[Epiphany 1] selfies in the dirty water

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by John.

John would have prevented Jesus, saying, "I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?"

But Jesus answered, "Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness." Then John consented.

And when Jesus had been baptized and was coming up from the water, suddenly Jesus saw the heavens open and the Spirit of God descending, alighting like a dove. And a voice from heaven said, "This is my Child, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."

Matthew 3:13-17 (NRSV, alt. -- with thanks to Emily Aviva)

Every time I encounter this passage I think, "The very first sermon I preached was on this passage. I don't remember what I said."

When I think about this story (without referring back to the records of the sermon I wrote), I wrestle with why Jesus needed to be baptized (complicated by my lack of knowledge about what such ritual actions imported in Jesus' pre-Christian Jewish context). What is Jesus on about with "it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness"?

And eventually I let that go and I remember that God says, "This (You) are my beloved -- with whom I am well-pleased," before Jesus has done anything of note in our records (aside from Luke's incident in the Temple) besides exist. And I really really like that. We don't "earn" our belovedness, God just loves us because that's what God does, that's who God is.

I remember Tiffany telling the "You are a bright, brilliant, beloved child of God -- who is beautiful to behold" story.

When I was prepping for this Sunday, I read Nancy Rockwell:

And so, Jesus was baptized in the river, one in the midst of many, and when he came up from the water, according to Matthew, the heavens opened to him. To him. To no one else. Not even to John. According to Matthew, Jesus saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, 'This is my son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.'

And that's it, according to Matthew. Gosh, in Luke, the whole huge crowd was wowed by the sight of the dove and the voice and the blessing words, My Beloved Son. This was epic, an epiphany for the record books. According to Luke. But according to Matthew, it was a Selfie. It was a snapshot moment Jesus kept, and pulled out to help him through the forty days of struggle and temptation in the wilderness, and maybe even the hours on the cross. My Beloved Son. It was something to remember.

This is what has stayed with me throughout the week. This idea of a "Selfie."

"Selfies" are strongly (and often negatively) associated with (young) women, so partly this is because I have a girl!Jesus agenda and have acquired a discomfort with the dismissal of things coded as "feminine" (and/or relating to teen girls).

I won't bore you with a rehash of the selfie debates, but I will posit that in a culture that spends so much money and energy convincing people (especially people who are or wish to be read as female) that they are obliged to look "good enough" in other people's views and that they will probably never achieve that, at least not without lots of external aid (purchased with time and money) -- I would posit that in that culture, for women to take pictures of themselves and say, "hell yeah I'm okay with people seeing this image of myself," is a counter-cultural act. Rachel Simmons asserts: "The selfie is a tiny pulse of girl pride."

At Church Council this week, we did an Affirmation exercise. We each wrote our name on the top of a sheet of paper and passed it around, each of us writing an affirmation for the person whose paper we received (folding the paper so you didn't see what people before you had written). Mine is pinned up on the corkboard in my bedroom. Once I got past being struck by how all the affirmations I got were way more thoughtful and articulate than the ones I gave other people (I said all true things, I just had difficulty coming up with a succinct phrasing, so I felt like mine came off as mostly generic), I was struck that (1) the totality of the sheet of paper covered so many different aspects of myself, and (2) none of them felt foreign to my self-conception.

A young adult group I attended at a different church a few years ago had a closing ritual in which we each Affirmed each of the other people in the circle (it could be "I like your sparkly sneakers" -- it didn't need to be profound). I remember often noting that people saw me differently than I saw myself -- and my journal will attest that this identity/perception disconnect happened elsewhere in my life as well.

Sometimes people are just wrong about us, it's true -- but sometimes it takes an outside perspective to point out to us things we hadn't realized about ourselves, whether it's because we've changed and haven't noticed ourselves because it's been so gradual from the inside, or because we've internalized untruths other people have told us, or for some other reason.

GetReligion correctly (though boringly at length) answers "A Christmas question: Did the baby Jesus cry?"

