Herod, when he realized that the scholars had tricked him, flew into a rage. He commanded the murder of every little boy two years old and under who lived in Bethlehem and its surrounding hills. (He determined that age from information he’d gotten from the scholars.) That’s when Jeremiah’s revelation was fulfilled:
A sound was heard in Ramah,
weeping and much lament.
Rachel weeping for her children,
Rachel refusing all solace,
Her children gone,
dead and buried. (Matthew 2:16-18)
~~~~~
I heard “weeping and much lament” one summer night in my childhood. I’ve never forgotten how that expression of uncontrolled agony pierced the darkness. I can still hear it in my head as I share this story.
The phone rang around 9:00 o’clock at my grandmother’s house, and she answered it. The caller informed her that while my grandfather had been driving back to his home in central Alabama, he had been in a major accident with a fairly large truck, the driver of which was intoxicated. As I came to from my early portion of that night’s sleep, I remember my grandmother and mother in the bathroom crying, wailing with uncontrollable grief, trying to get their hair combed and makeup on, ready for a trip to the hospital. The way they were wailing, it was a foregone conclusion that he wasn’t going to make it. The announcement was obviously grave. But apparently, it was not official yet, and they were summoned. Or maybe they just needed to identify the body. Those details are unknown now. But for whatever reason, off they went. I was whisked to a cousin’s house to finish the night’s sleep. While in bed, but before drifting back to sleep, and still trying to process what had happened, the door to the bedroom opened and my aunt somberly said, “Grand daddy’s dead.”
This kind of weeping and wailing is an unplanned response to deep grief. We often see this in film, and the dialogue is absent: someone delivers the bad news to another, the receiver responds with wailing, and maybe drops their coffee cup, and falls into the arms of the message-bearer, who tries to provide at least some comfort. The grief explodes from a heart that was previously at rest, maybe even reflecting on a recent joyful experience, or maybe concerned perhaps with other things, but there is nothing that grabs and shakes and demands a response like this news of sudden death.
And so it was in the region around Bethlehem, not long after Jesus was born. Weeping and much lament. Mothers, fathers, kin folk crying uncontrollably, confronted with the evil deed of the mentally unstable and insanely jealous Herod. He had heard from the star-scholars that “the new king had been born” and he wasn’t going to tolerate that. Not sure exactly when Jesus had appeared (and Herod didn’t have a chance for further input from the scholars, as they had obeyed the message of a dream and departed without saying goodbye), so Herod erred on “the safe side”: just to make sure I get my baby boy, I’ll kill all of them in that region two years old and under. Don’t want to miss anybody. Not going to check birth certificates.
Rather than conduct interviews—with the main question being, “Tell me, ma’am, is it true that your baby is the king of the Jews?!”—his soldiers took action and asked no questions. I assume they just slaughtered them with the sword. And didn’t bother to clean up the aftermath. They walked away while mothers were screaming, horrified, in shock, without even an inkling why this had happened. The Roman soldier tough guys had done their evil and departed, moving on to the next family who had recently celebrated the wonderful news of the birth of a baby boy. The circle location around Jerusalem, with Ramah a few miles north and Bethlehem a few miles south, was their zone of attack. It’s odd; as I read the Bible story, I have always assumed they attacked at night, but there is no indication of that. Maybe it was during breakfast, or lunch time, and it was harder to hide a baby in the shadows. I say it’s odd; I guess that’s because I associate this dastardly dead with the darkness of night. But that’s speculation.
The text says Herod “commanded the murder of every little boy two years old and under who lived in Bethlehem and its surrounding hills.” It doesn’t actually say that all were killed, but that “Herod commanded.” I can only imagine that the soldiers reported back with the words, “mission accomplished”, but did they actually know they had gotten them all? Herod commanded, so we assume they followed that directive completely, but I wonder if any were hidden, as the wailing filtered down the neighborhood, and mothers scurried to send their babies away or hide them, somewhere, somehow? Surely, it was a time of unprecedented panic. An unimaginable tragedy. Hopefully, somehow, some escaped the sword. And I write those words from a heart that is trying to find at least faint optimism that some were able to avoid the slaughter. Maybe a late-planned trip to the gramps’ house in the Jordan region had averted one family’s pain? We will never know, but one can always hope. But that hope doesn’t lessen the grief and loss of those who suffered indescribable tragedy.
While thoughts of Christmas past and present can bring us comfort as we consider the hymn Joy to the World, we neglect to sing the unwritten carol, Rachel Weeping for her Children. Baby Jesus came to enter a world that was full of evil, the kind of evil that madman Herod unleashed. The kind from which we recoil and upon hearing about, have a twitch and a physical reaction. We mutter, “Can anyone really be that mean?” And, yes, Jesus would eventually give himself as a willing sacrifice for those, like Herod, who would despise, hate, reject and kill him.
But still, he came. And his obedient parents helped him on the journey to the cross, that place of willing sacrifice that stood on a hill as the life-giving altar.
“Father, we are staggered when we read of Herod’s atrocities. But even so, we thank you that evil does not have the last word. We remember those around the world today who are suffering because of their faith in and connection to Jesus. Some are even innocent bystanders, kind and loving others, but identified with Jesus nonetheless, and suffering because of it. You sent your son Jesus to be the Overcomer, the Healer, the Redeemer. May those in need of Him today, meet Him today.”
Freddy Boswell 