Everyday Freedom

1 Corinthians 8:1-13

Back when I was just beginning to explore my call to ministry, I was a member of a church in Pennsylvania. I had just made my decision to attend seminary and pursue a Master of Divinity degree. I was at a presbytery meeting one day standing around with a few pastors who were offering me their personal advice about seminary. One of these men said, “You’ll be fine as long as you keep your eyes and ears shut.” That struck me as counterproductive, but I got his meaning. His idea was the knowledge they want to give you in seminary will not help your faith, but hurt it. For him, such knowledge is a threat to the gospel.

It’s possible that there were some seminary professors who looked down on him, back when he was in school. Maybe he pushed back on some of their new ideas and maybe they mocked him for it. And if that happened, it would be understandable for him to resent them. It would have been better if he could have grown from the experience, but still understandable.

I have spent a lot of time in universities, and I admit there were times I felt resentful of academic folks who seem to disdain Christian faith because it didn’t fit into their knowledge framework. 

I have also, at times, felt frustrated by those who hate Christianity because of some subgroup of Christians who are loudly and harshly judgmental. I hate being lumped in the same group with them. And then I resent these Christians for behaving in ways that, in my opinion, degrade the church in the eyes of others.

So there’s plenty of resentment to go around. And I imagine it was true in Paul’s day too.

The Apostle Paul established the church in Corinth, and he seemed to have no end of trouble with it. When you read the two letters to the Corinthians in the new Testament you get a glimpse of just how troublesome they were, and how challenging it was for Paul to try to sort out their problems long-distance. This issue of meat that was sacrificed to idols is one of those problems.

The truth is, when the apostles took the gospel to the gentile world – that is, the non-Jewish world – there was a whole heap of things that needed to be sorted out. Basically, they needed to figure out just how much of Judaism was included in Christianity. Was it necessary to become a Jew first, before one could become a follower of Jesus? 

For example, there was an important discussion about whether it was necessary for gentile men and boys to be circumcised when they joined the church. And there were issues about dietary laws for Jews that remained important. These things all had to be sorted out; the leaders had to come to agreement on the rules.

And on the flip side, everywhere they brought the gospel they encountered other religious and cultural practices that might be at odds with Christianity. Again, it all had to be sorted out. What was essential? Where must a line be drawn? What could be tolerated?

And on the matter of eating meat that was sacrificed to idols, the decision seemed to be that it could be tolerated. 

Now, the gentiles ate this meat because they thought it would be helpful to them. In those days, people believed that demons could enter a person through the food they ate. So if the meat was first sacrificed to a god, they believed this god might protect them. Christians, however, knew that those gods – idols – did not really exist. They could do nothing to help or hurt them.

And because they knew this, some thought that whether or not the meat they were eating was offered to some pagan idols was totally irrelevant. They thought that none of this had anything to do with them. They had left that life behind; they were born anew.

Yet, for other new Christians it was a very uncomfortable practice. As something that was so closely tied to their former life, continuing to participate in it felt like a threat to their new life. It seemed to compromise their Christian faith, and might be the first step on a slippery slope back into paganism.

And you might expect Paul to see this as an opportunity to reinforce the idea that they can’t be hurt by these old idols. That this was no longer a part of their belief system and no longer had any power over them. As Christians, they are free of all that.

But Paul takes a different approach. He urges those whom he thinks of as the stronger believers to empathize with the ones he calls weak. He says that even though these idols have no literal power over any of us, a weak faith can lend them power they otherwise wouldn’t have. He says that if the more mature Christians are eating this idol meat in front of the newer Christians, they may throw these novices into a state of confusion and conflict. 

Paul says you are totally free to eat what you want to eat. But if you exercising your freedom results in someone with a faltering faith going astray, then it’s you who have harmed that weaker one.

Your freedom in Christ does not give you license to do that. 

And what we are seeing here is some of the complexity of mature Christian faith. These ones Paul calls weaker are tending to see matters in black and white, right and wrong; the meat that they used to eat in the belief that some idol was giving them protection against evil, they now think they cannot eat it at all – because to do so would be giving power to those old idols. Paul says this is not true.

