Peace: The Bethlehem Candle (Week 15, Dec 4)
Reading
Matthew 2:1–18
Silent Reflection
Remarks
When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled … [and] inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for so it written by the prophet:
‘And you, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you shall come a ruler
who will shepherd my people Israel.’ ”
Matthew 2:3–6 (ESV)
Have you ever noticed how Herod is kind of the central character in the nativity story in Matthew? His name pops up everywhere. The major tension is portrayed as a sort of power struggle between Herod and baby Jesus. The contrasts between them could hardly be stronger.
This week is both the week of Peace and the Bethlehem Candle. What do we know about peace and Bethlehem and Herod?
Herod the Great was called “The Great” primarily for his building projects and wealth. He was absolutely ingenious when it came to architecture, design, and engineering, and he used his wealth, power, and intelligence (as well as tens of thousands of slaves) to build insanely lavish palace fortresses. He really liked to build them in high places.
One such palace fortress, still atop a high hill in Israel, is called the Herodium; it was made of heavy, cut white stone. It had its own private theater carved into the hillside. It had galleries of beautiful frescoes. The really striking thing about it, though, is that the mountain the palace sits on was not tall enough in its natural state for Herod’s liking. So, before building the palace, he had his slaves raise the mountain itself so his palace would tower even higher above everything around it. He literally moved mountains to testify to his own greatness.
Bethlehem, on the other hand, was a tiny shepherd town that sat (and still sits) more or less in the shadow of this Herod-made mountain palace-fortress. Bethlehem is not high. Its name is, literally, House of Bread—basic, uninteresting, run-of-the-mill bread. It did not have palaces made of cut white stone. It did not have a king’s private theater. It did, though, have shepherd stables with mangers. And these stables—far from being quaint nativity-esque wooden barns with pitched roofs—were caves situated beneath houses. Dark. Dank. Smelling of all things beast.
Mary was forced to give birth in one of these animal dens because, as we know, “there was no room at the inn.” We have grown accustomed to hearing this as, “the local Bethlehem Motel was booked up.” We think Mary showed up at an inconveniently busy time. But that word “inn” would better be translated as “guest room,” which were customary for homes to keep for potential visitors. Apparently not these visitors, though. Mary and Joseph came to someone’s house, but no guest room was extended to them.
“Why” is a very interesting question deserving of more extensive exploration; it’s possible they were being rejected not by an enterprising hotel manager, but by their own kin. Perhaps they had family in Bethlehem, the city of Joseph’s heritage, who were ashamed and upset, not just because Mary was pregnant before marriage (not as scandalous to them as to us), but because by becoming pregnant she was considered effectively married already, and therefore the family had been robbed of the joy of attending and celebrating a family wedding (much more scandalous to them than to us).
So the picture I get is this: Joseph brings pregnant Mary to the town of his heritage, perhaps to an uncle’s or cousin’s house, and when they knock on the door, instead of being welcomed with cheer and warmth, they’re told, “Well, I guess we can push some of the goats to one side and you can sleep down below.” I imagine that even while the laughter and conversation of her “hosts” can be heard through the ceiling above, Mary is squatting and crying amid the animal crap as she gives birth to the Son of God.
What does it mean for us that Jesus was born in the House of Bread, in an animal cave in a valley in the shadow of the palace of Herod? Well, perhaps where he wasn’t born means as much as where he was. Not up above in grandeur and power, but down below, to an outcast young mother, tended by wild shepherds and strange foreigners. Do you notice the descent of it all? Angels we have heard on high, yes, but Jesus we have found down in the lonely dark that does not smell so good.
Where are we looking for him this Christmas?
This week of Advent in which some light the Bethlehem Candle is also the week of Peace. “My peace I give to you,” he says. What kind of peace is that? It’s peace in the biblical sense: shalom. Shalom isn’t a happy-go-lucky feeling or zen mindset; shalom is the reality of wholeness, the opposite of a fragmented and anxious life. It’s what we want—a sense of security, of everything being brought together and made well. The world’s way of Christmas does promise us this kind of peace, but in this way: Buy this Thing and you will lack nothing. Your life will be complete. Get your cut stones and private theaters and you will have all you need. Wrap them up with bows.
Is that working for us?
I think Peace from Bethlehem means we aren’t going to find it in the high and lofty places of the world where the salesmen promise it. But we might find it in a life hidden with Christ, hidden with him down in a trough in a shepherd’s cave, a place humble and meek enough that for once we might be able to hear through all the bells and whistles to the voice declaring, “Peace on earth, good will to everyone.”
Silent Reflection
Response
Read Micah 5:1–5. What strikes you about that passage in light of the passage from Matthew?
What does it mean to pursue peace in the Bethlehem way?
What does it mean to pursue peace in the Herod way?
How can you make room for the lowly and outcast this Christmas?