"Herod was furious when he learned that the wise men had outwitted him. He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, because the wise men had told him the star first appeared to them about two years earlier. Herod's brutal action fulfilled the prophecy of Jeremiah: 'A cry of anguish is heard in Ramah, weeping and mourning unrestrained; Rachel weeps for her children, refusing to be comforted, for they are dead'" Matthew 2:16-18.
The Church of the Nativity, where it is agreed that the birth of Jesus took place, is right up the hill from our apartment here in Bethlehem. The church, which actually houses three churches-Greek Orthodox, Armenian Orthodox and Roman Catholic-has one special spot marked by a silver 14-point star indicating his birthplace. People often kneel and pray there, touching and kissing this holy place.
I remember the first time I saw it: the presence of decorative linens, candles and the smell of incense. I tried to remember the miracle that took place there, picturing the baby wrapped in common linens with the smell of animals nearby.
Not so pronounced in my mind was when the guide pointed to the Tomb of the Innocents; the tomb holds many skeletons of babies that were found-most likely from the two-year-old and younger children who were killed at the hands of soldiers by the order of King Herod. But living in Bethlehem, surrounded by the pain and suffering that is the daily reality for people here, this part of the story has taken on new meaning for me.
When I read this passage in Matthew, I consider the feelings of three people: Herod, Rachel and the reader.
What caused Herod to give such a horrendous order was his fury at being outsmarted, his fear of a new king, and his greed for power. He was feeling threatened, so threatened that it resulted in a disregard for lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of small babies.
Rachel has become a role model for me. My inspiration is largely found in the phrase, "refusing to be comforted." In fact, I think that she held so strongly to her belief that God is the God of life, that when she found herself in the middle of the nightmare, she refused to take any comfort, even during the birth of the Prince of Peace, while she held in her arms the lifeless bodies of her children. She knew that these deaths were not from God, but a result of the fear, greed and the abusive power of one man.
Then there is the reader. I wonder if many of us who read this part of the story every Christmas, read it somewhat quickly, glossing over its impact. Do we tend to view the death of these babies as "collateral damage" in the midst of the miracle that came to save every human being? Does that justify it for us? The Scripture puts the anguish of Rachel in the context of the prophetic voice of Jeremiah being fulfilled. Perhaps we feel that it was "just meant to be," or perhaps even "all part of God's plan."
Christmas in Bethlehem has quite a different meaning than past Christmases. I can't escape the devastating realities around me. I cannot ignore the pain simply because I'm celebrating the birth of Jesus, especially because I'm celebrating the birth of Jesus. Like Rachel, I am refusing to take comfort when it comes to the devastation. But what I'm holding to more tightly than ever is my belief that God is a God of life, and that he wills life for all people.
[Author Affiliation]
Christi Seidel
The author is a Mennonite Central Committee peace worker in Palestine.
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