This story of Mary and Joseph’s flight into Egypt with their newborn child and Herod’s slaughter of the infants in Bethlehem is a story that is not preached on very much, if at all. And for obvious reasons. Who wants to spoil the beauty and the joy of the Christmas season with a story of the brutal killing of innocent children? And yet, there it is; a part of the Christmas story. Something Matthew could not leave it out of his gospel.
This story never held much attraction for me until I saw it recreated a number of years ago on a television mini-series entitled, “Jesus of Nazareth.” The whole series, I thought, was a particularly authentic portrayal of the life of Jesus, but seeing the account of the slaughter of the innocents acted out on the screen was especially gripping and moving. The worried look on the face of Herod when he thought his rule as king would soon be over. His ordering of the massacre in a desperate attempt to secure his position. The calmness of life in a small Judean village, the rumble of hoofbeats from the approaching soldiers, the screams of mothers running for cover with their children, the soldiers spearing and stabbing infants as they carried out their orders, mothers left weeping in the streets, unable to understand why this happened, but very much aware of the grief and pain they were feeling. It was one of the scenes that stands branded upon my memory, made much more real and vivid than those few words Matthew uses to relate the event.
There is no record in the annals of secular historians that such a slaughter ever took place. But then again, such an event in so small a village as Bethlehem would not have been front-page news. Herod’s calculated cruelty, however, was a fact, and well documented. Josephus, the Jewish historian, writes in his annuls that Herod once ordered the execution of three of his own sons, out of fear that they might attempt to usurp his throne. And he also made arrangements that at his own burial, one member of every family was to be slain, so that the nation might truly mourn his passing. So such a senseless slaughter at Bethlehem would not have been out of character for someone as cruel and as crazy as Herod.
This story contains so many images, images which bring back memories of similar stories, images which mirror a dynamic played out over and over again in our everyday lives, images which call us to take very seriously the friction, the conflict between the old and the new. There is a child, newly born, vulnerable, holding the hope and the potential for something fresh, something redeeming to come into being. There is Herod, the keeper of the old order, self-centered, set in his ways, fearful of anything new that might come along and threaten his kingdom. There is the dream of Joseph, the message from the other side, the wisdom of centuries past, the warning that seeks to protect what can enliven and redirect the future. There is the flight into Egypt - the long hard journey, the loneliness, the silence, the anxiety, the strangeness, the growing in secret. And then there is the slaughter of the innocent children - the violence, the panic, the shock, the pain, the grief, the dead. But in the end, there is the return of that one child, a gift of God, who sought the safety of a foreign land. And with this child comes the possibility of something fulfilling.
There will always be conflict, confrontation, a life and death struggle between the old and the new, between that which has always been and that which wants to be, between that which has grown strong and set in its ways and that which is so fragile and easily crushed. The balance of power is so heavily weighted towards the old ways, that the new has only its yearning to be born and to grow, to keep it going. And for very child, for every idea, for every insight, for every new experience, for every new relationship, for every new step forward, there are hundreds of such children that are killed and slaughtered, never to have the chance to grow and mature. And the pain and the grief that comes when the Herods of this world have their way is great indeed, both in number and in intensity. And great is the emptiness of those who mourn.
Many years ago I went to see a theatrical production called Cotton Patch Gospel, a musical about the life of Jesus with an Appalachian, country-western twist. It was based on Clarence Jordan’s paraphrase of the New Testament, by the same name. It tries to tell the story of Jesus as if he has been born in Georgia in the 1950’s. The lyrics and music were written and composed by the late Harry Chapin. I wish I could play one of the songs for you, for it is both gripping and haunting.
It begins with Herod’s men singing:
All through the ages, the wise men and sages,
have said there are dirty deeds that simply must be done.
To keep society going, and the benefits flowing,
there’s the simple necessity of hurting someone.
It means strength and agility, taking responsibility,
it’s the core of what leadership’s really about.
When the red blood starts coming, just think of it as plumbing, if you’ve got a problem you must flush it out.
Then the narrator comes in and tells this story: Herod had seen to it that on Sunday morning a bomb got tossed into the nursery of a church where Jesus was supposed to be. Fortunately, Joe had taken Jesus to Mexico, so the plan failed to get him. But the explosion did kill 14 innocent infants and toddlers. It was a horrible sight that morning. The doctor couldn’t even convince one mother that her child was dead. And then the mother sings her song:
Rock a by sweet baby, Mama is here
Hush a by sweet angel, there’s nothing to fear
Close your eyes sweet darling, all through the night
Mama will hold you safe ‘til the morning light.
It shouldn’t take very long to recall some times when we have found ourselves playing the part of a Herod, or a slaughtered child, or a grieving mother. I’d like to share with you some of my recollections, some of my memories, some of my experiences of such moments. This may begin to sound like a testimonial of sorts, and if so, then so be it. But it is important to take time to reflect upon such moments from one’s past and to see how they might be akin to the experiences of those people in the Scriptures. Particularly at this time of the year, when we are trying to leave behind an old year, in order to embrace a new one.
