Holy Innocents

The historical facts of the Gospel reading today are not much in dispute.  Most scholars agree that this story of the flight of the Holy Family into Egypt and the slaughter of the innocents in Bethlehem never happened.  If this view is correct, it brings us some relief in the face of a text that seems to offer little good news.  Matthew tells us that “in a furious rage,” Herod “sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under.”  No matter what the number of children this might have been, it suggests a moment of horrific cruelty that all of us can be grateful never actually happened.

But it is an odd thing to reflect on some element of the Christmas story and decide that the good news is that it isn’t true.  I accept at face value the scholars’ and historians’ view that the episode of the flight into Egypt and the slaughter of the innocents never really happened, but I stop well short of concluding that these facts mean that the story is not true.  Indeed, I would say that there is deep truth to be found in these few verses of Matthew’s Gospel.  But at face value it can still be hard for the modern person to find good news in them: thank God that Matthew made up a story that never happened!  It’s hard to turn this into a Christmas carol, though.

But maybe we need to look at the text generically, rather than specifically.  What it tells us is that a rich and powerful ruler was more than willing to wreak horrible cruelty, bloodshed, and murder on the most vulnerable of his society in order to protect his position of power.  Put that sentence in any tense.  Apply it to any era of history, including our current day; and tell me that it is not true!

Rich and powerful rulers have in the past and continue today to be willing to wreak horrible cruelty, bloodshed, and even murder upon the most vulnerable of society.  That the most vulnerable may be defenseless children is meaningless to them.  This is not a description of the ancient world only, it is a description of the world we live in.  Any presentation of modern evidence I could summarize here would be both too ugly and too short to do justice to the actually cruelty, bloodshed, and murder visited upon innocent children.  So if you don’t believe that my assessment is true, try this exercise: go find someone with a political outlook that is at the polar opposite end of the spectrum from yours, and ask them whether or not my proposition is true, ask them whether or not innocents are slaughtered in the midst of own era at the hands of the powerful and the rich.  I think you will find that the person whose outlook so differs from your own will also see examples of the innocent being slaughtered where you or I might not find them – and they’d be right.

So I think the story of the slaughter of the innocents is profoundly true.  When you rap on it, it does not sound hollow, rather it echoes down through the ages with a horrible ring of truth to it: children slaughtered at the hands of violent, greedy men.  But I am still short of good news.  So we have to look deeper, accepting the story on its own terms.

Matthew’s writing, or maybe the translation, is a little misleading here because of the order in which things come.  If you are not paying careful attention it looks as though Matthew is saying that Herod goes into a furious rage about being tricked because the Holy Family makes their escape into Egypt.  But actually, this is not what Matthew says.  He is clear that Herod’s rage stems from his discovery that he has been tricked by the wise men – who never actually return to Herod to bring him details about the identity and location of the new born king, as they said they would.  Herod does not know that Mary and Joseph and Jesus have escaped.  He believes that the child must still be in Bethlehem.  And he carefully works out, given the limited information he has from the wise men, that if he wants to be sure to eliminate any rival to his power, the cut-off will have to be two-year-olds, because, he works out, the baby might have been born at any time in the past two years.  Presumably he rounded up, just to be sure.

So when he sends his henchmen into Bethlehem to do their dastardly work, and they bring him word that it is done, the blood still dripping from their swords, Herod thinks that he has won.  He thinks that he is safe, and he thinks he has prevailed.

No good news yet.  So far only the angels really know the good news, since they are the only ones who know where Mary and Joseph and Jesus have gone.  So far to everyone else it looks as though the rich and powerful have prevailed, and that God’s will has been thwarted.  And now we are getting close to Matthew’s point in telling the story.

Matthew doesn’t much care if the facts are unfounded in historical actuality.  He knows that it has always been true that rich and powerful men have been willing to use brutal force against the weak in order to keep their power and their wealth, and Matthew knows that it will continue to be true for a while.  So he knows there is truth at the heart of the story he is telling even though his facts don’t square with history.

But Matthew wants to us to see that Herod is wrong: he doesn’t even know how he has been tricked – he thinks it’s the wise men who have tricked him, when actually the Holy Family is on their way to Egypt.  Herod doesn’t even know that his cruelty has accomplished nothing, as he looks with satisfaction at the blood-spattered uniforms of his henchmen.  He foolishly believes that he has vanquished his rival.  And he is completely and utterly wrong.

