"Taking Flight"
January 7, 2007: 1st Sunday After Epiphany, Year C
The Rev. John MacIver Gage, senior minister
United Church on the Green, UCC: New Haven, CT
www.unitedchurchonthegreen.org

Scripture:
Matthew 2:13-23
Now after [the Magi] had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him." Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, "Out of Egypt I have called my son." 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 the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, "Get up, take the child and his 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 his mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that [Herod] Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod [the Great], he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, "He will be called a Nazorean."

Sermon:
Well, the last time I saw most of you was two weeks ago, in this meeting house, on Christmas Eve, as we sat together here in the dark with several hundred of our neighbors, singing carols and sharing once more the story of Jesus' birth long ago in Bethlehem surrounded by shepherds and angels. At the end of that service, we lifted our candles against the night in imitation of the great star that guided wise ones from far away to that stable and that baby who was himself the "good news of great joy for all the people" (Luke 2:10)... all the people. Every year, I am captivated by that holy moment, that golden glow, that silent night. It is a wonder, and a blessing.

But soon enough the music ends, the glow fades, and life goes on. And life in the shadow of the star is not always so beautiful. The shepherds return to their flocks and the magi to their ivory towers, leaving us with Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus there in the stable, where Herod, too, remains, prowling like a fox. And as we watch—if we choose to stay and watch, those of us who are privileged enough to have a choice—Herod slakes his thirst with the blood of the innocent children of Bethlehem. Like Pharaoh before him, fearful for the security of his throne, Herod orders the murder of all baby boys under the age of two, just to be certain. And instead of the songs of angels, the Bethlehem night is filled with families weeping, inconsolable.

Somehow, though, as the story goes, by some means or other, another angel or a dream, Joseph knew enough to take Mary and the baby Jesus and escape the coming terror in Egypt. What a gruesome choice, knowing that others—perhaps cousins, nieces, nephews here in Joseph's hometown—would not be so fortunate. You can imagine Mary and Joseph's muffled voices in the shadows of the stable, the noises of surprised animals and the midnight cry of the baby, as they prepare to leave everything and everyone they've ever known behind, to cross the border one step ahead of the soldiers and become refugees in order to save the life of their newborn child. They will return only when word reaches them of Herod's death, but even then, Joseph will avoid Bethlehem, choosing to settle the family in Nazareth, instead.

This "Slaughter of the Innocents," as it's been called, and the Holy Family's flight to Egypt are not mentioned again in Matthew's Gospel, or in any other account, for that matter. And falling as it does in the shadow of the busy, bright Christmas season, it's not mentioned much in the modern American church, either. Truth be told, there's not a lot of evidence that it even really happened. And that'd be okay with most of us. As uncomfortable stories go, this one is right up there with Jesus' Good Friday crucifixion. But even the crucifixion can be cast in the Hollywood glow of a single man's heroic self-sacrifice. Just look what Mel Gibson did with it. No this, what happened Bethlehem that night, is something else, something worse.

Imagine Jesus growing up in the shadow of the events in Bethlehem. Imagine how he had to carry what happened there with him throughout his life, how he had to live with the knowledge that while he and his family escaped the long knives, so many others, so many died in his place to appease the powers-that-be. Sure, he's supposed to be some kind of Messiah, someone to "save the people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21), but still... That's quite a burden to bear. Imagine how easy it would have been to stay in the safety of Egypt or later in Nazareth and just keep his head down and get on with his own little life.

Only Jesus didn't do that. Once the immediate danger was past, he didn't stay hidden away. He didn't fly away from the unpleasant realities of the world. He took responsibility for his life, for the ways his life touched the lives of others, and chose to move through his guilt and grief and fear to become a force for justice, peace, and compassion. Though, as I said, it's not mentioned again in the course of the Gospel, I imagine the Jesus Matthew knew never forgot those other babes of Bethlehem or his own family's midnight flight.

