December 1998 Issue

It could have been such a beautiful story. The kind that makes you feel warm and cheery at Christmas time. It could have been a happy story with no ugly part in it. Some preachers, when they preach this story, leave out the ugly part. Even some lectionaries leave it out, setting today's reading as Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23. There you have it: your basic expurgated version of the story.

Matthew himself could have told the story like that. He could have said that the Magi traveled from the East to Jerusalem, learned that Jesus would be born at Bethlehem, followed the star to the manger, offered their gifts to the baby Jesus and then returned home. Amen, end of story. This is the way Matthew could have told it.

Only he didn't. There is an ugly part to the story. There is a villain in the piece. His name is Herod, and he is a king. Scholars cannot say for certain whether the ugly incident we call the Massacre of the Innocents happened historically as Matthew describes it, but one thing they do know: Herod was capable of doing what Matthew describes. So here is the ugly part. The wise men, to be wise men, do a foolish thing. Arriving in Jerusalem they let Herod in on their quest—they tell King Herod about the birth of King Jesus. Wouldn't anyone have known better than to do that?—to tell the reigning monarch about the birth of a pretender to the throne?

Herod, in turn, does what he thinks he has to do. Jealous for his power, he orders the slaughter of male Jewish babies. Can you hear the mothers' wailing? The other night, watching the news, I heard the wailing. Chechnen mothers were mourning their sons shot down by Russian soldiers. I asked myself, Why do they cry like that? Why not the simple sob, the muffled moan—tasteful weeping? Why this blood-chilling wail? Matthew can hear the wailing: "A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachael weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they were no more."

That is the ugly part of the story. No fairy tale. No Hollywood ending. Matthew is obliged to tell the truth: Good news will have its enemies. Godly acts incite acts of godlessness.

Which is where we moderns are. The popular myth is: The world honors moral purity, respects acts of kindness. Whenever we do what is right, what is good, everything will turn out all right. Just obey God, follow Jesus, say your prayers, and all will be well. But Matthew knows better; he lets us know straight out that the ways of God will interfere with the ways of the world, with political power and vested interests and personal ambition. Whenever Jesus is born in Bethlehem, Herod wakes up in Jerusalem.

Do modern congregations accept this? That good news has its enemies? That it is still King Jesus vs. King Herod? Let the church get serious about its work for justice, and it will stir up somebody's ire. Let it get on the march against poverty, and it will run smack into the barricades of profiteers of poverty. Let it oppose discrimination against blacks or gays or women, and it will be warned to back off. Let it support legislation that protects besieged eco-structures, and it will be called econazis. In Memphis the Prescott Memorial Baptist Church was turned out of its county association. Why? Because it insisted on calling a woman to be its pastor. In Laredo, Texas, a group of Christians was stopped by INS police from crossing the border into Mexico. Why? You would think they would be welcome: they were driving buses loaded with food, medicine, and clothing for poor persons. So why the interdiction? Because they were Pastors for Peace headed for Cuba, and Cuba is on our national hate list, our political enemy.

So what should we do, church? Practice quiet diplomacy, close our eyes to seeing evil and fold our hands to doing good? Look the other way when a star appears? When we preach the Christmas story, dance around the ugly part? Some would say, Yes. They believe the church should avoid controversy, should say its prayers, have scout troops and marriage enrichment classes and do spiritual rebirths—but steer clear of Herod's palace.

The only thing is that we know better. We know that the church cannot really be the church and cut a deal with Herod. We are disciples on a mission, and disciples do not look for the easy way out. We are followers of Christ, and Christ did not speak in whispers or heal in out-of-the-way places. When Hitler's troops began filling concentration camps in the 1930s, a great many Christians held their peace. They were afraid. But other Christians got together and formed the Confessional Church of Germany, and they went public. "We are the body of Christ," they announced, "so we cannot keep silent in the face of state terror and oppression." They published the Barmen Declaration, their creed, professing, "We have no Fuhrer but Jesus Christ." Some were jailed, others killed.

So we do know, don't we? We know that whenever Christ's church moves toward Bethlehem to worship King Jesus, it must pass through Jerusalem and disturb King Herod. We also know that we must do it nonetheless. Because we also know this: Although the world is powerful, it is not ultimately powerful; and we also know that Herods come and go, but God prevails forever. "Though this world with devils filled should threaten to undo us, we will not fear, for God has willed his truth to triumph through us," in Luther's stirring words. So we continue because we are confident that, although Herod of Jerusalem is fearsomely strong, in the last analysis he is no match at all for the Baby of Bethlehem.

Paul B. Brown