But then I made the mistake of reading the comments and Julie Gould commented:

He misses the point. Away in the Manger is a song for children. Children want to know that their beloved Jesus is not a gross, screaming, stinky intruder like their little brother or sister. He was perfect, so of course he didn't cry. He was beautiful like a little doll, adorable, and therefore easy to adore. We suffer now from too much worldly realism. Go back and learn truth from the old paintings and poetry.

I would like the record to note that I did not actually punch the computer screen.

I assert that Jesus does show up as "a gross, screaming, stinky intruder."

By this I mostly mean that Jesus disrupts our lives, puts difficult calls on our hearts, calls us to give up what is comfortable and move to places of discomfort and challenge. Some of you may recall the button I had on my hoodie for a while that said, "If I let Jesus into my heart, then everyone will want in."

But it's also true that Jesus showed up as fully human -- not as a shining doll. Jesus tells cryptic parables; gets schooled by the Syro-Phoenician woman; privileges chosen family over family of origin; turns over the tables of the moneychangers in the Temple; weeps after Lazarus' death; cries out while dying, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" This is a not a static, easy-to-adore figure. This is arguably a flawed human being -- as all human beings are.

I know, I know, to argue that Jesus was flawed or imperfect in any way, or perhaps even sinned, is blasphemous to some -- but if Jesus really became fully human, doesn't that have to be true?

Gregory of Nazianzus wrote:

That which He has not assumed He has not healed; but that which is united to His Godhead is also saved. If only half Adam fell, then that which Christ assumes and saves may be half also; but if the whole of his nature fell, it must be united to the whole nature of Him that was begotten, and so be saved as a whole. (Epistle 101)

At Jesus' baptism, God says, "This is my Beloved Child, with whom I am well-pleased." I don't think anyone reading the Bible doubts that God was well-pleased with Jesus. But if Jesus is able to function as a stand-in for us, for humanity, for each of God's beloved children ... if we can hear God's affirmation directed at us as well as at Jesus, I think that's really powerful.

"You are my Child, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."

Molly preached this Sunday about mistakes -- about how we are all going to make mistakes and that the aftermath can allow God's grace in. Speaking about the time of Jesus' baptism, she said that Jesus was, "This person who hasn't yet done a single thing to earn this love—and maybe even done some things to test it. Which maybe means God's love can't be earned at all, and that we should stop trying."

However we might compare ourselves to the Jesus of a few years later -- the itinerant preacher, teacher, healer, rabbi, who has amassed followers (and enemies) and a reputation -- this Jesus, the one who shows up at the Jordan that day, has been living in relative obscurity, has done nothing of note except maybe slipping away from parents to spend time with the cooler grownups. This Jesus grew up a child of promise, but that promise is yet waiting to be fulfilled. Each one of you is also a child of promise, a promise whose fulfillment is still being written.

In her sermon, Molly said:

I want to remind you that the line that Jesus got in for baptism, was not a line of deserving people, it was not a line of people who never made a mistake. It was not a line of people who were at a spiritual end-point, but were at a beginning. And Jesus got right into line with them.

This declaration of belovedness was not the result of a long ministry but rather an affirmation given at the beginning to be carried with and returned to throughout the difficult times -- a worry stone to touch in one's pocket and think, "I remember that day at the River. I remember when Ze said, 'I love you.' I remember how supported and protected I felt."

While Jesus' experience was unique, its purpose wasn't to set Jesus apart from everyone else but rather to more firmly and deeply situate Jesus amidst everyone else.

Dan Clendenin writes:

Jesus's baptism inaugurated his public ministry by identifying with what Luke describes as "all the people." He allied himself with the faults and failures, pains and problems, of all the broken and hurting people who had flocked to the Jordan River. By wading into the waters with them he took his place beside us and among us. Not long into his public mission, the sanctimonious religious leaders derided Jesus as a "friend of gluttons and sinners." They were surely right about that.

With his baptism Jesus openly and decisively declared that he stands shoulder to shoulder with me in my fears and anxieties. He intentionally takes sides with people in their neediness, and declares that God is biased in their favor: "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in our time of need" (Hebrews 4:15–16, NIV). God's abundant mercy, Jesus declared, is available directly and immediately to every person; it's not the private preserve doled out by the temple establishment in Jerusalem.

