Christmas 1B
Isaiah 61:10-62:3Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7
On December 28, Christians commemorate the “Massacre of the Innocents” that is portrayed in the painting. In the biblical story, the mad and raging King Herod, threatened by the news that a new Jewish King has been born in Bethlehem, orders the slaughter of all baby boys in the land. Herod, a puppet king of the Roman Empire, represents all that is wrong with unbridled power and corruption. In Cogniet’s painting, we see the resulting chaos and violence in the streets, as innocent people flee for their lives. In the shadows, we find Mary, barefoot and backed up against a wall, holding her hand over baby Jesus’ mouth to stifle his cries. She looks out at us with a chilling mixture of defiance and pure terror.
When I first saw the painting several weeks ago, my thoughts went straight to all of the mothers and babies in refugee camps and war zones around the globe. I saw them looking out at me—at all of us—in our comfortable living rooms, as if we were their attackers.(1) I saw the pleading eyes of the mothers piled at our own southern border; the despairing eyes of the mothers in Dadaab, in Lesbos, and in Gaza; the terror-filled eyes of the mothers in Syria and Somalia. So many mothers, so many babies, all breaking my heart and accusing me at the same time. Does my power and privilege pin them against the wall and stifle their children? Advent felt more like Lent this year. “Lord, have mercy,” I prayed. Mercy for them, and mercy for me. Mercy for our nation and for our world. Lord, have mercy.
Mercy came, perhaps, when the accusing eyes of Mary became my own. I was no longer simply the cause of her misery: I joined in her pain. I remembered how it feels to hold a crying child to my breast. I remembered the pure terror that rises even in the thought of losing a child. I remembered the fury that fills a mother’s body when anyone threatens her baby. Rather than sadness, I began to feel a burning indignation. This Christmas, I hung onto the prophet Isaiah’s words with all the obstinate hope and feverish longing that I could muster: “so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations… I will not rest until … vindication shines out like the dawn, and … salvation like a burning torch.” The Hebrew word translated as both righteousness and vindication in today’s reading from Isaiah is God’s overflowing goodness. It is a transforming goodness, a new order, ushered in with justice, praise, and divine Glory. (2) Righteousness and Vindication became my prayer: an urgent plea for God to set things right once and for all. “We need it now, God,” I prayed with today's psalmist. Now is the time to lift up the lowly and cast the wicked to the ground. Come on, God. Now is the time to heal the broken-hearted and bind up their wounds. Now is the time for peace on those borders. As I sat in the dark shadows of that wall with Mary, watching evil and murder cascade down the steps beside me, how I pleaded for that promised vindication!
On Christmas Day, with the peace of Christmas Eve in my soul and the glowing pageant-faces of the children of St. Andrew’s in my mind, even my indignation began to fade. I was no longer simply Mary, nor her oppressor. Suddenly, I understood that I was also the baby in her arms—dependent; shielded in love. Now, it was Christ who bore the sad eyes and the haunted strength. It was Christ who held the line against evil. It was Christ who cradled me in protecting arms, not about to let anyone or anything harm God’s most beloved child. St. Paul understood. Today we read his words to the Galatians: "when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law … so that we might receive adoption as children. And because you are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, "Abba! Father!" So you are no longer a slave but a child, and if a child then also an heir, through God.”
An heir. Such is our Christmas gift, should we but open it. To describe the Incarnation, God-made-human, George Herbert writes:
"The God of power, as he did ride
In his majestic robes of glorie,
Reserv’d to light; and so one day
He did descend, undressing all the way."(3)
As Christ shed the garments of glory and power, wrapping himself instead in swaddling blankets and hay, God has used them to clothe us in our nakedness. God has given God’s adopted children the shining “garments of salvation.” God has covered us with Isaiah’s “robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.” God has adopted us, clothed us in Glory--each of us. God is holding on, no matter what. No matter what terrors rage in the world. No matter how many times we go astray and have to start over. When we are Mary amidst the massacre and even when we loom over her, casting our own threatening shadows, we have been redeemed by the divine baby that she holds. Redeemed, we too can join with God in the urgent work of transformation and justice.
So this Christmastide, snuggle in close and hear Herbert’s Christ proclaim about us:
“ … the doore
Shall still be open; what he sends
I will present, and somewhat more,
Not to his hurt. Sighs will convey
Any thing to me. Harke, Despair away.”(4)
____________
[1] See the blog on this painting by Mike Frost, found at https://mikefrost.net/greatest-christmas-painting-time/?fbclid=IwAR38BIzK9iO09cPPwlzfPwkE16lwT_1F2MKfNZvOOFFjkeYQp0dZyI6RGhY
[2]
Patricia Tull, Working Preacher, Commentary on Isaiah 61, 2012, found at
www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1155.
[3] George Herbert, “The Bag,” from The Temple, 1633.
Found at https://www.ccel.org/h/herbert/temple/Bag.html.
[4] Ibid.