But Paul also cautions those he calls stronger against applying the same kind of black and white, right and wrong, thinking. Yes, in Christ you have been given freedom, but that does not give you carte blanche to do whatever you feel like doing. There is another thing you need to bear in mind, a thing even more important than your freedom: that is how your actions affect other people.

He is teaching something that is called an ethic of care. Which means that the highest moral decision is the one that demonstrates care for others – particularly those who are vulnerable. So the right decision is not always the same one in any set of circumstances – because how your actions impact others carries some weight.

Paul had a real concern that the exercise of their newfound freedoms might create division in the church. And while it is true that there are times we cannot avoid divisiveness, Paul simply wants to remind the Christians of Corinth that they need to always hold the concern about relationships on a par with their concerns about their freedom. The most important thing to recognize about Christian freedom is that it exists in community. And, in a very real sense, it requires strong faith to bear that in mind. 

The fact is, idols come in all shapes. The idols in Corinth might have been carved wooden figures, but idols might be made out of other material as well – including rules, or even freedom. 

When you value your freedom more highly than you value the welfare of others, Paul is arguing, then you may have replaced those old wooden idols with a new one. Likewise, if you value the rules more highly than the welfare of others, you may have fallen into another trap. 

It’s simply a matter of knowing that God is God. “There is no God but one,” As Paul says, quoting the book of Deuteronomy. Nothing, and no one, else takes God’s place. There is no politician who speaks or acts for God. There is no political party that represents God. There is no policy or rule that stands in for God. A so-called weak faith might lose sight of this. A strong faith seeks to always keep an eye on it.

There’s a story often told that Abraham Lincoln was once asked whether he thought God was on the union’s side. He replied, “My concern is not whether God is on our side. My greatest concern is to be on God’s side, for God is always right.”

If our concern is to be on God’s side then we must be always seeking to know what that is, in any given situation. We do have a few rules to guide us. Most importantly, the rule of love. God is always on the side of love, for God is love. 

Let us honor the rules of our faith and our land, let us enjoy the freedom we find in Christ, but let us always be guided by God’s rule of love.

 

And When You Know

Jonah 3:1-5, 10  

Mark1:14-20     

Last week I spoke to you about how you know when God is calling you. The short answer is you just know.

Last week we heard from the story of Samuel, the young boy who served in the temple under the priest Eli, and heard God calling his name one night. And we heard, from John’s gospel, the story of the call of Nathanael – the one to whom Jesus said, I saw you under the fig tree.

The call stories in the Bible help us to know that there isn’t a formula, there isn’t a one-size-fits-all call.

So today, two more call stories.

We hear a little snippet from the story of Jonah. The Lord has called Jonah to go to Nineveh and proclaim a message: Forty days more and Nineveh shall be overthrown. It is a call to repent from their sinful ways. And the people of Nineveh, that’s all they need to hear. They immediately repent, and God relents.

It’s an amazing little story of a powerful experience. The people of Nineveh would, no doubt, remember this day for the rest of their lives. It would be the kind of thing where, if someone asked you, “where were you when the prophet Jonah came through town?” you would be able to say, “I was at the market buying fish,” or, “I was sweeping my floor,” or “I was at the city gates negotiating the price of a piece of property.” You would remember, because it was one of those moments with a very clear before and after.

And then we hear the story from Mark’s gospel, about Jesus calling his first disciples. It is a parallel to the story from John’s gospel we heard last week, where Jesus called Philip and Nathanael. This one is about the call of Simon and Andrew, James and John, fishing in the sea of Galilee. Jesus called out to them, “follow me I will make you fish for people.” Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Weirder even than “I saw you under the fig tree.” But it worked. They left their nets. They walked away from their boats, their livelihood, and their families, and followed Jesus. Again, this is a story with a clear before and after. Before Jesus came by, they were fishermen. After that, they were disciples and the rest is history.

Like the call stories we heard last week – Samuel, Philip, and Nathanael – these people just somehow know. Simon, Andrew, James, John, all had a common experience they could share with one another. As they walked away from their boats, they could look at each other, nod their heads, and know: we are in this together.

