Slaughter Of The Innocents

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.