Matthew wants us to see the truth.  He wants us to see both that God’s will prevails, and that the cruel who protect their power by bloody might don’t even know it when thy have lost.  But he wants us to know it, too.  Matthew is winking at us, his audience, the entire time he is telling this part of the story – to make sure we get the point that he is making.  Does it look as though the powers of darkness have prevailed?  Are they looking self-satisfied as they lick their bloody chops?  Well, you and I know better! says Matthew with a wink!

A few decades later, Jesus himself, now grown up, will be surrounded by men who came from nothing, but who have hitched themselves to Jesus for various reasons.  From time to time it will occur to them that maybe there will be a pay-off of power and wealth if they hang in with this guy.  They are heard asking him, “what then shall we have?” and, “which of us will be greatest when you are king?”  And when their minds are carried away with these thoughts they will shoo children away from Jesus, because, after all, children are in the way, and they are weak and defenseless.

And Jesus will stop them from their shooing, and halt them in their dreaming of power and wealth.  And he will stoop down on one knee and beckon a recently scolded child to him, and take him in his arms.  Maybe the child is a boy, only two years old?

And he tells them to let children come to him, he tells them that the kingdom of heaven belongs to children, he tells them that if you receive a child, you receive him, and vice versa.  He shows them that the weak and vulnerable are dearer to his heart than those who believe they are on the way to the show, the pay-off, the jack-pot.

Since we live in an age when the slaughter of innocents has not yet come to an end – and all the facts, I contend support this conclusion across a long swath of history – we might be tempted, especially in the face of this sad story from the Gospels, to think that the powers of darkness are prevailing or have prevailed.  But if we reach that conclusion, then we have failed to notice that Matthew is winking to us when he tells us of Herod’s rage.  And we may fail to see Herod for the loser that he is, if we think, as he did, that his cruel and bloody plot had taken care of everything that needed taking care of.

But the Gospel tells us that God’s will does prevail, even when cruel men appear to have won and are too stupid to know that they have lost.  Because they cannot see the power of God beneath the chubby folds of baby fat, coming from somewhere unexpected, with an unwed mother and a blue-collar father.

Look up, and see the evangelist winking at you and at me, as if to assure us that the details of the cruelty hardly matter – you can fill in the blanks with your own, that’s what he did – what matters is that the will of God will prevail, and Christ will come again and again, and keep coming into the world till at last all children are safe. 

Pray, God, do it soon!

 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

28 December 2014

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Posted on December 28, 2014 .

Christmas Truce

The big story this Christmas is not so much the two-thousand year-old story as it is the one-hundred year-old story on its centenary.  There has been a book written about it, a movie, and even an opera.  And this year, the British supermarket giant Sainsbury’s produced a lovely three-and-a-half minute video telling a version of the story of the Christmas Truce.

The truce seems to have occurred somewhat spontaneously in several places between British and German troops who were dug into trenches on the front in Belgium on the first Christmas Eve of the first year of the First World War.  Details of a somewhat disjointed and murky story have been pasteurized and homogenized to make a more perfect narrative than first-hand sources can actually provide.  But the fact of a remarkable, unplanned, and quite meaningful truce that saw bitter enemies shaking hands, exchanging gifts, playing soccer, and singing Christmas carols is beyond question.

Hundreds of letters attest to various details of the Christmas Truce, but one of the most famous letters was written by Frederick W. Heath, who bore the rank of private at that early stage of the war.  Heath reports that “my eyes caught a flare in the darkness.  A light in the enemy’s trenches was… rare at that hour.”  In short order, “light after light sprang up along the German front.”  And soon Heath heard a call from the enemy’s position, “’English soldier, English soldier, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas.’”

But the Christmas greetings from the opposing forces did not end there, they soon became an invitation: “’Come out, English soldier; come out here to us.’”  Lights twinkling on the front or not, the English soldiers did not quit their weapons or their trenches that night, although Heath reports that a conversation took place all night long between the two sides, and the Germans sang carols, and the Brits played piccolos and sang carols too, and laughter was heard, and no gunfire.