For the people of Nineveh, for these four fishermen, the sense of community in this must have been profound.

So the questions raised by these passages isn’t how you know. They all know. But the question is: what do you do once you know?

The people of Nineveh immediately got down on their knees and repented. They all put on sackcloth and ashes, they fasted, they turned from their evil ways.

And the fishermen in Galilee – they immediately dropped their nets and followed Jesus. The text tells us what they all did immediately, but what we really want to know, is what did they do the next day? And the day after that?

Mountaintop experiences are fabulous. But everyone has to come down from the mountaintop. Most of life is lived down at ground level. You always remember those mountaintop experiences, that moment you said yes, but the real living of the faith happens on the ground.

It involves what Eugene Peterson called a long obedience in the same direction. And this, my friends, is a little bit grittier, a lot less elegant, than that moment you said yes.

It involves commitment, and discipline. And most of all, I think it requires understanding just what you said yes to.

Think about these stories from scripture: The boy Samuel didn’t say yes to God so he might be saved. The fishermen Simon and Andrew didn’t say yes to Jesus so they would go to heaven or that God would enrich their lives on earth. They all said yes to a plan that was bigger than they were.

The stories in scripture, where God calls someone to God’s side, always have a bigger picture in mind. God has plans for God’s people, plans which are bigger than their individual lives; plans which are bigger than anything they could do or imagine doing on their own. When God calls someone, it is not just to conversion, it is a call to discipleship. God calls us to follow, to become workers in the vineyard. God calls us to be a part of God’s great work of bringing God’s kingdom to the world.

The moment when we say yes is not an end in itself. It is only the beginning of a journey – a journey in which you will be asked to give your heart to this world and all who live in it, to the concerns that are God’s concerns: peace, justice, love. When you say yes to God you are saying yes to all the things God says yes to. And no to the things God says no to.

Each one of us might hear the call and respond to it.

The call of God comes to us and invites us to step outside of ourselves and serve the ones Christ died for. When we say yes to the call we will receive glimpses of the joy that comes from living near to God, the deep peace that comes from a trusting obedience to God. When you follow that long obedience in the same direction, you will be gifted with the power of the Holy Spirit to carry you to places you could not go on your own, giving you words you could not say, and actions you could not take without God’s help.

And each time you say yes to God’s call, know that it probably won’t be the last time. You will be called on to say yes again and again and again. Through it all, you will make mistakes. You will sometimes choose the broad road that leads to destruction rather than the narrow road that leads to life. To be a follower of Christ you will need to die anew every day and be born again, every day, in Christ; to say, once again, “Yes, Lord. Speak, for your servant is listening.

May you hear God’s voice calling you to come and follow. May you say yes to God’s call. May you awaken every day to say yes once again, to serve the Lord with heart and mind, body and soul.

How Do You Know?

1 Samuel 3:1-10

John 1:43-51      

“The word of the Lord was rare in those days.” This is the setting in which the young boy Samuel first heard the call of God to him. It was the period of time before there were kings in Israel, a time when Israel was ruled by judges, and if you have read the book of Judges then you know it was not a high point in Israel’s history. As the closing words in that book says, “all the people did what was right in their own eyes.”

The word of the Lord was rare in those days. It was not one of the good times.

The boy Samuel was ministering to the Lord in the temple under the authority of Eli, and Samuel was there for a reason. Before he was conceived, his mother Hannah was childless. She was married to Elkanah, who loved her, thankfully. But in a world where a woman’s worth was measured in the number of sons she produced, Hannah’s inability to conceive brought her much pain.

Even worse for her, Elkanah had taken a second wife, Peninnah, who was blessed with many children. And who seemed to enjoy being a constant reminder to Hannah of her failure. It may be hard for us, today, to imagine Hannah’s pain and even harder to understand her shame. But the world in which Hannah lived told her that without sons she was nothing.

