Remembering the Innocent

We are now in the season of Christmas, the joyful time after the meditation and expectation of Advent. We have exuberantly celebrated Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and, unlike many homes and churches, we will continue to enjoy the trees, the carols, and the festivities. Just one day is never enough.


Yet only three days after Christmas Day, the church calendar calls for us to remember what has been called the Massacre (or Slaughter) of the Innocents. It’s a rather solemn, uncomfortable, and almost unthinkable day, especially given its proximity to Christmas Day itself, but not all joy can be completely unallayed.  Yesterday was two turtle doves, tomorrow four calling birds, but today the birds have been replaced by the cries of dying children and the screams of their mothers.


Herod was the client king of Judea, under the authority of Rome. He seemed to have two hobbies, building large complexes, roads, bridges, and even the Temple, while the other was murdering anyone who, in his perception, were out to get him. Down through the ages, he was portrayed as a madman, an insane person, and even a paranoid schizophrenic. The current diagnosis is Paranoid Personality Disorder, an exaggerated distrust and suspicion of others.


He was highly distrustful of the Hasmoneans, the house of the previous rulers, whose rule Rome ended with the appointment of Herod, an Idumean, to act as king. His paranoid delusions led to many deaths of prominent Hasmoneans throughout his reign. Among his own family, he had his wife Mariamne, a Hasmonean woman he loved dearly and made his second wife, executed because he feared she was plotting against him in favor of two of their sons. He killed those two sons also, as well as another son by another wife. Even Mariamne’s mother was not exempt from the executioner.

He knew the people hated him for his cruelty, unfair taxation, and suspicions, so, knowing his death was not far away, called for prominent Jews to be “invited” to Jerusalem for a meeting, then rounded up and ordered that they be executed as soon as Herod’s own death was announced. He was determined that there should be mourning upon his death, even if the mourning was for Jews and not for the King of Judea.


When the Magi visited Jerusalem and brought news of a newborn King of the Jews, paranoia struck Herod like a sword in the gut. He planned on having the Magi identify the name and place in Bethlehem where this usurper child was living, but the Magi slipped the trap and used another route homeward. Nevertheless, Herod sent out a troop of assassins to go through every house in Bethlehem and every nearby village, find every boy baby under the age of two years, and murder them.  


Matthew 2:18b quotes part of Jeremiah 31, “… A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are no more.”  Jeremiah was referring to the children of Israel, regardless of age, who were taken from Israel during the Exile. Their “death” was that they no longer lived in the land God had given them.  Matthew referred to the more physical murder of little boys who just happened to fit the criteria of being male and two years old or younger, but the same emotions are evoked: grief, pain, desperation, and desolation. Luckily, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus had escaped before the child could become a victim. They had become refugees heading for safety in Egypt.


We see this story played out over and over, even in this modern world. The daily newspapers and programs are full of images of children dying of famine, illness, or genocide.  Unlike Jesus and his family in Egypt, refugees seeking safety for their families and children are not always welcomed into the lands in which they seek sanctuary. Images of Jewish men, women, and children being separated at extermination camps come to mind.  Recently, images of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus each put into cages, separated from the others, even the helpless child, have proclaimed that there might be a bit of paranoia present in our own country.  In a season dedicated to the birth of God’s own Son, sons and daughters of thousands and thousands of parents have been separated by not only barbed wire or chain link, but by those things plus miles and miles of distance. Children have died due to illness and deprivation. It is our own version of the Slaughter of the Innocents.


Think of being a parent who has no idea where their child is, whether he or she is safe, warm, fed, clothed, and loved. Think of being a parent who walked a thousand miles or more to keep their child safe from rebels, drug lords and gangs, and despotic military troops, only to arrive and have their child taken from their arms and sent who knows where? Think of the children, sitting in pens, the littlest ones in soiled clothes and diapers, crying for a mother or a father that never comes to pick them up and make them feel safe. It’s hard to think of things like that while we sit in warm homes, laughing and enjoying family and friends, lots of good food, and the enjoyment of a loving environment.


Rachel may have wept for her children, but now some of those children have created the same sort of ghettos that threatened them during the Second World War. Bombs fall on both sides of the borders, killing children as well as combatants, destroying homes, schools, synagogues, mosques, and churches. What would it take for peace to come to such an area? What would it take to bring refugees to a place of safety and belonging?  Is there anything that can change this?  Will there ever be anything done?

This year I can’t wait for December 28th to be over. I can’t wait for the chance to let go of the pain and sadness that the commemoration of the day brought. Whether or not it was an actual physical event in Bethlehem, it’s still symbolic of what is happening in our world today. Can we learn anything from it?  Should the children pay the price for our arrogance, greed, and superiority?


