A Voice in Ramah

Matthew 2:13-23

December 29, 2019 • Mount Pleasant UMC

I hope everyone had a nice Christmas this week. We sure did; Christopher was home for a few days and we had a quiet day of food and family. When I think back over my 53 Christmases, I remember so many things. I remember as a kid running downstairs to see what Santa had left, and pestering my mom and dad to get up so we could unwrap presents. I remember sledding and building snow forts in what seemed like much larger snows than we have now. I remember how my Aunt Helen would always make my brother and I homemade pajamas for Christmas. I remember a Christmas when it was warm enough we were walking around town in shirt sleeves, and I remember the first Christmas I was in seminary when we couldn’t get home to Indiana. So we went with some friends that evening to the only restaurant we could find open in Lexington, Kentucky, which was a Chinese restaurant and had a Chinese Christmas meal. I remember the first Christmas with Christopher when we put the tree in the playpen because that’s the only place he didn’t want to be, so if it was in the playpen, he would leave the ornaments alone. And I remember the Christmas where we left on Christmas Day for Florida, and the kids loved swimming in a pool in December. My memories of Christmas center around family, food, Christmas Eve worship and quiet, peaceful times. Even our songs lead us in that direction: “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie…” “The little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes…” (New parents know that’s not true!) “How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given…” “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright…” And the angels did sing of “peace on earth, good will toward all” (Luke 2:14, KJV). As we’ve remembered during Advent, Christmas is a time of hope, joy, love and peace.

But there is another side to Christmas and it centers on the story of the Magi. These “wise men” (probably astrologers) traveled maybe as long as two years to find the baby Jesus because of an ancient prophecy. They stopped in Jerusalem, because kings would naturally be born in the captial, and they asked King Herod where the newborn king of the Jews was. W`hen Herod heard this, he became “disturbed” (2:3). He begins to plot, and he learns that Bethlehem is the place the prophet Micah said would be the birthplace of this king, so he sends the Magi there as sort of an advance scouting party: “As soon as you find him, report to me, so that I too may go and worship him” (2:8). Now, we know worship is not what Herod really had in mind, and the Magi are warned in a dream to go home a different way, which they do, and Herod is furious. He’s been double-crossed, and that does not sit well with him. That’s how Bethlehem, which up until this time had been little more than an after-thought to Herod, becomes the target of the king’s wrath.

Today, Bethlehem, just six miles outside of Jerusalem, is a city of somewhere just over 25,000 people. It’s a Palestinian city, and, as I shared on Christmas Eve, to get there you have to pass through a checkpoint, through the wall. It’s largely a Muslim city, but that wasn’t always the case. In 1950, Christians made up 86% of the population, but today, that’s dropped to somewhere around 12%, even though more than a million tourists visit the city and the Church of the Nativity every year. In the first century, it was even smaller, and no one came to visit. Back then, Bethlehem had a population of somewhere between 300-1,000. It really was a “little town.” It was not a place you would expect anyone important to come from. It was not a place where kings were born (except, of course, for David but that had been a long time ago). Until that night. Until a baby was born there who would be known as “king of the Jews.” Not only did the Magi use that title, it would be used of him at the end of his life as well. It would be a charge leveled against him that, in part, would lead to his crucifixion by Rome. King of the Jews. The problem with the Magi using that title of this baby is that there already was a Rome-appointed king of the Jews named Herod, and he did not take kindly to threats to his reign.

To Herod, it was nothing to kill his own family members to protect his reign. “As his power had increased, so had his paranoia” (Wright, Matthew for Today, Part One, pg. 14). He killed one of his favorite wives and two of his sons to protect his power. And he built things. Lots of things. In fact, within a few miles of Bethlehem, Herod built a massive monument to himself, called the Herodium. It sits on a small hill, and on its grounds were royal apartments, a swimming pool (which was lavish since this is in the middle of the desert where water is scarce), a 450-seat theater, and a synagogue among other things. It was really a monument to Herod, promoting his own greatness. Herod loved himself and his power, then he hears about a new king born in Bethlehem and he’s disturbed, agitated, fearful. And when the Magi don’t cooperate with his plan, Herod lashes out. He doesn’t just try to find the one child who is a threat. No, that would take too much time; this threat must be neutralized immediately. Herod sends the order to kill all the babies in Bethlehem and its vicinity—any male child who was two years old or younger. Now, this massacre is not mentioned in any source other than Matthew’s Gospel, and because we think of it as a big event (that’s the way the movies portray it), we might wonder why not. The reality is that, considering Bethlehem’s size at the time, there were probably only a dozen or so babies killed in this sweep of the town (Carson, “Matthew,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 94). That’s not meant to diminish the horror what happened, because the reality is that when Herod was done, there were a dozen or so mothers and fathers whose children were “no more” (cf. 2:18).