Hannah prayed with all her heart that God would give her a son. And in the great tradition of bargaining with God, Hannah promised that, if she was blessed with a son, she would dedicate this child to the Lord. Astonishingly, this is what she said she would do: Give. Him. Back.

And she was true to her word.

As soon as he was weaned, Hannah took her son, Samuel, to the temple along with her offering. And she left him there with the priest Eli. And so the boy was brought up at the temple, ministering to the Lord under Eli.

And it was not a good time. Eli’s two sons, Hophni and Phinehas exemplified this. They were just bad – scoundrels, the book calls them. They served in the temple, alongside their father, for the priesthood was sort of a family business. But they cheated, they stole, they were corrupt in every way. We get the sense that they were a deep disappointment to Eli. Yet, he seemed to be powerless to affect them.

Everyone was aware of how bad they were, and people spoke to Eli about it. There was one man who came to him and declared that he had a message from God, warning him that all will be lost if his sons continue in this way. But, still, Eli seemed unable to do anything.

These were not among the good times in Israel. But into this setting, God called out this young boy, Samuel…And it began in the still of the night when Samuel heard a voice calling his name.

He didn’t know, right away, who it was. At first, Samuel assumed that it was the priest Eli calling him, so he rose from the floor and went to his master and said, “Here I am.” He probably woke Eli, who replied, “I didn’t call; go lie down.”

It wasn’t until the third time Samuel heard his name and ran in to Eli that Eli finally knew something was up. So Eli told Samuel that he should go back, wait for the call again and then say, “Speak Lord, for your servant is listening.”

It took three times, but God finally reached them. We aren’t often ready to hear a word from the Lord – especially, perhaps, in times like those were. It was not one of the good times in Israel. But into this dry and desolate season, God called Samuel.

It happened again in Galilee, when a man named Jesus set out to begin a ministry. He went here and there and he called people to him. It was similar to the call of Samuel that happened a thousand years before. Jesus said to Philip, “Follow me,” and Philip somehow knew. Philip then went to Nathanael and said, “We have found him; come and see.”

Nathanael was skeptical at first, but he was willing to come. Maybe Philip promised him a nice lunch if he would just humor him. When he arrived, Jesus called Nathanael: “Here is an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.” Nathanael asked, “How do you know me,” and Jesus replied, “I saw you under the fig tree.” It was a moment for Nathanael. Somehow, now, he knew.

How did he know? Once again, these were not among the good times in Israel. The land they had been given was no longer really theirs. They were now an occupied nation, living under the heavy-handed rule of the Roman Empire. They were dispirited and angry and searching for something. There were all kinds of would-be leaders popping up – some who wanted to lead sectarian groups off into the caves, and others who wanted to lead revolutions. There was plenty of tension all around.

And into this came Jesus, saying to this one, “Follow me,” and to that one, “I saw you under the fig tree.” And they listened; somehow, they knew.

But how?

There is no particular formula when it comes to the call of God. How you know it is … you just know it.

Eli knew because it finally clicked for him that something rare was happening and, perhaps, he had a dim recollection of a time in his life when he too had heard God calling him. Maybe Samuel knew too, but was looking for the guidance of his master Eli. It was not something either of them expected, but somehow they recognized.

And the ones Jesus called, somehow, just knew. It wasn’t in the words he said because he used very ordinary words. But it was something that touched them inside.

Jesus said to Nathanael, “I saw you under the fig tree,” and who knows why that got him, but it did. He immediately declared Jesus the Son of God.

I wish I could tell you exactly what it is like when God calls, but I can’t. I wish I could say that it is as easy as getting a letter in the mail addressed to you, or a phone call with God on the other end. But it’s not. When God calls, it’s an experience that you might know intuitively … instinctively. And you have to listen to your instincts, as hard as that is – because we live in a time when the word of the Lord is rare; a time when vision is not widespread.

It does help if you are in the practice of listening – by which I mean prayer. worship. scripture reading. It does help to make some space in your life for God to speak into. I doubt that Eli’s sons ever heard the call or had a vision because their greed filled up that space into which God might speak. But when you do hear the call, you are offered an opportunity to make the world a better place.