“Came the dawn penciling the sky with grey and pink,” Heath wrote.  “Under the early light we saw our foes moving recklessly about on top of their trenches.”  He recalls that it was “a brazen invitation to us to shoot and kill with deadly certainty. But did we shoot?  Not likely!  We stood up ourselves and called benisons on the Germans.  Then came the invitation to fall out of the trenches and meet half way.”

Although I am deeply suspicious of the sleek packaging of wartime narratives in order to sell groceries, I recommend watching the Sainsbury’s ad, which does a better job than I can do here of describing the kind of scene that must have followed in the No Man’s Land of the front lines of a war a hundred years ago.  Soccer matches break out; handshakes and meaningful glances are exchanged; chocolate and tobacco change hands.  Heath’s letter puts it simply: “Here was no desire to kill, but just the wish of a few simple soldiers… that on Christmas Day, at any rate, the force of fire should cease.”

This story plucks at nearly every heart-string I possess: from Anglo-philia; to my respect for those who serve in the military; to my peace-loving ways; to my conviction that the power of Christ can overcome every darkness, even the darkness of war; it even appeals to my love of chocolate.  Beautiful though the Sainsbury’s ad may be, it is somewhat chauvinistically revisionist in that it suggests the impetus for the truce originated on the British side of No Man’s Land, and by its reckoning only the British soldier gives a gift to his German counterpart, sacrificially leaving himself with nothing but his stale and meager rations when he returns to his muddy trench.

And the little video gives only the faintest impression of what may be happening as the men from both sides return to their fortifications, and the dull, faint sound of shots being fired can be heard rather unthreateningly in the distance.  Private Heath put it more pointedly: “As I finish this short and scrappy description of a strangely human event, we are pouring rapid fire into the German trenches, and they are returning the compliment just as fiercely.  Screeching through the air above us are the shattering shells of rival batteries of artillery.  So we are back once more to the ordeal of fire.”[i]

Back once more to the ordeal of fire. 

One of the most important and most overlooked facts of the Christmas Truce was that it came to a fairly swift end; the men returned to their trenches, to their rifles, and mortars, and artillery.  And the fighting resumed – the ordeal of fire – almost as if nothing had ever happened.

So what is the re-telling of story of the Christmas Truce, and its hint of good will among men, except a Ghost of Christmas Past posing as Ghost of Christmas future, and framing Ebeneezer Scrooge’s famous question: are these the shadows of things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?  Put it another way on the night we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace: Will we ever know Peace?  Or are we destined to return again and again to the ordeal of fire?

“Back once more to the ordeal of fire.”  In so many ways these words describe our current predicament in the world.

“Screeching through the air above us are the shattering shells of rival batteries of artillery:”

Rich vs. poor. 

Black vs. white.

Republican vs. Democrat. 

Christian vs. Muslim. 

Conservative vs. liberal. 

Fox vs. MSNBC. 

West vs. East. 

Russia vs. Ukraine. 

Rebels vs. Syria. 

ISIS vs. the world. 

N. Korea vs. Sony Pictures.

Police vs. black men.

De Blasio vs. protesters.

Israel vs. Palestine.

Obama vs. Boehner

Bush vs. Clinton (again)

China vs. America.

In-laws vs. home.

South vs. north.

Capital vs. labor.

Pats vs. Genos

Baxter vs. Ozzie – yes, sometimes even my two lovely Labradors reduce the discussion in their world to this simple equation!

These are the shattering shells of rival batteries of artillery.  And daily we find ourselves back once more to the ordeal of fire.

I daresay there is nothing unique about this present moment.  For a hundred years we have been taking a short break, most Christmas Eves, for a taste of peace.  But then we rush back to our trenches to resume the fighting – it hardly matters over what.  But every year for an hour or two we kindle a light in the darkness of Christmas Eve and move recklessly about on top of our trenches in a show of affected peacefulness.

Jesus knows how likely we are to return to our trenches, to the ordeal of fire as soon as we walk out these doors.  So year after year he calls us here to listen for him.  Year after year the Christ child cries out from his Christmas crib, in a cry that sounds like what Private Heath must have heard: “English solider, English soldier, a merry Christmas!  Come out, you Christmas worshipers; come out here to me!”