One of the things I often remember when I think about the story of Jesus' baptism is Ian Holland's sermon ("Good Enough?" January 9, 2010) about how messy the Jordan River was. Though digging up the sermon, I find that I actually have Marlin to thank for that imagery.

Ian said:

If we have been too quick to forget the cold and the dirt of the manger, or the smell of dung in the stable at Christmas day, in the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River, God makes it plain.

The Jordan River is not a grand river like the Nile, the Euphrates, or the Mississippi; it is a scrappy, scraggly wind of water through the Rift Valley. It begins at the inland Sea of Galilee and meanders down into the Dead Sea.

Then as now, it is the major source of water for millions of people in Israel, Syria and Jordan. Then as now, it has been used as a sewer. Then, as now, animals and humans used the river for whatever they needed.

A member of our church, Marlin Collingwood was baptized by his father at the age of 14 at the site near Jericho that some scholars identify as the site of Jesus Baptism. Marlin writes:

"This area of the Jordan is very narrow and very muddy and very slippery for walking! I can remember that my Dad baptized 8 or 9 folks that day – we all changed into white choir robes and were in our bare feet. My Dad was already in the Jordan and as we walked down into the water it was very slippery and slick. The water was muddy, muddy, muddy and you couldn't see your feet or legs once you were in the water. It was a hot, humid day and the water didn't smell very good if I remember correctly."

And so Jesus walks 70 miles on the dusty road from Nazareth to the river outside of Jericho. It is crowded in that place, with hundreds, maybe thousands of people trying to hear John preach and baptize them.

It is slippery, muddy, mucky, and perhaps smelly in the heat. This is the water that Jesus enters. It is maybe a bit murky. It is not pristine, perfect, or beautiful.

This is, of course, a lovely metaphor for the incarnation.

The humanity that Jesus enters is not pristine -- it's slippery, mucky, smelly, and perhaps a bit murky. But it is beautiful in its way.

And Jesus allows herself to be plunged into it fully -- when the dove alights on Jesus (and I often imagine this as a six-foot tall dove enveloping Jesus in an embrace), heaven is fully embracing wet, sticky, muddy, blinking earth.

Ian went on to say:

His Baptism reflects his ministry to come. He is ready to get into the grime, slime and mess of human living. He will go to the people that the world judges to be inferior, impure, imperfect, and unholy. And he will make them whole, and holy - they are worthy and are admitted to the Kingdom of God made present through his actions.

He will go to the places of brokenness – to the homeless, and lepers, to prostitutes, and bleeding women. He will go to foreigners, aliens and the demon possessed, and he will sanctify them.

In Christ, God comes to us, where we are. We don't have to go to God, to reach some mountain, and attain some kind of purity.

God comes to us in our brokenness and says to us I am with you – you are my beloved son, you are my beloved daughter.

You people of all genders are God's beloved children.

***

What does this story bring up for you, Beloved?

We use that word "Beloved" a lot to greet and name each other, as individuals and as community. Is that an identity you feel able to claim?

Does it feel like too much to hear God naming you as Beloved at Jesus' baptism? Can you imagine God blessing you at this point in your journey, empowering you to move forward loved and supported?

What does it mean for Jesus to be God incarnate, to fully tent among us, to take on the fullness of humanity in the flesh? How can we reimagine Jesus in ways that make real Jesus' shared humanity, that enable us to feel and experience Jesus truly among and with us rather than as a distant figure?

What might it mean for us to plunge ourselves into the waters of rebirth, to allow God into the broken places in ourselves, to allow God's grace to transform our mistakes, to ally ourselves with those who are broken or oppressed and to open ourselves up to be vessels of God's grace transforming others?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

[Christmas 2] Jesus, Sophia Wisdom tenting among us

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The Word was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through the Word, and without the Word not one thing came into being. What has come into being in the Word was life, and the life was the light of all people.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. There was a person sent from God, whose name was John. John came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe. John was not the light, but John came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. This light was in the world, and the world came into being through this light; yet the world did not know the light. To its own home the light came, yet the people of the light did not accept it. But all who received the light, who believed in its name, were given power to become children of God, born not of natural descent, nor of urge of flesh nor of human will, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen the glory of the Word, the glory as of a parent's only child, full of grace and truth.

