1st Sunday of Christmas: Isaiah 7-9; Psalm 148 (148.7-10); Hebrews 2.10-end; Matthew 2.13-end
The Holy Innocents: Jeremiah 31.15-17; Psalm 124; 1 Corinthians 1.26-29; Matthew 2.13-18
THERE are two choices for the principal service on this day: the First Sunday of Christmas or the Holy Innocents. Both have the same gospel story, Herod’s massacre of male children in Bethlehem, with its echoes of Moses; but the longer version includes a detail about Jesus which puzzles commentators mightily.
Did some prophet — known to Matthew, but lost to us — say, “He will be called a Nazoraius,” meaning “man from Nazareth”, perhaps even inventing the prophecy to explain how Jesus was born in Bethlehem but came from Nazareth? Here (but nowhere else), Matthew cites a prophecy by “the prophets” (plural). Perhaps this is an echo of a tradition about Jesus which faded from history as spoken words gave way to written words.
I believe the language experts who argue that Nazoraius cannot be derived from “Nazareth”. I also believe them when they argue that Nazoraius is a likely way for Greek to say “Nazirite”. I think of religious groups such as the Pharisees (“separated ones”), Sadducees (“righteous ones”), and Essenes (“doers” of the law); for Nazirites means “consecrated ones”. The same way of naming a religious group after its core tenet exists in modern churches: “Baptists”, “Pentecostals”, “Congregationalists”.
Perhaps the most famous Nazirite in Jewish history was Samson (Judges 13-16). He was a miracle baby, but more akin to John than Jesus; for his mother had been— in the language of former times — barren. “Barren” is an ugly, insensitive word. I have never forgotten an old family friend sobbing on my shoulder after her husband left her for someone younger, and crying, “I’m just a barren old woman.” There was nothing I could say to comfort her double bereavement: her loss of both marriage and motherhood.
Samson the Nazirite seems to make an odd pairing with Jesus, especially at Christmas. His famous physical prowess and bold character do not make us think of the adult Jesus, “the carpenter, the son of Mary” (Mark 6.3), and still less of the babe lying in a manger. Nazirites were set apart for God, with restrictions on their mode of life, such as not cutting their hair or drinking “wine or strong drink” (Numbers 6.3-6). We do not know whether Jesus followed such rules.
One significant statement, though, binds the two together. They are both saviours of their people. An angel of the Lord tells how Samson will begin to save Israel from the hand of the Philistines (Judges 13.5). Centuries later, an angel reveals that Jesus is going to complete that work; for he “will save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1.21). Samson’s way was the “natural” way: might is right. Jesus’s way is the new way — a better way, a way that can survive every physical challenge and spiritual threat. Jesus’s way is the way of risk and vulnerability, the way that overcomes might with right.
What is wrong with Herod’s massacre of the innocents? Morally, the question needs no answer. But it is also wrong from a practical viewpoint; for it cannot achieve its objective. The best example in the Bible that I can think of in which an event is prophesied but does not come to pass is in Jonah, when God decides not to destroy Nineveh. And Jonah’s reaction shows that God, by changing his mind, has broken the rules of how prophecy is supposed to work. Herod has been told (Matthew 2.6) of a prophecy that a child shall become king. Naturally, he feels threatened. And, like all tyrants, by seeking to eliminate threats, he attracts the downfall (a gruesome disease and death) that he seeks to avert.
Think of Oedipus, Romulus and Remus, Macbeth: those who try to cheat prophecy fail. Herod fails; for God’s will is not to be subverted. Sometimes, prophecy is about big historical events, but this day keeps the focus on individuals and families. As for the children, for Herod they were a means to an end, whereas for the families every death was a tragedy.
When Matthew refers to a prophecy of Jeremiah (verse 18), newer translations say that Rachel wept for her children who “are no more”. Older translations are closer to the Greek: “who are not”. Both the death of a child and the not-being-born of a child are personal tragedies. There need be no wider meaning in either, but in both we can trust the Christ-child to communicate meaning and comfort.
