SERMON FOR THE FIRST SUNDAY OF CHRISTMAS, DECEMBER 29, 2019      TEXT: MATTHEW 2:13-23
     Herod the Great was a controversial figure. He became king of Judaea through the auspices of the Roman Empire in 37 B.C. and reigned for 32 years. His legacy included a number of colossal building projects, among them the  renovation of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, the construction of the port at Caesarea and the fortress at Massada. He is credited with forging a new aristocracy from practically nothing, consolidating Roman rule over Judaea and advancing the Hellenization of its society. Because of these accomplishments, various historians regard him as a forceful and successful ruler. Others, however, judge him to be a vicious tyrant, whose achievements are overshadowed by his moral defects. “Unfortunately, there was a dark and cruel streak in Herod’s character that showed itself increasingly as he grew older,” writes one historian. “His mental instability, moreover, was fed by the intrigue and deception that went on within his own family.” 
     Herod divorced his first wife Doris to marry Mariamne, a Hasmonean princess belonging to the priestly family of Jewish leaders who represented his greatest rivals. Using the marriage bed to end feuds and create alliances has always been standard procedure among royalty. Making Mariamne his wife was shrewd politically. Herod was also deeply in love with her. Yet, as this historian tells us, “Despite his affection for Mariamne, he was prone to violent attacks of jealousy; his sister Salome [the great-aunt of the Salome who caused the execution of John the Baptist] made good use of his natural suspicions and poisoned his mind against his wife in order to wreck the union. In the end Herod murdered Mariamne, her two sons, her brother, her grandfather and her mother.” At the end of his life Herod, who suffered from arteriosclerosis, was in great pain and in “mental and physical disorder.” This is the measured British historian’s way of saying he was a hot mess. The king altered his will three times and finally disinherited and killed his firstborn son. (All in all Herod had ten wives and 14 children.) After an unsuccessful suicide attempt, Herod died of his disease, and with the Roman emperor’s approval, his kingdom was divided among three of his surviving sons.
     The slaughter of the infants of Bethlehem would have occurred shortly before his death. There is no contemporary historical record confirming this event. Even Luke, the other Gospel that includes a narrative of Jesus’ infancy, does not mention it. This has led some historians to question whether it actually happened the way Matthew describes. Others point out that this outburst of excessive cruelty would be wholly consistent with Herod’s mentally unbalanced condition in his final years. Actually, it was consistent with his lifelong penchant for doing away with anyone he perceived as a threat to his power and position, beginning with his own children. Such brutality is certainly plausible, even without contemporary documentation.
     And it is certainly consonant with Israel’s history. “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.” How many of the children of Israel died in the wake of war and defeat and exile? This cry of grief from an oppressed people echoes back over the centuries all the way to the ancestors in Egypt. Jacob weeping for Joseph, the son presumed dead who had been sold into slavery by his brothers. Joseph whose own dreams put him at risk and whose ability to interpret dreams saved his life. In the midst of famine, Jacob and his sons find safety and relief in Egypt, where a forgiving Joseph secures Pharaoh’s favor on their behalf. But Jacob and the generation of his sons die away, and a new ruler arises in Egypt, one who did not know Joseph. Fearful of the Israelites’ great numbers, perceiving them as a growing threat, he oppresses them. He subjects them to forced labor and attempts population control by commanding that every boy born to the Hebrews be drowned in the Nile. But Moses’ mother insures his survival, and he grows up to lead his people out of bondage into freedom, out of Egypt onward to the promised land. Now generations later another Joseph hears God’s call through dreams and reverses the direction. He travels to Egypt to escape persecution and find refuge for his child. Then, when it is safe to do so, Joseph brings the one who will save his people from their sins back to the land of Israel, settling in Galilee, away from the seat of Herod’s power.
     This brief story of the Holy Family’s flight and resettlement roots Jesus deep in the history of his people, sustained by hope and faith through the long years of fearful danger and oppression. It shows us that Emmanuel, God with us, is encompassed as we are by sin and evil. To survive the brutality committed by the powerful, the baby Jesus is dependent on his brave, resilient parents and the openness of a community of strangers to receive him. The story makes clear the high cost of our salvation from the outset — all those little ones in Bethlehem who never grew up, whose mothers refused to be consoled, because they were no more. Perhaps it didn’t make it into the historical chronicles of the day because it was a localized tragedy and in truth, only one of countless such evils, where innocents fall prey to the ruthless or the paranoid or the demented. Like a school shooting in a town in a distant state that captures our attention in passing and then yields place to the next outrage. Our Lord’s refugee story makes us mindful of the danger of life in a sinful world, the fearsome vulnerability of the unprivileged, and our collusion in their suffering. It also invites us to follow God’s call, as Joseph did, to bear our Lord Jesus where he is needed in this world, with open eyes and honest hearts. Amen.