Sally A. Brown, Professor of Preaching and Worship Emerita, Princeton Theological Seminary
On the first Sunday after Christmas, the designers of the lectionary present us—rather awkwardly—with Matthew 2:13-23, the story of Herod’s slaughter of every baby boy in Bethlehem, aged two or younger. We learn, too, how Joseph is guided in dreams to take two crucial steps: first, to flee Bethlehem and take refuge in Egypt, and then, when Herod is dead, to settle in remote Nazareth, in Galilee. Lacking in today’s reading is the story of the Magi’s visit to Herod in Jerusalem, when they report the rising of a star that they believe signals the birth of a divinely appointed king. Herod, terrified by such a report, adjures the visiting philosopher-priests to bring him word once they find the child. The fact that they do not return ignites Herod’s rage. Preachers might consider including the story of the Magi (Mt 2:1-12) in today’s reading to provide listeners necessary narrative context. .
Secular histories do not mention Herod’s attack on Bethlehem’s children. This is no surprise. Bethlehem was a small town; and Herod was well-known for his deep fear of rivals and his use of bloodthirsty cruelty to eradicate any suspected pretenders to his throne and to quell local uprisings. Although other gospels do not mention this event, it is thoroughly typical of Herod’s routine cruelty.
This story is difficult to listen to at any time, let alone a few days after celebrating the birth of Jesus. Yet, reflecting on this wrenching event can bring needed depth and perspective to our understanding of God’s determination to share the human condition through the Incarnate Son.
Theologically, the story of Herod’s raid on Bethlehem reminds us that the world into which Jesus was born was a world like our own—one in which authoritarian rulers employed threats and violence to control the population. Down centuries and up to the present day and hour, power-hungry, self-glorifying demagogues continue to arise on nearly every continent, using the tactics of Rome’s emperors—threats, military policing, terror, and violence—to assert their (often brittle) authority over the populace. It is into such a world that Jesus comes, embodying an altogether different kind of power—power that rescues and redeems. Jesus wields the power of compassion for the weak, wounded, and hungry, dignity for the downtrodden, and care for society’s most vulnerable. We, Matthew’s readers, know already how Jesus’ own earthly life will end. He, too, will be targeted, captured, condemned, and then subjected to Rome’s primary terroristic tactic, crucifixion. Yet the power of Empire will not win; the Light that shone in the darkness of the 1st century shines still.
Pastorally, this story reminds us that the Christmas season can be a dark and difficult time for some among us. While for many it is a season of family gatherings and laughter, for others, this season is a cutting reminder of painful bereavements—recent, or long ago. Those who mourn may not be able to sing the carols or feel comfortable at Christmas parties. For the newly single or others who are bereaved, this season deepens a sense of isolation. Our sermons today can assure those walking this harder path that angels accompany us, even (and especially) when we are “exiles in Egypt.”
Today’s gospel text tells hard truths. It invites us to reflect on the brokenness of the world that Jesus came to redeem. Jesus came to defeat all that seems bent on defeating us. Jesus will indeed suffer in his own body Rome’s terror; yet neither Rome not the swaggering tyrants of our own day shall have the last word. The peace of which the angels sang shall come. Faith dares to wager that every victim of tyranny’s sword is known to God, and God’s relentless, restorative love shall reclaim each and all.
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