There have been times in the past when I regret having played the role of Herod in my relationships with my children. I remember one time when Micah was only three years old. I came upon Micah at the dining room table trying to make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There was jelly on the floor, peanut butter on the table cloth, and the bread was ripped to shreds. He was working so hard, lost in his creation, in his evolving independence, so necessary for a child that age. And what does King Howard do? “What do you think you’re doing? Look at the mess you’ve made! Does your mother know what you’re up to? Give me that knife! Now I want you to go into the kitchen and get something to clean this mess up with. And the next time, you ask me first before you go making a sandwich.” It wasn’t just the words, but perhaps more the tone of voice I used in saying them. I couldn’t have killed that little three year old any better. Talk about a slaughter of the innocent. Yes, Herod is there, alive within each one of us, male or female, too often ready to kill anything new that might be trying to grow, trying to express itself. Recognize this Herod when he appears, and tell him he has had his time and it is time for him to go.
When I was in seminary I was in a clinical training program, serving as a hospital chaplain. It was there and then that I first discovered the world of the unconscious, what the early church fathers called the spiritual world. It came as I read a book entitled Dreams: God’s Forgotten Language and through the visits with those patients within my charge. When it came time to submit a proposal for my Doctor of Ministry project, I was so excited about working on something having to do with dreams and pastoral care. The day came when myself and the other four doctoral students were assembled to receive the dean’s reply. When I read mine, it was like someone had taken a knife and stabbed me in the heart. “I am sorry to inform you,” it began, “that your proposal is not acceptable. It is too peripheral to the practice of ministry. Please submit another proposal.” I can still remember the pain so vividly. The child, in this case, was represented by my newfound excitement about working with God’s forgotten language. This child was dealt a mortal blow, but fortunately, it did not die. This child was buried, but not forgotten. In 1991, fifteen years after this painful rejection, I left to go overseas and for five years studied the art of dream interpretation at the C.G. Jung Institute in Zurich, Switzerland. And here I am now in Charlotte, North Carolina, setting up my practice as a Jungian analyst. Fortunately for me, the child recovered, but at the time it was a grievous blow, the pain of which, though lessened, I can still feel from time to time.
We all have met these Herods at sometime in our lives, and we will continue to come up against them, because they have a strong presence within the human psyche. Any time something new has been given birth and is struggling to become, no matter what it is, there will be a Herod close by, ready and willing to ridicule it, to silence it, to in effect kill it. This Herod may come through the words of someone close to us, or we may find we are our own worst Herod. That is the nature of the old within each of us, when it becomes entrenched and established. It is threatened, because it does not want to be replaced; it does not want to lose its power; it does not want to die. So instead of being transformed when he becomes old and worn out, Herod kills that which seeks to transform him.
If one is sensitive enough, if one is receptive enough, one can hear the message from the other side, “Rise, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt.” Egypt - that faraway place, that place of safety, that place of gestation. The child must go to Egypt if it is to have any chance of surviving. But the child cannot make the journey on its own. It is too weak, too insecure, and too vulnerable. It needs the drive and protection of Joseph; it needs the warmth and nourishment of Mary. Both of which can come from men and from women. It is in such a place and with such people that the child can grow and mature and begin to discern for itself. The child must have time to become what it was intended by God to become.
Many years ago, when I was much younger and had more hair, at least on my head, I once attended a seminar entitled The Records of the Life of Jesus. It was while participating in this seminar that I found myself once again witnessing the birth of something new within me. From the time when I was a teenager, I had been well-trained that big boys do not cry and men do not grieve with tears. They remain strong with that stiff upper lip. In the meantime, grandparents died, friends died, injustices were committed, hopes for the future were dashed, relationships ended, old wounds were left open, rejections were deeply felt, but no tears were allowed. But it was during this seminar on the life of Jesus that I had a moving experience in which all those tears finally surfaced and I was able to allow them to come forth. In a manner of speaking, a child was born with those tears. I shared this child, this new experience, with a trusted friend, and she honored the child, accepted it, and valued it. I shared this child with man who was older, and he said, “Beware of those Herods who kill little children.” I took that child to Egypt, for some time, until it was strong enough to return to familiar surroundings and to grow in its own right.
What such children’s deaths have you experienced in your own life? When has something new and yet vulnerable within you, been killed before it could grow into full stature? What new births are you now witnessing within you? What divine children has God given you to protect and to nurture? They are there, in each of us, and will continue to come for the rest of our lives. Whatever new child, whatever divine child has come or is coming to you this season, beware of the Herods who would seek to do it harm. If necessary, take your new creation to Egypt, in silence, and let it grow in secret, till it is strong enough to return. If you can do this, the child God has given you will eventually grow stronger and will bring you much fulfillment.