No, throughout his ministry, it's clear Jesus chose to bind up the wounds of our broken world and work to change the world's wounding ways. What privilege Jesus enjoyed in his lifetime he spent unstintingly to lift up the "least" and most vulnerable in society. He preached justice and practiced it. He spent time with "mere" women and children. He touched the untouchables. He shared his table with tax collectors and others labeled sinners. At every turn, Jesus worked to dismantle the domination system that demanded the sacrifice of so many lives, even, in the end, his own on the cross.

And even then, even on the cross, Jesus refused to be a victim, but used his suffering to transform the cross itself, using it to focus the attention of the world on this system of interlocking oppressions, large and small, that continues to chew up victim and victimizer alike. Even in his death, Jesus honored the sacrifice of those who went before him, the innocents of Bethlehem. And two thousand years later, as much as we may want to, as much as we may want to sweep the crosses of this world quietly under the rug or gloss over them with pretty words and platitudes, we still cannot look away.

Of course, Matthew may have made the whole thing up. Bethlehem may not have really happened. But we know it could have. We know it does, more often and in more places than we care to admit. Human lives are sacrificed every day on the altar of political expediency, to maintain the status quo and the privilege of those who profit from it. Children around the world are refused access to the health care and education and opportunities necessary for them to enjoy abundant life, or even any life at all. Women continue to be treated like second-class citizens and have their wages and bodies governed by men. In this country, the love shared between gay and lesbian persons is devalued in order to shore up heterosexual privilege and the political fortunes of many, while elsewhere queer folk are denied even the right to exist. Racism thrives. Basic human rights are put on hold with the stroke of a pen in the name of national security. War feeds on the lives of combatants and non-combatants alike around the globe, while desperation more quietly devours the hopes and dreams of countless millions.

No, Rachel still weeps for her children, and for us. And, just like this grim story from Matthew's Gospel, that's a lot to take in. It forces us to ask ourselves just who are we to have survived, and even thrived in such a world? How have we have been complicit in the political, economic, and religious systems that oppress so many for the benefit of so few, and how have we ourselves have been victimized by those them? How many pieces of ourselves have we sacrificed in order to "succeed" in the ways of the world. No wonder we are so tempted to take refuge in flights of fancy—political fancy, economic fancy, religious fancy—both to dull the pain and absolve us of our guilt.

But the memory of Christ, that babe of Bethlehem, that man of Nazareth, our crucified and risen savior, urges us onward, inward, outward through the guilt and fear and into the Gospel work of transformation. His memory sets us free to be grateful for the sacrifices of all those who have gone before have made a way for us—not just the big names, the heroes who made a big difference, the Harvey Milks and MLKs and Mother Joneses of the world, but all the little names who didn't, those countless more who lived hard lives in difficult times and whose quiet living and dying was heroism enough, testament to the life that is in us from God and witness against all that denies and destroys that life.

Friends, we always intend this church to be a refuge, a place of sanctuary, where, just as Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus did, we can fly to escape the violence and threats of a world bent on beating us down. But also like them, we are not meant to stay hidden away here forever. Like Jesus, we are called to come out of hiding and shine, shine like the Christmas star once more to proclaim the good news of God's transforming love for all the people, all the people, in word and deed. Through the witness of our lives, lived in freedom and thanksgiving, in peace, justice and love in imitation of Christ, and yes, even somehow through our suffering, as through his, we are called to change the world. We are called not simply to fly, fly away, but to soar on God-given wings of grace and power. This is the Way of Christ, the ways that leads from Bethlehem to the cross, and through it, beyond it, to resurrection and new life. And if we call ourselves Christians, this is our Way, too.

Remembering Jesus and all the other babes of Bethlehem, we remember also the words of our forbears in faith from the Letter to the Hebrews, chapter 12, verses 1-3:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such hostility against himself from sinners, so that you may not grow weary or lose heart.

Consider the One who endured all this, for you, so that you may not grow weary or lose heart in the struggle that is set before you today, and every day. Amen.