Matthew describes it by using words from the prophet Jeremiah: “A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more” (2:18). Jeremiah (31:15) lived through a time when a foreign king had come to destroy Jerusalem, and after accomplishing that, he had taken his prisoners to Ramah, another little place near Bethlehem and Jerusalem. There, he killed some of them and took others away as prisoners. Ramah was where Rachel, the woman who in many ways is seen as the mother of Israel, had died and was buried (Carson 94). We have here grief upon grief. Jeremiah mourns his city, and he pictures Rachel weeping for her children, her descendants, who were killed there. Matthew again hears that voice, that weeping, as children are taken from their mothers by a tyrant intent only on preserving his own throne. Grief upon grief upon grief.

So what do we do with that, especially at Christmas? We don’t want to hear bad news this time of year. We don’t want to upset our idea of a perfect Christmas, an “Instagrammable” Christmas should be. I remember several years ago being in a planning meeting when someone suggested that in December we should have a speaker from the homeless shelter come. That idea was shot down because one person said, “I don’t want to hear about depressing stuff at Christmas.” So what do we do with the fact that Christmas has a dark side? What do we do with the reality that as Jesus was born in Bethlehem, other children died in that same town because of him? Well, often we try to frame it in a positive way. We’ll say, “But Jesus escaped, so that’s the point of the story. The Father was watching out for his Son.” You hear that same sort of thing any time there is a tragedy. You’ll hear stories about how someone was late, or took a different turn, or didn’t go to work that day. God protected them, we say. But what do we say to those whom, it seems, God didn’t protect? They ask why God was not watching out for their loved ones. Where do we see the hand of God? Only protecting us and not “them”? Saying God was watching out for one and not for another is not helpful. At the end of this chapter, we’re told that Mary and Joseph, once they leave Egypt, don’t return to Bethlehem. Even though Bethlehem was Joseph’s hometown, they return instead to Nazareth, Mary’s hometown. Now, Matthew gives us political reasons to explain why they went to Nazareth, but I wonder if there wasn’t a sense as well that they couldn’t bear to go back to Bethlehem. Perhaps they couldn’t face those who lost sons because of the birth of their son.

What do we do with this story? Because it’s also our story. This is the way the world reacts when it doesn’t understand someone or something. It lashes back, it’s seeks to eliminate that which seems threatening. Herod is every petty dictator and every system that has ever lashed out in anger, hatred and revenge. Herod is imperial Rome, lashing out at Christians because they dared to say Jesus is Lord rather than Caesar. Herod is Nazi Germany, killing six million Jews because one man decided they were inferior. Herod is Kim Il-Sung, murdering 1.6 million people in order to “keep the peace” in North Korea. Herod is the government in Rwanda that killed 800,000, or the September 11 hijackers who killed 2,800 people. Herod is alive and well, even at Christmastime. And Herod lives within us as well. For every time we lash out at someone in anger, or in revenge, or in an effort to discredit them to make ourselves look good, or in a way that’s simply meant to get our own way no matter what, the spirit of Herod lives again. Every time we kill someone’s spirit by our actions or words, Herod lives again. The baby born in Bethlehem would grow up to tell us that even calling a brother or sister a “fool” was the same as murder (cf. Matthew 5:22). He takes our words that seriously. We hurt others when we talk behind their backs, when we harm their reputation, when we talk about them rather than to them. Herod lives within us, and more even than Rachel weeping in Ramah, God weeps in heaven over the cruel and hurtful things we do to each other, whether on an international or an interpersonal scale.