(John testified to this one and cried out, "This was the one of whom I said, 'The one who comes after me ranks ahead of me because that one was before me.' ") From the fullness of that one we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Child, who is close to the Parent's heart, who has made God known.

John 1:1-18 (NRSV, alt. -- with thanks to Cole)

Attentive folks may have noticed that since mid-October, the Scripture readings on Sunday mornings have contained distinctly less "he" language than they used. I'm really grateful to Molly for the opportunity to inclusify the texts, and I've endeavored to make minimal changes to the text -- only making the changes necessary to make the language flow without gendered referents.

Someone commented that stripping out the gendered language makes the texts feel "sterile." It's true that eliminating gendered referents removes some of the genuine richness of human experience. It also makes language awkward at times, as pronouns are a natural part of the English language -- but when I've been tempted to fall back on personal pronouns, my impulse has always been to use she/her or ze/hir (this last one is pronounced "here"), because it's important to me to open up space for people to find themselves reflected in the biblical texts.

In looking at the other texts for this Sunday, the second Sunday in Christmastide, I noticed that both of our alternative Old Testament readings (from books not considered canonical by our Protestant denomination, so don't fret if you've never heard of them) talk about Wisdom -- who gets "she" pronouns in the original (Sophia Wisdom, as in the Hagia Sophia).

Our first alternative reading is from "The Book of the All-Virtuous Wisdom of Joshua ben Sira, commonly called the Wisdom of Sirach or simply Sirach, and also known as The Book of Ecclesiasticus or Siracides or Ben Sira" (to quote Wikipedia):

Wisdom praises herself,
     and tells of her glory in the midst of her people.
In the assembly of the Most High she opens her mouth,
     and in the presence of his hosts she tells of her glory:
"I came forth from the mouth of the Most High,
     and covered the earth like a mist.
I dwelt in the highest heavens,
     and my throne was in a pillar of cloud.
Alone I compassed the vault of heaven
     and traversed the depths of the abyss.
Over waves of the sea, over all the earth,
     and over every people and nation I have held sway.
Among all these I sought a resting place;
     in whose territory should I abide?

"Then the Creator of all things gave me a command,
     and my Creator chose the place for my tent.
He said, 'Make your dwelling in Jacob,
     and in Israel receive your inheritance.'
Before the ages, in the beginning, he created me,
     and for all the ages I shall not cease to be.
In the holy tent I ministered before him,
     and so I was established in Zion.
Thus in the beloved city he gave me a resting place,
     and in Jerusalem was my domain.
I took root in an honored people,
     in the portion of the Lord, his heritage.

Sirach 24:1-12 (NRSV, unaltered)

Some of that Wisdom language sounds really similar to the text from John, huh?

In this passage from Sirach, Wisdom comes forth from the mouth of God, covers the earth, seeks a resting place there, and then pitches her tent -- taking root in an honored people. Sounds a lot like the opening of the first Genesis Creation narrative (which John is of course evoking -- "in the beginning..."), with God's Spirit brooding over the watery abyss -- followed by John's enfleshment of the Word.

Sirach's Wisdom says, "my Creator chose the place for my tent," and what's translated as "lived among us" in John could also be translated as "dwelt," "encamped," or "pitched tent among us" -- and "tent" can also mean "tabernacle" (the portable dwelling place of God amidst the ancient Israelites before they had a land of their own).

"I came forth from the mouth of the Most High" reminds me of what Rev. Jeff and other commentators have said about what "Logos" in John means.

Craig A. Satterlee on Working Preacher suggests that "speech" would be a more accurate translation of "logos" than "word," and that immediately had me thinking of the breath of God.

Satterlee talks about song and writes:

John says, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." I might say, "Though other voices strive to drown it out, God's Love Song is not silent."