This weekend we celebrate the civil rights leader, Martin Luther King, Jr. and I think about how he was able to hear the call of God, and how that enabled him to work for the betterment of the world. He wrote one of his most impactful writings while he sat in a jail cell in Birmingham, Alabama. The story is often told that he wrote it on toilet paper because that was all he had available. But as good as that sounds, it isn’t true. He was not pampered, by any means, but he did manage to get scraps of paper and, eventually a writing pad.

He wrote in response to a letter printed in the local paper. It was written jointly by eight white clergymen. Their letter asserted a call to unity – which meant stop the protests. Wait. Shut up and pray.

I take no pleasure in saying to you, beware the call for unity – it is often the choice of people resisting change and the consequences that change will bring.

Reverend King wrote an inspired response from his jail cell, words that are among his most often quoted. He wrote that in the history of oppressed people “wait” has most often meant “never.” That time alone does not cure ills, but it requires the tireless efforts of dedicated people of good will. And, perhaps most pointedly, that the white church must take a principled stand or risk being dismissed as an irrelevant social club.

Over time, his words have been quoted, his writings have been reprinted again and again, because they speak timeless truths. They speak to us today as much as they did to the church in 1963. I am thankful that Dr. King heard the call of God.

I want you to know that each one of us might hear the call of God in some way. We may not lead lives as influential as King or Samuel, but each of us, in our own small way, may contribute to the betterment of the world by listening. Learn to expect a word. Look for vision. And, with Nathanael and others who follow Jesus, we will see greater things.

May we hear the Word and see visions – because, heaven knows, this world needs vision.

  

Who We Are

Mark 1:4-11       

I always love this Sunday. The baptism of the Lord. It always comes the Sunday following Epiphany. It’s the one day of the year that we intentionally remember that Jesus was baptized by John, and that we are also called to be baptized into his family. For me, it’s always a treasured opportunity to talk with you about why we baptize, what it means to us.

It’s easy to forget about baptism, really. Every new Christian is meant to be baptized, but we do it so infrequently that we seldom think of it. We all get baptized, but only once. And if you were baptized as an infant, as most of us were, you don’t even have any memory of it. Some people don’t even know for sure if they were baptized. Which is interesting to me. It says to me that baptism is sometimes a rather meaningless ritual that families go through in a perfunctory way. But, if somehow the family was too busy or too distracted, it can be easily overlooked.

So I always like to take the opportunity to talk about just how much baptism means to me. But today I am thinking about it a little differently than I usually do. Today I am thinking about what our baptism equips us to do as Christians living in this world.

How does our baptism prepare us to live out the gospel in a land where chaos and violence threaten, where divisiveness and mistrust have become so powerful that we can barely function in an orderly and peaceful manner?

Last week we witnessed the culmination of attempts to interfere with our presidential election. At least, I hope it was the culmination, but it’s certainly possible that there will be more violence and chaos to come. At 3:00 Wednesday afternoon I left the church and was shocked to learn what was happening in our nation’s capital. I went home and sat glued to the TV for hours, as I imagine so many did.

And I wondered what I should do. Did you wonder if there was something you should do? I sent out on Facebook an appeal for prayer. But that was all I did that evening. I watched and I prayed and I asked others to pray.

I didn’t feel any urge to get out and join a protest action. I didn’t feel compelled to express anger or pick fights on social media. In the moment all I wanted to do was watch and listen and pray. But in the aftermath of the moment, I have to think about what else a baptized person is meant to do. How shall we respond to these actions we witnessed on the day of Epiphany?

What does our baptism mean for how we live our lives in this world?

Even though baptism seems like a little thing, it is actually profoundly important in our faith. As Presbyterians, we know baptism as one of only two sacraments initiated by Christ in the scriptures. The other is the Lord’s Supper, or communion. We call baptism our entry into the church. Baptism sets us on the right path; the Lord’s Supper keeps us on it.

We say that our baptism is sufficient to equip us for service in the church. We are reminded whenever we welcome someone into the congregation that this is so, and whenever we ordain men and women for service as elders and deacons, that it is their baptism which qualifies them for this. Your baptism is sufficient to equip you for ministry, and so we are all ministers in Christ’s service.

