Then when Herod saw that he had been tricked by the magi, he became very enraged, and sent and slew all the male children who were in Bethlehem and all its vicinity, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had determined from the magi. Then what had been spoken through Jeremiah the prophet was fulfilled: “A voice was heard in Ramah, Weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children; And she refused to be comforted, Because they were no more.”
Matthew 2: 16-18

AND YET
Bethlehem, wisemen, mothers, babies, angels, dreams, kings, and fulfilled prophecy. The cast of characters are all here. What sounds more like the Christmas story than this?

And yet…

In this story, Rachel is crying instead of Mary cooing a lullaby. The cattle are not lowing, the angels are not singing. The night is not silent. The night is full of the wails of grieving mothers. The tears refuse to end. The dawn cannot chase the darkness. There is no Christmas here.

And yet…

This story belongs to the Christmas story. It is incomplete without it. For Jesus was born in the shadow of the cross. The massacre of the Holy Innocents is wed to the manger in the same way Good Friday is wed to Easter. In both cases, the apparent victory of temporal power, the injustice of coercive violence, the conquest of sin is turned on its head in the most unlikely way: by a newborn baby and by a dead man. The strongest and most violent forms of sin and death are crushed by a baby and a body. The weakest of the weak conquers the strongest of the strong.

And yet…

For all of the hope that hides within this story, the players on the stage are unaware of the plot. For the weeping women of Bethlehem never had a visit from an angel. They never even had a visit from a shepherd—only from a soldier. They didn’t know to flee until all hope of flight was gone. No wise men brought them gifts.

Indeed, their story ends in the grave. The grave of their child and, most likely, their own grave. For most of these mothers died before Jesus began his ministry. Their loss was frozen in time; a death scene detached from its narrative. It is only we who have the benefit of the big story who can make sense of this tragic episode.

And yet…

It seems when tragedy comes into our stories, we loose sight of the big story. Our story simply becomes the story. Our moment becomes eternity. Our loss makes the story a tragedy that no further narration can amend. Our Good Friday portends no Easter.

I write these words more as an observation than an indictment. It is just a fact of human psychology that our pain and suffering consumes our bandwidth. When caring for another person in grief, it is good to remember this truth. But it does not mean that our story is the whole story. Our moment is not eternity. There is always an and yet…

The babies die, and yet the baby lives. Joseph and Mary flee to Egypt, and yet their son is raised in Galilee. The people walk in darkness, and yet they see a great light. Jesus is the Man of Sorrows, and yet by his stripes we are healed. His crucifixion is repulsive, and yet his salvation is so beautiful that angels long to look. He is dead on the cross, and yet he his tomb is empty. He leaves his disciples behind, and yet he sends his Spirit. He tarries and yet he is coming soon.

I do not know the story that you are caught up in this Christmas. It may have far more in common with the weeping of Rachel than the joy of Mary. But whatever your story may be, let me encourage you to keep turning the pages. In God’s big story, there is always another and yet…
-Rick Langer, Professor of Biblical and Theological Studies

FATHER, I am weary of all that is wrong with the world—murder of the innocents, a smeared and wrecked creation, tyrant oppressed poor, hunger-withered children, exploited women, forgotten elderly, invisible homeless. I long to see . . . . . all things crooked made straight. Set me to making way for your justice with renewed vigor. In Jesus our Deliverer’s precious name we pray.  Amen.
Phillip Reinders from Seeking God’s Face