He cries out to each of us as we sit in our pews, but his cry carries further.

He cries out to those who are marching in the streets for justice they fear will never be theirs because of the color of their skin.

He cries out for those who mourn their dead children, lost in the confusing violence of racism.

He cries out to those who are sick, no horrified, at the thought of police officers gunned down in their cars.

He cries out to those whose sons and daughters are still struggling with the wounds of war – inside and out.

He cries out to the lonely, and the refugees, and the wandering immigrants, and the people who patrol the borders, and the doctors and nurses caring for Ebola patients, and the elderly who are trying to figure out how to remain independent without much success,  and the children who are spending Christmas in hospitals, and the women and girls who have suffered at the hands of violent men, and the people whose secret lives are perilously close to being found out, and the addict who is without his family this Christmas because he cannot admit his addiction and he will not take the help they have offered.  “Merry Christmas!” cries the baby Jesus from somewhere on the other side of the trench of whatever war it is you and I are fighting. “Come out,” he cries, “come out to me!” 

In our confusion, we can’t tell if he is friend or foe.  Is it safe this Christmas Eve to come out of the trench and sing?  Is it safe to fraternize with the one who I thought was my enemy?  Have I anything in my pocket to give him?  Will you run across No Man’s Land and laugh and play a friendly match of soccer, with little care of who wins or loses?

What shall we do, dug into our trenches as we are?

The real lesson of the Christmas Truce of 1914 was that it didn’t last.  And there were plenty of people who tried to nip it in the bud anyway.  And when the caroling stopped everyone returned to his side, and the shelling started, and the ordeal of fire resumed.

But still the Baby of Bethlehem is crying: this is his plea for peace.  Not a year goes by that we don’t have the opportunity to come out of our trenches and stay out, and move recklessly about inviting either attack or peaceful fellowship.  And maybe we do for an hour or two on Christmas Eve, but like good soldiers we always return, and the warring begins again.  So the Baby cries again and again and again, as we fight a thousand undeclared wars at home, and abroad, and within our own private battlefields.

And the good news of Christmas is not that once, a hundred years ago, for a night or two, or maybe a little longer, the ordeal of fire was interrupted by an interval of hope and fellowship and peace, only to resume in due course.  No, the good news of Christmas is that the Baby keeps crying.  He will not grow up or go away as long as we keep returning to our trenches.  He just keeps crying year after year, hoping that some day we will heed his cries and stay out of the trenches.

On at least one other occasion in the Great War, Frederick William Heath found himself between the front lines of British and German forces in the midst of No Man’s Land.   On 13 October 1917, an Australian bi-plane was forced by enemy aircraft to crash land in between the front lines, under heavy fire.  Its pilot was badly wounded, but found cover that protected him from the enemy gunfire.

Heath, our letter writer of three years earlier, was in a trench nearby, and he jumped out of his trench and made his way to the downed pilot to try to rescue him, but found him too injured to move.  So Heath returned to the trenches and there arranged for a larger rescue party to bring in the bleeding pilot, who would survive in hospital for only two weeks before dying from his wounds.[ii]

And here again, surprisingly, is a sign of more of the good news of Christmas.  For if a soldier in the midst of a tragic war is willing to risk himself for a fallen ally from a far-away continent, how much more so will the Prince of Peace, now all grown up, keep coming to save you and me, even though we return again and again to our trenches, and even though we die?

In the quiet truce of this Christmas Eve, let us dare to pray for peace that will last.  And if we can’t imagine such a thing, then let us be brave enough to come out from our fortifications, and move recklessly about on top of our trenches as we call out to those who a moment ago we were supposed to be killing:  “Merry Christmas, merry Christmas.  Come out to us, come out, so that we may laugh and sing and play together."

And let us stay out of our trenches for as long as we can, in hopes that some Christmas Eve we will come out from them and never go back, God being with us. 

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

Christmas Eve, 2014

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

[i] A Letter by Frederick W. Heath; www.christmastruce.co.uk/heath.html

[ii] “Frederick William Heath” by Charles Woollam and Gill Joye; www.christmastruce.co.uk/heathblog.html

Posted on December 25, 2014 .