Holy Innocents, 12/28/2014

Sermon on Matthew 2:13-18, by Richard O. Johnson

Now when they had departed, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Rise, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him." 14 And he rose and took the child and his mother by night and departed to Egypt 15 and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet, "Out of Egypt I called my son."
16 Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had ascertained from the wise men. 17 Then was fulfilled what was spoken by the prophet Jeremiah:
18 "A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be comforted, because they are no more." Matthew 2.13-18 [ESV]

This is the part of the story we'd rather not hear. We love the shepherds, the angels, the manger, the wise men-all poignant and beautiful. But we would like it just fine if we didn't have to hear about King Herod, and the massacre of the children of Bethlehem. Indeed, we don't hear about it very often. It isn't part of the story we generally tell, unless this December 28, the Festival of the Holy Innocents, falls on a Sunday. And then the poor preacher is left with this most difficult of texts, trying to explain why God would allow such a thing. And yet that is just the question we need to consider, isn't it? In a world where violence and tragedy parades across our newspapers day by day, a world where Western journalists are beheaded, black teenagers are shot to death, whole communities of Christians in the Middle East are eliminated, we cannot help but ask why God allows such horrors. But the ways of God are no more comprehensible to us today than they were to the mothers of Bethlehem, the mothers whose wailing and weeping filled the air where just days before the shepherds had heard the song of the angels.

In thinking and praying about this text, I read a number of sermons and commentaries by preachers throughout the history of the church. This is actually a story that has fascinated Christians from the beginning. We believe that the celebration of the Holy Innocents is one of the oldest of "saints days" in the church's calendar, probably observed at least as early the 4^th century. No doubt it was a precious story because many Christians in those early days suffered persecution and death, and the text reminds us that this was a danger from the very beginning for any who were associated with the Babe of Bethlehem. What is most interesting about many of these early sermons is that they don't appear to be surprised or much disturbed by the horror of the story. Perhaps they were more accustomed to the death of children, and more hardened against the rage of tyrants, than we are today. There is a kind of acceptance of this terrible act of wicked Herod, and a recognition that the terror of it, while unspeakable, was really visited more on the parents than on the children-the babes who had no grasp of what was happening.

Artists through the centuries have depicted the scene with graphic brutality. I found a web site that directed me to a dozen or more paintings with titles like The Massacre of the Holy Innocents or The Slaughter of the Children. But the one that intrigued me most was by the 19^th century painter William Holman Hunt, who entitled his work The Triumph of the Innocents. The focus of his scene is the Holy Family, en route out of Bethlehem into the safety of Egypt; and accompanying them are the spirits of all these murdered children. It is as if the artist is reminding us that while this was a wrenching tragedy for the parents of the children, the children themselves were with Christ, held close to him and sheltered forever in a place of refuge far more permanent than Egypt. And so, as Luther puts it, we need not grieve for the children, for God takes care of them. And if it seems unfair that his own Son should escape this treachery, we must remember that it is only because his time had not yet come.

Looking the tyrant in the face

But let's try to put aside our horror at the children, and look the tyrant in the face: Herod the King. History records him as a vicious and violent man, a man so evil that this story, terrible as it, is little more than a footnote. But Frederick Dale Bruner has suggested that we might think of Herod as the very embodiment of human sinfulness-so that when we look him square in the eyes, we are really looking, not at some horrible satanic beast, but at ourselves. In his eyes we see our own reflection. That's a hard one to swallow, isn't it? Let's try to unpack it just a bit.

Sin is estrangement from God, and this estrangement generally comes about because we don't want to let God be in charge. Luther put it just that way: "Human beings are by nature unable to want God to be God. Indeed, we ourselves want to be God, and do not want God to be God." [Disputation Against Scholastic Theology, Thesis 17] In other words, we want to be in control of our life, and the lives of those around us, and, indeed, we'd like to control the world.

And that is Herod. He is the king, and the birth of this child threatens him. This child, the wise men have told him, has been born to be king. But Herod is unwilling to give it up. We cannot ascribe this to ignorance! He's been told by the wise men, and, in fact, by his own scholars, about the Messiah born in Bethlehem. It is known to him. He even, we must agree, recognizes it as the truth. But it is too much truth for him. Though he says that he wants to worship this child, says with his lips that he wants to pay him homage, it is all a charade. He wants to be king, and he will strike out at anything or anyone who threatens him.

And in that, you see, is the reflection of you and me. We have heard about this new king, this Jesus, born in Bethlehem; we believe this to be the truth, and we pay him homage with our lips. But it is our hearts and our lives that don't want to stoop down before the Child in the manger. It is our hearts and our lives that we want to hold firmly in control. We know it, we see it: If Jesus is Lord, then we are not; and that we cannot abide.

We're all Bozos on this bus

We admitted this a few minutes ago-admitted that we prefer the darkness to the light of Christ; admitted that we have sinned against God in thought, word, and deed; admitted that we don't want God to be God, but we'd rather have the job ourselves. We have to keep admitting it, you see, because it is so important to understanding who we are. The medieval theologian Anselm of Canterbury wrote a very provocative book called Why God Became Man. He writes it as a dialogue between himself and a friend whom he calls, believe it or not, Bozo. Bozo seems to think that sin-at least his own sins-aren't really all that significant, and can be quickly forgotten. Anselm replies with wonderful irony: "Then you haven't yet considered the gravity of sin." In Herod, you see, we observe the gravity of it all. We witness what happens when we human beings refuse to acknowledge Christ as King, but try to hold on to the job ourselves. It all seems so harmless in us; but in Herod, we see the ugliness of that rebellion, we see where it heads.

Herod is what I am, deep down inside. Herod lives in me. As despicable and terrible as he appears in this story, I see my reflection there. And I see yours. And I begin to understand why I need this Savior, this Babe of Bethlehem.

God and sinners reconciled

Even as we gaze at the reflection, there is a promise. The Child of Bethlehem, in the end, escaped from the clutches of Herod-escaped, and lived. Jeremiah spoke of Rachel weeping for her children, but then he saw also "hope for your future." That Child, you see, has become our hope. Even the wickedness of Herod-the wickedness of our own hearts-could not destroy him. In him there is life. In him, God and sinners reconciled.

And so the story of Herod, as terrible as it is, sets out in sharp relief the meaning of Christ. If in Herod we see our sinful selves, then in Jesus we see the love of God, a love which did not refuse to enter into our flesh, into the darkness of Bethlehem, into the weeping of Rachel, and finally into the pain and death of the cross. We say the words of the Creed: "for us and for our salvation he came down from heaven." Yes, for us sinners, for us Herods, for us here today, and for our salvation. That's why he came. That's why he opens his arms to us and invites us to this meal, this banquet where we know the forgiveness of sins. So let us hold him in our heart and let us make this prayer our own:

O Savior, child of Mary, who felt our human woe;

O Savior, king of glory, who does our weakness know;

Bring us, at length, we pray to the bright courts of heaven

And to the endless day. Amen.

The Rev. Richard O. Johnson
Grass Valley, CA, USA
E-Mail: roj@nccn.net

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