This means that when we are baptized each of us has a mantle placed across our shoulders.

You may not be in the habit of thinking about baptism this way. So often when we consider baptism, we think of it as our means of salvation. Our ticket to heaven. Our get-out-of-jail-free card. Our presidential pardon for any and all sins. Our vaccination against the ravages of evil.

But that’s all rubbish.

If you want to think about your baptism in some pithy way, then think of it as your identification. It speaks to who you are. Who we are.

And let us say that everything we do and everything we say, and even what we fail to do or say, is a reflection of who we are.

The mantle that was placed on your shoulders when you were baptized is a responsibility to live into your identity as Christ’s brother or sister. You represent the faith, and how you are seen is how our faith is seen. So if you lie, that is a reflection on Christianity. If you mock and denigrate others, for your own amusement or benefit, that is a reflection on Christianity. If you take part in suppressing the rights of others, or if you neglect the plight of the oppressed, that is a reflection on Christianity. You can’t help it; it’s just the way it is. You don’t live unto yourself anymore because you are baptized into Christ Jesus.

The apostle Paul wrote in his letter to the Romans: “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or die we are the Lord’s.”

Therefore, everything you do and say, you do and say to the Lord.

This is heavy stuff. There are no exemptions. There is forgiveness, certainly. But, the point is, we are accountable to the Lord for all we say and do, and yes, sometimes for the things we fail to say or fail to do.

As we reflect on the events that occurred on the day of Epiphany, we know that there were some who acted in egregious ways. But let us say clearly that actions alone are not responsible for the troubles of the world. Words bear responsibility.

Words have power. As a people who hold a book as our highest authority in life and faith, we know this is true. As the saying goes, words create worlds.

It was the Word of God that created the world we live in, according to Genesis 1. Then the Word of God created a people formed in God’s image. And as the Gospel of John says, at the appointed time the Word of God was made flesh in Christ Jesus, full of God’s grace and truth. Words create worlds.

And how we use words creates worlds of compassion or worlds of hate. Worlds of collaboration or worlds of mistrust. Worlds of hope or worlds of fear.

Words matter. They can tear down or build up. They can destroy or heal. They can reflect reality or fan the flames of conspiracy. Words can either condone or condemn acts of violence – both directly and indirectly.

If we say we condemn acts of violence, but then we continue to use our words to sow seeds of division and rage – well, that matters too.

For we are baptized into new life. We are called children of God, brothers and sisters of Jesus Christ. And, thus, we wear the mantle of ministry in all we say and do. We follow Jesus’ example in baptism, in celebrating the Lord’s Supper, in healing the sick, feeding the hungry, taking our place as the last, and serving him through our service to others. We read the words of scripture as our guide to live a life that is pleasing to the Lord.

Every week I put out a couple of handfuls of words, across the internet and onto your computers. My hope always is to give you words that will build up and comfort – but also speak truth and challenge you to accountability. Because every one of us who has been baptized into Christ is accountable for our own words and actions.

In this text from Mark, Jesus went into the water and was baptized by John. And as he emerged from the water a voice from heaven was heard, saying these words: “You are my beloved son; with you I am well pleased.” When I hear a voice from heaven, I too want to hear these words: With you I am well pleased.

May it be so for you and for me. Amen.

Stronger than Fear

Matthew 2:1-12

Much of the time the stories from scripture live in our imaginations somewhat differently than they live on the pages of the Bible. This morning we sing an old familiar song, “We three kings of orient are, bearing gifts we travers afar.” And yet the scripture says nothing about them being kings. And, whatever we call them – kings, magi, wise men – the scripture never mentions how many of them there were. We only infer that from the number of gifts that were mentioned.

Nonetheless, every nativity scene has three men bearing gifts, often wearing crowns. Because they’re kings. Only, they’re not. We’re really not sure what they are – except we know they are foreign. These guys are out-of-towners, and I think that helps to explain why they act as dumb as they do.