Our second alternative reading is from "The Book of Wisdom, often referred to simply as Wisdom or the Book of the Wisdom of Solomon" (Wiki again):

A holy people and blameless race
    wisdom delivered from a nation of oppressors.
She entered the soul of a servant of the Lord,
    and withstood dread kings with wonders and signs.
She gave to holy people the reward of their labors;
    she guided them along a marvelous way,
    and became a shelter to them by day,
    and a starry flame through the night.
She brought them over the Red Sea,
    and led them through deep waters;
    but she drowned their enemies,
    and cast them up from the depth of the sea.
Therefore the righteous plundered the ungodly;
    they sang hymns, O Lord, to your holy name,
    and praised with one accord your defending hand;
    for wisdom opened the mouths of those who were mute,
    and made the tongues of infants speak clearly.

Wisdom of Solomon 10:15-21 (NRSV, unaltered)

In this passage from the Wisdom of Solomon, Wisdom is strongly identified with God -- the actions attributed to her (e.g., bringing the Israelites over the Red Sea, guiding them by flame by night) are actions attributed to God in our standard tellings of the Exodus story.

And "entered the soul of a servant of the Lord," while not an orthodox understanding of the Trinitarian Incarnation, certainly echoes John's imagery of the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us.

Do you notice what happens there? This Sophia spirit -- she who covered the Earth like a mist, she who saved the Israelites -- she pitches her tent among humans. And going back to the story that John tells, it seems like the tent she pitches is named Jesus.

Commenting on the passage from John, David Lose on Working Preacher talks about those things which define us versus those things that merely describe us.

Yes, gendered pronouns describe people -- but do they define them?

Michelle Nijhuis wrote:

My 5-year-old insists that Bilbo Baggins is a girl.

The first time she made this claim, I protested. Part of the fun of reading to your kids, after all, is in sharing the stories you loved as a child. And in the story I knew, Bilbo was a boy. A boy hobbit. (Whatever that entails.)

But my daughter was determined. She liked the story pretty well so far, but Bilbo was definitely a girl. So would I please start reading the book the right way?

I hesitated. I imagined Tolkien spinning in his grave. I imagined mean letters from his testy estate. I imagined the story getting as lost in gender distinctions as dwarves in the Mirkwood.

Then I thought: What the hell, it's just a pronoun. My daughter wants Bilbo to be a girl, so a girl she will be.

And you know what? The switch was easy. Bilbo, it turns out, makes a terrific heroine. She's tough, resourceful, humble, funny, and uses her wits to make off with a spectacular piece of jewelry.

Yes, there are plenty of valuable things to say about how Jesus transgressed norms of masculinity, or about how Jesus' experience (and impact) would have been different if Jesus had been read by the culture as female -- but if you're not going to preach about those particular things, why can't Jesus have "she" pronouns?

So what if I take the NRSV text and use "she" pronouns for the Word? God the First Person of the Trinity can retain "he" pronouns, and John the Baptist can have "ze" pronouns (this maximizes clarity of pronoun referents, and also maximizes representation).

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. She was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through her, and without her not one thing came into being. What has come into being in her was life, and the life was the light of all people.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. There was a person sent from God, whose name was John. Ze came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through hir. Ze hirself was not the light, but ze came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. She was in the world, and the world came into being through her; yet the world did not know her. She came to what was her own, and her own people did not accept her. But to all who received her, who believed in her name, she gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen her glory, the glory as of a father's only daughter, full of grace and truth.

(John testified to her and cried out, "This was she of whom I said, 'She who comes after me ranks ahead of me because she was before me.' ") From her fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Daughter, who is close to the Father's heart, who has made God known.

For myself, I'm really struck by the "the glory as of a father's only daughter." What might it mean to women to hear that Jesus was Daddy's little girl? For women who have a positive relationship with their fathers, how might it open up their relationship to God to not only think of God as Father but to think of Jesus as God's Daughter?

Karyn Wiseman on Working Preacher says:

Dealing with embodied issues can often be problematic in our culture. Womens' and young girls' bodies are objectified on a daily basis. Vulnerable persons are abused and exploited physically and sexually. Men and boys are taught to be tough and that their physical strength is their greatest asset.

What might it mean for people to hear in church not just that God created humanity and called it good, but that when God said, "I think bodies are so good, I want one for myself," the body God chose for Godself was that of a woman?

