we have the child.

Sermon by Anne East
Readings: Isaiah 63:7-9,Hebrews 2:10-18, Matthew 2:13-23

At our Carol Service earlier this month, the choir sang a beautiful song known as The Coventry Carol. It begins “ Lullay, lullay / My little tiny child / By-by, lullay, lullay.” This is a modern reworking of a 16th Century Carol traditionally performed as part of the Coventry Cycle of Mystery Plays. These plays were Bible stories and were given to each of the trades guilds to perform on carts around the city. This one was given to the Shearmen and Tailors – the men with knives and sharp implements - for this was the story of the Massacre of the Innocents, when Herod ordered all male infants under the age of 2 to be killed. In the play the lullaby is sung by the Women of Bethlehem – as they lament for their children: “this poor youngling for whom we do sing / Bye bye, lully, lullay.” 

What a problematic story this is!  Matthew tells us that Herod’s act was to fulfil a prophecy, “A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel weeping for her children…” Matthew is very keen on pointing out where he sees Old Testament Prophecies being fulfilled, because he was writing primarily to a Jewish audience and he wants to demonstrate that the unfolding events around Jesus’ birth are connected to Hebrew Scripture. But the murder of hundreds of children in order to fulfil a prophecy is not something that fits with Christian thinking. What we do see here, and starkly so, is that the world our Redeemer comes to is fallen and riddled with violence and the consequences of sin.

It is a terrible scene. Joseph’s dream gives way to a nightmare, a frenzy of activity, seizing a few possessions, walking down the street, out of the town gate and onto the main road to Egypt – the child crying, the mother exhausted, the father’s heart jumping every time he sees a soldier. The terror grows – spreading through the region they have left behind, as the blood of children darkens the earth. Have you seen scenes like this? This year, last year? On your television screens? 

There is nothing sentimental about Matthew’s ‘Christmas story’, set in the turbulence and terror of violent history, where tyrants kill children and families flee in the middle of the night. No shepherds here worshipping in wonder, no heavenly choir singing “Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth, goodwill ..”  At Jesus’ birth, violent forces seek his life, foreshadowing the violence that will eventually lead to His crucifixion. But what we see too is the providence of God, guiding Joseph to protect his young family, so that the child will be safe and will grow to become the Saviour of his people and of generations to come.  

Then Joseph has a second dream, a dream of relief, Herod is dead, the tyrant is out of the way, the immediate threat is removed and the family can return home. How welcome that must have been! The promise of home, after dealing with a strange language, different food and customs, and the ambiguous status of refugees, they can now go home to their neighbours and friends, to the old familiar places. 

 But this doesn’t happen, Herod’s son is on the throne, and like his father has a reputation for cruelty, so the family have to head further north, to Galilee. There will be no homecoming after all, no return to the old neighbourhood. Fleeing from Judea to Egypt, then briefly back from Egypt to Judea, and finally from Judea to Galilee - the Holy Family is a refugee family.

At our Christingle service on Christmas Eve, Brutus had fun with the children, hiding the figures from our nativity scene around the church for the children to find. Perhaps we could consider extending that: we should take away our shepherds, because they have returned to their fields, and the Magi are in distant lands. We should keep Jesus, Mary and Joseph, just the three of them all alone, no visitors, no cuddly sheep, no friendly oxen. We’ll move them to another location, not in the beautiful surroundings of our altar.  We could move them to a window, or take them to the door – looking out onto the world. They’d see our homeless guests arriving tonight to sleep in the church hall. They’d see London teenagers carrying sharp knives, for defence, and attack. And they would look out further to where there is still violence and oppression, there are still tyrants, and refugees fleeing, people needing protection, support and love. 

The intense compression of the second chapter of Matthew takes us from the visit of the Magi to the escape into Egypt and the return to Nazareth. Within these few verses we are shown that human beings are capable of a passionate desire to search, to find, to lavish gifts. But also shows us intransigence and violence,  the awful failure of systems of military and political power. 

Here are some extracts from a poem that I came across recently. You can decide for yourselves what it is about. It’s by Margaret Pritchard Houston and is called ‘The Holy Family at the Border’ 

They have walked all night
through the desert,
this couple: José y Maria
and the baby. 

duermete mi niño
duermete por favor.
Por favor. 

Their English isn’t great –
they’ve got a bit.
Yes sir. No sir. Thank you sir. They’ve got that down pat.
For the guards with their sunglasses, sidearms,
they know these abstract holy words: Asylum. Sanctuary.

…

And behind them, there are other families
with boys in their arms. 

And behind them the ravaging shadows of the soldiers
kicking down the door, 

….

Maria holds the baby,
her breast in his mouth,
milk like manna in this desert
like water from the hard rock of her body,
muscled and sunburned.
Her t-shirt hiked up. 

 ..... here
in the desert
with the soldiers at her heels,
she feels
they left the angels behind long ago.
And ahead
is a wall
barbed wire,  

....

the father raises his arms
and begs help
from the mirror-eyed men with weapons: 

we have the child.

Matthew dares to see things as they are – and still affirm that God is working even in the worst scenario. Even when we cannot celebrate ‘peace on earth’ we can celebrate Emmanuel - God With Us. 

In his Christmas sermon Archbishop Justin Welby talked about Lieutenant Kurt Reuber a pastor and doctor with the German army at the battle of Stalingrad in December 1942. He was in a hole in the frozen mud, it was Christmas Day and all was grey and terrible. He drew a charcoal picture of Mary holding Jesus. His Mary was a barefoot woman, a refugee cradling her child. Around her were the words light, life, love: Licht, Leben, Liebe. He needed to bear witness even there that the dark could not win. For if you are in darkness what do you desire? You desire Light. If the darkness presses in from within you or without and menaces your existence what do you want? You want Life. If the darkness overwhelms your sense of identity, what do you need?  You need Love. 

We may not be able to draw like Lieutenant Reuber, or write like Pritchard Houston, but when we stand alongside the vulnerable, when we stand up for justice, when we stand against oppression, then we too become witnesses to the light, life and love of Jesus and give hope amidst the deepest darkness.