In Hope (Matthew 2:16–18)

Sermon for MHBC (3 January 2021). You can listen on Facebook, YouTube, Vimeo, or our website. Live at 11:00am on Sundays.

A while back I made the always regrettable mistake of reading through a series of comments on Facebook. The comments were made in regard to a certain church shooting. Of course many of these comments expressed sympathy, others expressed opinions, but one comment stood out in particular. It wasn’t an unusual comment. In fact, it’s as old as human history. The comment said, “Where was God and Christ in this?” More popularly, this question is phrased, “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

I imagine this question, “Where is God?” is familiar to all of you. It is quite common for first sermons of the year to talk about vision and future and resolutions, but we do something different today. Today, we are reminded of the losses within our congregation. Some of you have been dealt life’s greatest cruelty this year and the holidays make those tender, almost raw, emotions even worse.

And since it is still the Christmas season—the 10^th day of Christmas to be precise—I want to walk you through one of the strangest episodes in the Christmas story. One, that at first blush, seems out of place. One that doesn’t usually get a mention on Hallmark cards or the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. It’s not a story of angels singing “Glory in the highest,” it’s not even about a young mother traveling to Bethlehem. No, it’s about a group of mothers weeping because this broken world has robbed them of their children.

Matthew 2 begins with the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem. We are told that Herod is the king. Wise men from the east come to Jerusalem. They begin asking to see the king who was just born. Now you can imagine the uneasiness of King Herod at this point. After all, he is the king of the Jews. Who are these foreign men traveling to see, if not him?

Herod’s suspicion is raised to full alert. Historically, we know that Herod was a cruel man. So he devises a plan. He summons his counselors, asking them where the Christ was foretold to be born. Then he tells the wise men to report back when they find this baby king. Here’s what’s remarkable. King Herod is so delusional, he’s so power-hungry that he intends to challenge the very plan of God. He knew the Jewish scriptures. He knew that the Messiah, the Christ, God’s anointed would come. But Herod is powerful. He’s rich. He has influence. He thinks he is invincible. In his head, he will thwart God’s plan.

This brings us to our passage—the part in the Christmas story that doesn’t seem quite right. When Herod realizes that the wise men aren’t returning, he’s furious. And so this evil king uses his power for incredible injustice and unspeakable evil. He has all the male children under the age of two killed in Bethlehem. What a horrid story! What could be worse than this?

Then Matthew concludes this episode by saying, this fulfilled what was spoken by the prophet Jeremiah:

A voice was heard in Ramah,
weeping and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.

Why would Matthew include this in the Christmas story? To me, the answer seems to be that this is the truly remarkable feature of Christianity. Whatever we may think, it is not a religion of easy answers. When we say Emanuel—God with us—we do not mean that life is perfectly rosy. We mean that God comes to this world—this broken world where horrible injustices happen, where evil people rage, where cancer destroys, where old age overcomes, where life-changing accidents happen.

But Matthew wants us to see something more. God is doing something. Matthew cites Jeremiah 31 for a reason. If we just read the verses he cites, it may seem like there’s no hope. But that’s not the case, and, no doubt, Matthew knew the passage he was citing. Jeremiah 31 is God’s promise to bring God’s people back to a place of safety and harmony. Listen to what the Lord says to these weeping mothers in Jeremiah 31 just two verses later:

There is hope for your future, declares the Lord, and your children shall come back to their own country.

“There is hope for your future.” I’m reminded of that great line from The Lord of the Rings: “Is everything sad going to come untrue?” Jeremiah says that God himself is preparing a way for the children to return. This is precisely the thought Matthew is tapping into. As he moves into chapter three, he introduces us to John the Baptist who is preparing this very same way for the Lord. God has come to this broken world and is making a way, a way of hope, where this broken world will be set right. God is right here—in the mess and the chaos, in a world gone horribly wrong. Somehow in spite of the suffering and pain and cruelty and heartache, God is working.

Friends, the Christmas story begins the greatest story ever told, but let’s not make it something it’s not. To be sure, it is a story of joy and beauty and glory and peace on earth. But it’s also a story of pain and suffering and struggle. It’s a story of tear-filled eyes trying to make sense out of a world that is intolerably cruel—a world that sometimes threatens to swallow us with all its pain; a world where sometimes the only proper response is a deep, anguished scream from the depths of our soul.

I’m under no illusions today. I refuse to give quaint answers to those who are grieving. Sure, I could tell you that it will get better. I could remind you that God is still good. And to be sure, these things are true. But, if we’re honest, those things don’t help right now. One of my favorite Christian writers, C. S. Lewis, lost his wife after just three years of marriage. He wrote a book titled A Grief Observed. At one point he writes,

Talk to me about the truth of religion and I’ll listen gladly. Talk to me about the duty of religion and I’ll listen submissively. But don’t come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don’t understand.

The story here in Matthew 2 is so odd. But I’m convinced that it serves a purpose. Stories don’t really give advice. There are no steps to dealing with grief. Stories uncover the human experience. They don’t always paint pretty pictures. Sometimes they just tell us exactly what life is like.

Christianity doesn’t offer any nice answers. It begins with a cradle in the most unsuitable place. A teenage girl gives birth to her first child without the benefits of modern medicine or proper care. The story reaches its climax with a cross—not the pretty, decorative item hanging on our walls, but a tool of fear and submission, employed by an authoritarian government. But it’s precisely on that cross that something is happening. Lewis referred to it as “deeper magic.” The cords of death are unraveled. The curse of this world is reversed. And three days later, Jesus emerges from the tomb, showing that the greatest enemy of all—death itself—has been overcome. The Lord has cleared the way. He is leading the children home.

One of my favorite Christmas hymns is “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” The author, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, lost his wife in a fire in 1861. He tried to save her by smothering the fire with his own body. His unsuccessful effort caused him to miss his own wife’s funeral as his face was badly burnt. In 1863, just two years later, his oldest son, Charles, enlisted in the Union army at the age of 18. In December 1863, Henry received a letter that his son Charles had been badly wounded in Virginia. The doctors thought paralysis was likely. On Christmas Day 1863, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, this widowed father of six, whose son had recently been wounded fighting in a war in his own country, stepped out into the street, where he heard the church bells ringing with the joy of Christmas. But Henry had felt so much pain. How could Christmas be joyous? He took his pen out and composed a poem.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
and wild and sweet, The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong, And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

But despite his despair, his last stanza says:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Again, this might not be consolation today, but I pray that you see in the story of Christmas the faintest glimmer of hope. After the cradle and after the cross comes a crown. As Jeremiah says, “There is hope for your future.” Until that day, allow me to wish you a Merry Christmas and say, as a pastor and as a fellow human that I, too, get battered by life and wonder where God is. But I await with you in hope, looking for the day when we will tell all of our stories—even ones like Matthew 2—as the toughest of times, but nevertheless, times that were finally righted by King Jesus.