What might it mean for women to hear that their bodies are valued, not just as vessels to bear the Divine like Mary's did, but to embody the Divine in themselves like Jesus did?

What might it mean for men to hear that women's bodies are so valued by God? Would that reduce, even by a little bit, men treating women like their bodies only exist to be used by others?

What might it mean for people whose gender identity doesn't match the one assigned them at birth to hear that God Incarnate might have had a complex gender identity?

William Loader talks at more length than I have about the threads of Wisdom narrative that seem to continue in the Jesus story, as well as how Jesus Jesusself draws on wisdom imagery (though I'm uncomfortable with Loader's closing assertion that all of Judaism ultimately points to and finds its fullness in Jesus).

Loader says, "The gospel writer has composed the overture to the gospel using the theme songs of wisdom. The effect is to assert and celebrate that Jesus is that word and wisdom of whom they sang."

What would it mean for us to take that seriously? Not that you need to start using "she" pronouns for Jesus, but to think about the Wisdom traditions and to think about them continuing in Jesus.

What does it add to your understanding of Jesus to read the texts Loader references and notice how steeped in those stories Jesus was, how some of them seem to come to life in new ways in the person and life of Jesus?

Loader says, "Already in Proverbs wise counsel is pictured as a woman appealing to young men on the streets. It is a striking image, forged as the opposite of the image of folly which is pictured as a street walking prostitute luring young men into her den. The language of the love affair features often in the imagery (eg. Sirach 51:13-22; Wisdom 6:12 – 8:21)."

Plenty of people have asserted that Jesus must have been very charismatic, but we probably imagine that in very different ways if Jesus is a woman. I'm really struck by the imagery of this seductiveness (honestly, I want my Jesus to be "a street walking prostitute luring young men into her den," but "virtuous" seductiveness is also really interesting). Y'all, in Wisdom 8:2, Solomon loves Wisdom, is enamored of her beauty, and wants to marry her. I'm really interested in this Jesus.

***

What does this story bring up for you, Beloved?

Do you want to talk more about the connections between Sophia Wisdom and Jesus Christ?

Would you rather delve more deeply into what it means that the light's own people did not receive it? Or how we are called to be like John the Baptist, pointing toward the light? Or something else altogether?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked throughout this blogpost or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Christmas 1] on darkness surrounding the light

Now after the Magi had left Herod, an angel of God appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Get up, take the child and the mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy it." Then Joseph got up, took the child and the mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by God through the prophet, "Out of Egypt I have called my child."

When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the Magi, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the Magi. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: "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."

When Herod died, an angel of God suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, "Get up, take the child and the mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child's life are dead." Then Joseph got up, took the child and the mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when Joseph heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, Joseph was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, Joseph went away to the district of Galilee. There Joseph made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, "This one will be called a Nazorean."

Matthew 2:13-23 (NRSV, alt.)

In his sermon on Sunday, Jeff talked about dreams. But what strikes me in this story is the darkness.

Christmas is about God putting skin on to be with us; and many of the preparatory texts we read during Advent talk about things like "He will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21) and "the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious" (Isaiah 11:10) -- statements that make us feel excited about the ways that God is going to triumph over darkness.

Celebrating the birth of light in the midst of darkness is an ancient tradition testifying to humanity's hope that the darkness is never permanent; and Christians latched onto this tradition as deeply fitting with their understanding of what happened when God came to Earth in the form of the baby Jesus. Our liturgical tradition gives us 4 weeks of preparing for this birth: weeks with themes of Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love -- all positive things.

So why do we get barely any time to celebrate before we're thrown into genocide and refugee status?

David Lose on Working Preacher reminds us that God incarnated to share in the full experience of humanity, including the bad stuff:

Sometimes life is beautiful and wonderful and filled with goodness and grace. And God is a part of that, giving blessing and celebrating with us and for us. And sometimes life is hard, gritty, disappointing, and filled with heartache. And God is part of that as well, holding on to us, comforting us, blessing us with promise that God will stay with us through the good and the bad, drawing us ever more deeply into God’s loving embrace and promising that nothing – not even death – will separate us from God.

