor their children, from the love of God in Christ Jesus. What a wonderful world: even with King Herod in it!
***
In 1940, Britain's King George VI gave a Christmas radio broadcast. Those were perhaps the darkest days of all for the British people. The war was going badly. Their soldiers had been evacuated from Dunkirk, and the Luftwaffe had begun the bombing raids that would later be known as the Battle of Britain. Death, it seemed, could come raining down out of the sky at any moment.
It was at that moment in history that the king chose to repeat, in his radio address, a few obscure phrases of poetry. The news media, scrambling to find a source for these words the next day, found that they had been written by a Christian missionary from India. They proved to be just what the British people needed, to marshal hope for the ordeal before them. Here is what the king said:
"I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year, 'Give me a light that I may tread into the darkness beyond.' And he said to me, 'Go forth; put your hand into the hand of God; That shall be to you better than a light, safer than a known way.' "
***
There is a Zen Buddhist story about a student who went to visit his teacher one day, just before sunset. They two sat on the floor of the master's hut, drinking tea, and discussing Zen until deep into the night. At last, the teacher said, "It is time you went home."
The student bowed to his teacher, as custom demanded, and walked to the door. Only then did he notice that it had grown completely dark outside.
The master lit a lantern and said, "Why not take this?" Just as the student reached out to take the lamp from his teacher's hands, the teacher blew out the flame. The student suddenly knew everything there was to know.
***
Your sorrow itself shall be turned into joy. Not the sorrow to be taken away, and joy to be put in its place, but the very sorrow which now grieves you shall be turned into joy. God not only takes away the bitterness and gives sweetness in its place, but turns the bitterness into sweetness itself.
-- Charles Spurgeon
