Scary Baby [Christmas 2 - Matthew 2:1-12]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Matthew 2:1-12

 

Scary Baby

 

I too have been afraid because of a baby – but for reasons very unlike the king.  All those times that now, in retrospect, after raising two babies, don’t seem scary at all, but in the moment did: When I was first alone with that tiny human, when my wife took a well-deserved first post-partum shower, and being a new dad became very real.  It was just the two of us, in that bright, sterile hospital room – him clueless about the world, me clueless about parenthood.  Of course, it was that very moment when that little baby decided to fill his diaper for the first time, which is, in itself, a scary scene, something right out of a horror movie.  And I remember that anxiety I would feel when the baby monitor would begin to sound and his little form would begin to stir in his crib – Jen at a meeting miles away.  I would spring into action; get the bottle warmer ready and pray that it would do its job – and quickly.  Because I knew that bottle of milk was the only thing that could save me from an epic meltdown.  And then on the Sundays Oscar attended church with me, which was every other Sunday, because Jen and I were at the time were both pastoring churches; I dreaded the time between the liturgies when I would have to try to get Oscar to take a nap in my office.  And he hated to sleep.  And I knew we would end up in an infuriating struggle that would leave me frazzled and disheveled.  I guess, looking back, I was afraid just about every time Jen left us and I was alone with baby Oscar.

 

And also I was afraid one time when Jen was with me: as we, new parents, nervously sat in the waiting room of the hospital, the same hospital in which we had welcomed our new baby just two months earlier, while our first-born lay unconscious in an operating room.  Parenthood is scary.  I have been afraid because of a baby.

 

For reasons very unlike the king.  But also for reasons very much like the king in Matthew’s Gospel.  Babies are so small and helpless and cute.  And it is astounding that something so small and helpless and cute can shake the foundations of life so profoundly.  Babies change the world; they do violence to all that has come before; they hold hostage the future; they displace our old reliable patterns and habits and dreams with a frightening, wonderful newness.

 

When Christ was born into our world some welcomed that newness; the sky burst into song; the shepherds ran to the manger to see with their eyes that which sounded too good to be true; those desperate for something better, those burdened by injustice, those carrying the weight of the world, those with little to lose, wept tears of gladness when hope interrupted their lives.  Others, like this king, were frightened at his arrival.  He had far too much to lose.

 

The Christmas story is such a lovely story.  It feels preciously intimate, contained as it is in a small stable, with so few figures framing the scene.  The problem is: there is more to the story, too much more.  Joy to the world is shattered by the jealous, murderous screams of a tyrant.  The celebration of Christmas gives way to the solemn observance of the Feast of the Holy Innocents.

 

And it would feel unreal if it weren’t so painfully realistic.  Power is addictive, a suffocating drug with deep, stubborn roots.  And so it is not difficult to imagine a powerful person setting the world ablaze, trampling a nation underfoot, destroying the future to hold onto that high.

 

The Christmas story feels like a fairy tale, with heroes and villains, hope, despair, and ultimately triumph.  And like most fairy tales it keeps coming true, visiting our real lives with its timeless narrative.  It is somehow both an old story and yet it is the story of our lives.  This miraculous, yet ordinary, ancient birth that we celebrate anew every year in this world being ever reborn with each little spark of hope and each bundle of promise and our kings always frightened and clinging to power.  And Jesus forever threatening to interrupt our lives with his newness.  “Behold, I am making all things new.”  And it sounds exciting until we realize that his newness brings with it change, that his resurrection life is always preceded by death.

 

Perhaps nothing sets our hearts on the future quite like the introduction of a new calendar.  This is the first Sunday since the ball dropped, since we closed the book on 2020.  After the pain and frustration, the heartbreak and isolation of this last year, 2021 carries the weight of great anticipation.  And I do hope, as we ponder what might fill the days before us, that we are just desperate enough to open our hearts this year to something new, rather than scramble to resuscitate the old things we have left behind.  

 

The hope of Christmas lives in the hazy, frightening promise of the coming kingdom of God, a kingdom that means to lay waste to the corrupt and ruthless structures of this world, that means to frighten the Herods of history.  The birth of the Christ child in our lives and in our world is meant to be disruptive.  It is meant to throw kings from their thrones.  It is meant to wash away the old dispensations.  It is meant to displace our old reliable patterns and habits and dreams with a frightening newness. 

 

That is, after all, what babies do.  They change things.  They also open our hearts wider than we ever thought possible.  That too can be frightening.  But perhaps God came as a baby because only a baby is able to open our hearts wide enough – wide enough to welcome the one born to mess up our lives, and this world, in all the right ways.