What does this story have to do with Christmas?

So here's a question to ponder: is Christmas all about happy feelings, joy and good will and peace and sugary sentiments? If you answered "yes," (and who doesn't hope for such things in life?), then read this part of the Christmas story: Matthew 2:13-23.


Leonard Sweet has this to say about all this:

This is the time of year when we need to be on high alert for cute.

We love cuteness. This is a cute-driven culture. And this season of year

turns everything it touches into glitz and cuteness.

But the story of Jesus’ birth wasn’t cute.

The Annunciation wasn’t cute.

The virgin birth wasn’t cute.

The Magnificat wasn’t cute.

The little town of Bethlehem wasn’t cute.

The killing of the innocents wasn’t cute.

The nativity genealogy puts Mary in the lineage of Tamar, Rahab,

Bathsheeba, and Ruth (yes, the one who snuck in to the rich Boaz’s tent at night while he was sleeping to seduce him). Jesus’ genealogy is not cute. Golgatha wasn’t cute.

“Crux” in Latin means cross. The crux of Christianity is the cross. And

the cross isn’t cute.

The old Christian calendar had ways of resisting this cultural drift into

cuteness. On 26 December, the church celebrated the martyrdom of Saint

Stephen. On 28 December the death of the infants whom Herod killed was

remembered. In other words, the Christmas story was part of a larger story

that dealt with injustice, suffering and even death. The joy of Christmas

wasn’t a cute joy, but a joy that overcame obstacles and negatives.

(from Sermons.com)

This Sunday is one day before the church through the centuries observed this terrible event. The story reminds us that Jesus Christ was born into the real world, the world of paranoid politicoes and ruthless rulers. Artists over the centuries have depicted this story in very graphic terms, using paint and stone to portray the pain and pathos of this horror. This website has a collection of such artwork. It is a horror that the world has seen over and over. Many of the artists remind us of this profound point through a particular artistic device: they portray the story using contemporary settings and contemporary dress. 

For example, the Flemish painter, Pieter Bruegel the Elder sets the story in a mid-16th Century town of his time. Of course, illuminated manuscripts from the 12 century and earlier reveal the same. It may be that the artists had no access to information concerning the dress of the Biblical period. But the deeper theological point remains: the reality of the Bible is our reality. The terror of massacres and genocides is our own, in every age. 


What this means is straight forward and to the point: In every age, God enters into our terror and fear, takes on our flesh, and seeks to transform our bad news into Good News. I say "seeks," because in order for the bad news of our world to be transformed, we have to cooperate with God. That is, we have to operate with God.
Like Elizabeth, who embraced the possibility of bearing the one who would be the forerunner of the Messiah.
Like Mary, who said "Yes," to God's wild and crazy plan.
Like Peter, Andrew, James and John, who abandoned their nets and followed Jesus.
Like Jesus himself, who in his struggled prayer in Gethsemane finally says, "Not my will, but Yours be done."


Leonard Sweet is right. These Christmas stories are ultimately not cute. The whole plan for salvation seems built on thin ice. It's like a house built of twigs: any shift of wind or weakness will send it crashing to the ground. Think of it:

• It requires the consent of a young virgin woman to face public censure and ostracism.
• It faces the wrath of a tyrant fearful of any perceived threat to his regime.
• It requires birth as a small, fragile and helpless infant. 

We think that in our helplessness we have need of God. But that is only one-half of the equation.
In these stories the equation is balanced with this startling pronouncement: 
God in his helplessness has need of us.