Christmas joy Interrupted

 

It is tempting, in this Christmas season, to end the story on a high. The Christ child is born. The light has come. The carols have been sung. Peace on earth and goodwill to all.

But the lectionary allows no resting there. Christmas joy is interrupted.

The first Sunday of Christmas pulls the reader immediately into danger, displacement, and fear. The child who has just been born is already under threat. The family must flee. The passage for today is somewhat unpalatable (Matthew 2:13-23). The text raises lots of questions.

 

The story is of God’s protection for the infant Jesus. Herod feeling threatened by the stories he had heard about the rise of a new sovereign had all the children under two years old murdered. 

Joseph was warned in a dream to take the child and flee. The gospel of Matthew recites how Joseph takes the infant Jesus and Mary and flees by night. There is urgency here. No preparation. No certainty. Just movement away from violence, to find safety.

From the beginning, Christ is a displaced child. A refugee. One whose survival depends on the courage of others and their willingness to journey into the unknown. The realm of G*d enters the world not through security, but through vulnerability.

Nevertheless, this text is hard to read. Only one parent was warned to protect their child. All the other children were sacrificed. That is not a pleasant thought. It disturbs me and raises several questions:

Was an all-powerful God not able to save more babies?

Were their lives not also important?

Was it okay for them and their families to suffer?

It is back to the question of theodicy.

 

Reading this text also started me thinking of a connection with the Easter story— a strange paradox.

There, one died to save all. 

Here, many died to save one.

 

I also wonder how Mary and Joseph felt. Their baby was safe, but many others weren’t. The gospel does not shy away from extent of the grief. Other parents were grieving, “wailing and loud lamentation” (18) The story names the cost of protecting the Christ child and the devastation that brought.

It gives the message that Christmas does not erase suffering but enters into it. The birth of the Christ child does not cancel human cruelty but reveals G*d’s decision to dwell within it, to share its weight, to bear its consequences, to remain present even when innocence is destroyed.

Life goes on, but not cheaply.

In the church’s calendar this event is remembered by the feast day of the Holy Innocents (Dec 28) which was established late fourth/early fifth century. The children who were killed were regarded as the first martyrs of the church. In ancient theology these children were called “martyrs in deed not in will” or “martyrs before speech”. This disturbed some early theologians because martyrdom usually involved consent. These children had none.

Interestingly, in Medieval England the sadness and pain of the day was remembered by whipping children as they awoke in the morning. Thankfully, that custom ended in the 17^th Century.

 

This story does not appear in any other gospel. Scholars are divided on the authenticity of it. Roughly, there are three ways of looking at it, historically plausible but uncorroborated, (Brown, Wright, Keener) historically doubtful but theologically meaningful (Crossan, Borg, Sanders) and a literary and theological narrative not intended as history (Allison).

 

Regardless, it is part of the faith tradition so I need to ponder it as I would any other text. 

 

I look around my house still full of lights to welcome the Christ child — it is, after all, only the fourth day of Christmas! Yet, in the middle of this celebration of Christmas comes this very harsh reading. 

 

It raises question about how one deals with these unpalatable passages. Are they to be ignored? Are they to be swept under the carpet? When one is reading the lectionary there is always the temptation to focus on the “good” bits of the story. That has always felt a little dishonest to me. 

 

Faith and honesty in dealing with the scriptures sometimes feels like walking a tightrope. I want to be honest, but sometimes that honesty leads me to say that a passage displays a trait of God which I do not like. This is one such passage — a God who only saves one child, albeit a child with a special mission, feels a little distasteful.

 

Yet, it can remind me that G*d-with-us is not confined to moments of joy, but remains present in fear, grief, and displacement, in all the places where life is fragile and difficult.

I can remember that Christmas with its message of light, love, peace and all-is-well does not end the story but begins a journey with all the vulnerability and uncertainty that brings.

Everything Changes Because of this Story

 

Advent is a journey which today is nearing its end. Just a few more days of preparation before the celebration of the Christ-child. This week the fourth purple advent candle, which represents love, is lit joining the candles of hope, peace and joy.

In our home the advent wreath has played a large part this year. Each evening, as we dine, we light the candles as a reminder of the themes they represent.

As we light the first purple candle it speaks of hope. This advent each person will be hoping for different things depending on personal circumstances. Hope is what strenghens each of us on our individual journeys. 

Peace fills our hearts and minds as the second purple candle is lit. Peace in all its many varied aspects. This advent I hope each of you will find peace as you prepare to celebrate the birth of the Christ child.

Joy is at the heart of our advent journey. As we light the pink candle it reminds us that even in a solemn season of waiting and preparation, joy often breaks into our lives unexpectedly. Joy turns darkness to light as we are captured by an intensity of well-being and happiness that can only be described of as pure joy. It may only be a moment in time, a fleeting happening, yet the memory is precious. Joy came, and because of it, life is a little richer.

 

Then this morning, for the first time, we lit the fourth purple candle reminding us of love which completes the message of hope, peace and joy.  As the candle shines out, the lectionary invites us to read the beginning of the Christmas story. It is a story of love.

It is worth noting that the tone of the season changes this week. The waiting becomes more focused, more intimate. The wide, cosmic promises of the prophets narrow into a story of ordinary human life. 

A young woman.
A man who loves her.
A child not yet born.

This week’s gospel (Matthew 1: 18-25) is often called Joseph’s story, but it is also, unmistakably, Mary’s.

Too often in the Christmas story Mary’s role is softened into being only about obedience, as though she simply accepts what happens to her. But the tradition remembers something far stronger: agency. Mary does not drift into this story. She chooses to say yes, not because the path will be safe or easy, but because it is life-bearing. She consents with her body, her reputation, her future. She becomes a participant in divine becoming. G*d’s presence enters the world through flesh, blood and womb. Mary’s body becomes holy ground where life takes root. Mary is not a vessel acted upon, but a collaborator with creation itself.

Joseph, too, acts with courage, but his courage is relational. He chooses not to expose Mary to shame. He chooses protection over righteousness-as-rule-keeping. Even before any angel speaks, Joseph has already aligned himself with mercy.

When the dream comes with the words “Do not be afraid” Joseph consents to stand beside Mary, not above her. He chooses accompaniment.

Together, Mary and Joseph model a shared faithfulness:
Mary consents to bear life.
Joseph consents to shelter it.

Neither controls the outcome. Both trust the unfolding.

Furthermore, Joseph is told the child is named Immanuel which means G*d-with-us.

Not G*d hovering above creation.
Not G*d rescuing us from the earth.
But G*d rooted among us.

The Christ child grows quietly, hidden, nourished by a woman’s body. G*d enters the world the way all life does, slowly, vulnerably, dependent on love.

As we stand on the edge of the celebration of the birth of the Christ child, I am struck by how little certainty anyone has in this story.

Mary does not know how the world will respond.
Joseph does not know how the future will unfold.
The child has not yet drawn breath.

And yet, life goes on.

Perhaps this is Advent’s deepest wisdom:
that love is found not in control, but in consent;
not in certainty, but in trust;
not in escape from the earth, but in belonging to it.

This story of love is so important that it restarts time for all humanity. Hope, peace and joy are redefined. Everything changes because of this one story.