Now, let me get a little personal. There are probably some of us sitting here who have been hurt by others who are also sitting here. I remember a time when someone told me that there was a conflict between two church members, and my initial response, which was both serious and a bit sarcastic, was, “Only two?” In pursuit of our own agendas or of how we think certain things ought to be done, we hurt each other. And some of us work it out and move on. Others of us keep the hurt deep within, and though we pretend everything is okay, it’s not. We’re hurting. Where there ought to be joy and celebration this Christmas, there is weeping and mourning for the brokenness that is in a relationship. My question is: can we put aside our pride, our own little kingdom, and seek reconciliation, healing, and hope with that other person? It really doesn’t matter whose fault it is. This baby in the manger will grow up and tell us that if we’ve hurt someone, we’re to seek them out and pursue healing. He doesn’t say to go talk to twenty other people about it. He says to go to the person you have hurt and try to make things right (cf. Matthew 18:15-17).

For others of us, though, finding healing of the brokenness is not quite that simple, because for some of us, we’ve lost someone or something we love. The world has conspired against us to take away that which was precious. We’re the mothers of Bethlehem, and the world in its violence has robbed us of what we thought we would always have. Whether that happened because of a death or a loss of a job or a divorce or a loss of some other kind, the pain is real. I wonder, when I read this story in Matthew 2, how the mothers of Bethlehem got through the days ahead. I don’t know, but I do know two things they needed to know to be able to make it through. One: God did not take their children. Herod had the children killed. This world is broken and evil things happen because God has given us free will, including the freedom to make destructive choices toward others. God does not cause evil. And that leads to the second thing they needed to learn: the baby born in that manger came to begin the work of putting the broken world back together. He came to show us how to live so that the Herods of the world would not, ultimately, win. He came to teach us to beat our swords into plowshares (Isaiah 2:4), to turn the other cheek (Matthew 5:39), and to forgive as he has forgiven us (Matthew 6:14-15). He came to remake the world, and the promise of Advent and of the Scriptures is that he is coming again to finish the job. Until that time, we’re called to live in such a way that we become his hands and feet in putting it all back together.

Often, in the darkest times of our lives, what we most need is to be surrounded by people who love us no matter what and who will accept us no matter what state we’re in that day. As I’ve said several times this year, we can get that somewhat on Sunday morning, but the place you really find that kind of support and love is in small groups. Those folks care about you. They may not always understand, but they will always love and accept you. We will have some new groups forming after the first of the year, but I can’t urge you strongly enough to get connected to a small group, even before you “need” it. Healing can also come as you find a place to serve. I’ve talked to people who have lost loved ones who then go to a nursing home and “adopt” a resident who has no one else to care for them. Or someone who has lost a child finding a place to serve in children’s ministries, or becoming a Big Brother or Big Sister. That’s not ever intended to replace the loved one. That’s not the point. But it is a proven spiritual principle: one of the ways we heal from brokenness is by giving ourselves away in service. It is not a sign of spiritual maturity to “do it alone” or to “suffer in silence.” Those who are becoming spiritually mature are learning they can’t do it by themselves. We desperately need the Christian community to find peace and hope. Where is there brokenness in your life, and what are you going to do about it in this new year so you can find the wholeness God wants for you?

There is a tradition, found in the writings of a man named Macrobius (who was not a Christian), that one of the children killed in the purge of Bethlehem was a son Herod had sent there to be taken care of by a nurse. It certainly would not have been out of the realm of possibility for Herod to have killed one of his own sons, but it’s a sad irony, if it’s true, that in his haste to try to get rid of Jesus, he did harm to his own family. Nothing restrained Herod as he pursued his own power. However, Matthew tells us the end of his story in verse 19: “Herod died.” In fact, we know from historical sources that Herod died a horribly painful death, and because he knew no one would mourn him, he arranged for certain officials to be killed at the moment of his death so that at least people would be sad when he died. It was an order his heir refused to carry out. Herod was buried in the Herodium, and his body rotted and decayed. But the one he tried to wipe out grew up, lived a perfect life, then willingly gave his life in order to save us from our sin. And more than that, he rose from the dead and lives still today. Herod is gone, but Jesus lives to offer healing and hope and wholeness and light in the midst of the darkness to all who will follow him. John promised just that in the beginning of his Gospel, a passage we have heard every week this year during Advent: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (1:5). In the midst of our darkness, Jesus is the light. That’s the good news this Christmas! That’s what gives us hope even in the midst of the darkness: Jesus wins, and Jesus reigns.

And so, to this Jesus, this baby of Bethlehem, we now turn as we prayerfully make our commitment to him for the coming year. We do this every year at this time, as generations of our Methodist forbears have done, in sharing together the covenant renewal prayer. I invite you to follow along on the screen as we renew this covenant, our relationship with this Jesus, for 2020.