I really like this.

But as I settle into this reading, I remember my commentary in my email on Sunday.

It's true that Jesus doesn't live a charmed life -- the infant and family have to settle in a strange place not once but twice.

But Jesus survives.

Yes, Mary watches her firstborn die a few decades later; and Simeon, encountering the baby Jesus, warns the new mother, "a sword will pierce your own heart too" (Luke 2:35). But Mary seems exempted from "Rachel weeping for her children [...] because they are no more."

Later, Jesus will express maternal longing for the city that kills the prophets (and is about to kill Jesus -- Luke 13:34 / Matthew 23:37), but we don't hear of Jesus having any children, nevermind any children who died. (Jesus does weep over Lazarus -- but then raises Lazarus from the dead, so it's a rather less long-lasting grief.)

Does God provide special protection for the Messiah and abandon all the nobodies to suffer? Does that seem in keeping with the Gospel accounts which are full of Jesus' (and God's) preferential option for the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized?

Jeff talked about dreams, but where are the warning dreams for all the other parents in Bethlehem?

Karyn Wiseman on Working Preacher writes:

The story of the flight from Egypt and the killing of innocent boys under the age of two in Bethlehem and the surrounding area are often called "fulfillment" texts, in that they supposedly fulfill Hebrew Bible texts and prophesy (verses 15, 17). While the "fulfillment" of these texts in this passage is limited at best, the text makes clear that this event was not ordained by God -- it was ordered by Herod. These acts are not "fulfillment" of God's desires; these are examples of human fear, power seeking, anger, and evil (verse 16).

I am comforted by the reminder that while God works all things toward the good, God did not give Herod the idea to inflict genocide just so we could achieve some handy prooftexting about being called out of Egypt.

The Sunday before Christmas, Molly talked about Mary's silence in Matthew's story and suggested that Mary's "Yes" may have been somewhat reluctant. Not just Matthew's Annunciation, but Matthew's entire Nativity story lacks the triumphant joy of Luke's narrative.

We start with a troubled genealogy tracing Jesus back through the Davidic line to Abraham.

Then Mary is "found" to be pregnant and a dream angel has to convince Joseph not to divorce her. The angel makes promises about this baby's future, but they are all promises yet to be fulfilled -- a waiting perhaps echoed by Joseph's not having marital relations with Mary throughout the pregnancy, despite his taking her as his wife.

Then foreign court priests show up at King Herod's, seeking the newborn "king of the Jews" whom they wish to honor. Herod facilitates their search and claims that he, too, wants to honor this newborn king. In fact, he wishes to kill the baby, and when the magi are warned in a dream to avoid Herod on their way home (after they drop off their rich gifts with the family), Herod deals with his lack of specific information by ordering the slaughter of all babies who might be the baby in question. We get more warning dreams and more travel as the baby and family move from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth.

And then if we were to keep reading in Matthew, we would get John the Baptist, living in the wilderness, dressed in camel's hair and eating locusts and wild honey -- preparing the way of the Lord! But referring to religious authorities as "You brood of vipers" and saying that the One who is to come will baptize with the Holy Spirit and with fire, with a winnowing fork in hand. The story might be revving up at this point, but it is still arguably not "cheerful."

I would suggest that Matthew's Nativity story takes seriously the messy, broken world we still live in -- even though God has come to dwell amongst us in that world -- and the fact that God's redemption of this world has yet to be completed. (Not that I'm trying to say that Luke's doesn't.)

So where does that leave us this Christmas season?

What do we do with this story about a power-hungry despot who was willing to commit genocide of infants in order to secure his throne? This story about the parents who, like the matriarch Rachel, wept over their dead children -- victims of state-sponsored violence?

Does this story call us to work on behalf of refugees, those at risk for violence, and other vulnerable and oppressed populations?

Does this story offer us some consolation when our own shadowy lives don't seem to let in any Christmas light? Does this reminder that even the original Christmas wasn't all light and joy give you some permission to sit with your own sadness? Can you feel God traveling with you from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth?

What does this story bring up for you, Beloved?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked throughout this blogpost or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)