They go to the king – Herod – to ask him for directions. They waltz right into Herod’s court and announce that they have come to see the newborn king of the Jews; would Herod be so kind as to point them in the right direction. You know, so they might worship him. They know nothing about Herod if they actually think he is going to hear this as good news. They are naïve, to put it kindly.

On hearing this, Matthew tells us, Herod is afraid. He quickly does a little investigating of his own, to confirm that there is indeed something for him to be afraid of, then he returns to his visitors. He composes his face to mask his fear, then tells them to please go ahead and find this newborn king, then come back and tell him where he is, so Herod may go worship him too.

As if.

The story we tell every year at Christmas is a story of love and wonder – or, as we say in the hymn, “wonders, wonders of his love.” It’s a story we make when we take the bits we like from Matthew and Luke and mix them together into something wonderful. We bring together the virgin Mary and Joseph, the baby lying in the manger, the shepherds carrying their lambs, and three kings. We put them all under the roof of this barn, with an angel hovering over them. The faces are serene and beautiful. No one really looks surprised or confused about all of this.

We take all these bits and pieces and paste them together, and this is the story that lives in our imaginations – more vividly than the story we find on the pages of the gospels. But when we look more closely at the story on the page, we find some other things. We find, much to our disappointment, that evil lurks all around.

In the story we like to tell at Christmas, Herod doesn’t really have a part. But in this text for today, the story of the wise men, or magi, we see him. And if we look closely, we see not only what he says, but what he does.

In these 12 verses of Chapter 2, we hear that the wise men were warned in a dream not to return to Herod. But why? If we keep reading, we find out why. The angel returns to tell Joseph that Herod is embarking on a mission to search and destroy.

Matthew confirms for the reader that King Herod’s intentions are anything but pure and worshipful. In spite of what he says, we know who he is. He is a tyrannical and insecure ruler who will do anything necessary to remove a threat to his power. He is the personification of the idea that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

The angel urges Joseph to take the mother and child and flee from Herod, which he does, finding refuge in Egypt. And when Herod learns that he has been outfoxed by the magi and the carpenter, he is enraged.

This is where things start to get really ugly.

In his insane fury, Herod begins the slaughter of the innocents. He orders the killing of all the children in and around Bethlehem under the age of two years. And Matthew quotes the prophet Jeremiah, “a voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, for they are no more.”

Some say this probably didn’t happen. Even so, we know there is truth in the story, because these things do happen. This level of evil exists. We have seen massacres on such a grand scale. And we know, from historians of the time, that King Herod never shied away from killing. History tells us, and the daily news affirms, that evil lives in all times and places.

And Matthew, while he doesn’t dwell on the existence of evil, does tell us something important about it – that so often it is born of fear. Herod is afraid. He is afraid of losing his power, afraid that anyone who is strong enough to take it from him is also cruel enough to treat him as he has treated others.

In his fear he connives, but he is out-connived – and then he becomes infuriated. Psychologists disagree about which emotion is the most primitive in humans – whether it is fear or rage. It probably doesn’t matter, because they tend to be so closely intertwined. In fear, we see, the Herods of the world rage and destroy.

Eventually, Herod dies. That ever-faithful angel comes to Joseph again to let him know it is safe to return home, and so he does, settling in Nazareth. And the child Jesus thrives.

In the Christmas season, when we celebrate the light that came into the world, we still look at the darkness. Not to spoil the festive mood. Simply because the darkness is the reason for the light.

I came across a quote from the Christian writer, G.K. Chesterton, saying: “there is something in the world more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear.” And here in the Christmas story, we find that something. It is this story in the second chapter of Matthew that shows it to us: the love that came to earth in a newborn child, this is stronger than strong fear.

The evil doesn’t go away; the things that cause us to be afraid are still here. But the story of Christmas gives us all the power we need to dispel the fear. It empowers us to turn our gaze on the evil acts of Herod and know that this small, fearful, and mad tyrant is nothing compared to the power of God.

Everything, even the Herods of the world, wilt and faint before this story of wondrous love.