God, bless the children. Comfort and keep them wherever they are and whatever their circumstances. Help those of us who could help find the way to do so quickly, before they have to suffer more than they already have. Change the hearts and minds of those who not only order such punishment on the innocents but who think it’s the best solution to whatever problem they think exists. Help us see the Herods for who they are and what they do, and give us the strength and conviction to say “ENOUGH!” as we fight the paranoia and arrogance. Please, God?


Originally published on Speaking to the Soul at Episcopal Café Saturday, December 28, 2019.

Naming the Kids

Now the time came for Elizabeth to give birth, and she bore a son. Her neighbours and relatives heard that the Lord had shown his great mercy to her, and they rejoiced with her.

On the eighth day they came to circumcise the child, and they were going to name him Zechariah after his father. But his mother said, ‘No; he is to be called John.’ They said to her, ‘None of your relatives has this name.’ Then they began motioning to his father to find out what name he wanted to give him. He asked for a writing-tablet and wrote, ‘His name is John.’ And all of them were amazed. Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue freed, and he began to speak, praising God. Fear came over all their neighbours, and all these things were talked about throughout the entire hill country of Judea. All who heard them pondered them and said, ‘What then will this child become?’ For, indeed, the hand of the Lord was with him.   – Luke 1:57-66

A familiar part of the Christmas (or Advent) story is that of Elizabeth and Zechariah, two righteous people who kept the laws of God but who had never had children. Surely the neighbors must have wondered what one or the other of them had done that God would withhold that blessing from them, but knowing the couple as they did, the question probably never came up (or very often, at any rate), at least in their hearing.

Zechariah did make one error, though, although I can’t think of many people who wouldn’t do precisely the same thing, given the circumstances. During his regular duty of offering incense at the altar, he was shocked to see an angel standing on the right side, something so unexpected that it was no wonder he was shocked and fearful. Who wouldn’t be?  Angels don’t just pop up everywhere and every day. Still, the angel told him not to be afraid because God had heard Zechariah’s and Elizabeth’s prayers for a child. It was going to be a boy (doubly a blessing) and that the parents should name him John. There were more reassuring words about how the child would grow up filled with the Holy Spirit which would be present in him from the time of his conception forward. He would bring many back to God and cause many others to repent and be washed clean. In short, John had a mission to fulfill.

Poor Zechariah, it must have been almost too much to take in, especially given that he and his wife were long past their youth or even middle years.  The angel, Gabriel (who happened to be the same one to visit Elizabeth’s cousin Mary a few months later), gave Zechariah a sign that what he had heard was the truth. For the next nine months,  Zechariah would not be able to utter a word or syllable, or even a sound.  He finished his shift at the temple and went home.

It didn’t take long for Elizabeth to conceive. For five months, she remained in seclusion, probably until her abdomen began to swell with the new life within it. She praised God, giving thanks for the new life within her and also for the shame and disgrace she had experienced over the years as a barren woman. In her sixth month, Mary, Elizabeth’s cousin, came to visit following her own visitation with Gabriel. The two women probably had a lot to talk about over the next three months, as Mary probably stayed until Elizabeth safely delivered her son, to the joy and rejoicing of all the neighbors and relatives.

Jewish custom required that a male child be circumcised on his eighth day after birth. Everyone seemed to think the baby should be named Zechariah, after his father, but Elizabeth told them that the child’s name would be John. What a kerfluffle that made! Children were usually named after their father or at least a deceased relative so that the child would carry on the name, but there was no one called Yochanan in the family so why would they name him “Jehovah has been gracious” or “has shown great favor” (the meanings of the name in Hebrew)? Indeed, Elizabeth and Zechariah had been blessed by God’s grace, having a baby in their old age, and it was a sign of great favor, but would that be reason enough to change tradition? While the neighbors talked to Elizabeth and received her answer, they still weren’t satisfied.

They approached Zechariah, still mute after all these months, and motioned to him to get his response about this unusual naming. Funny, they could have asked him – nothing is ever said about his being deaf, only mute. Still, he motioned for something to write on and, in his own hand, confirmed the name Gabriel had told him to give the child. From that moment, his tongue was functional and he began to praise God for the miracles he had experienced.  That stirred up the neighbors because word quickly spread throughout the whole hill country of Judea about this miracle child. And John did go on to become a very well-known figure in Scripture.

Parents today are pretty much free to name their child anything that appeals to them, whether or not there is a family connection or there even seems to be much sense in the name (Moon Unit?  True? Prince? Jezebel?). Names in antiquity usually were given to honor specific gods, carry on a family name, or use a Biblical name or virtue. The names frequently had meanings in their original tongues which carried a message beyond just having a handle to call a child in from play. I confess I didn’t think of “Jehovah has been gracious” when I named my son and only thought of the name of a family friend for his second name. Still, God was gracious in giving me a child who has become a fine man.

God gave both Zechariah and Mary names to give their children. Yochanan and Yeshua bore names that had specific meanings that would be understood by anyone understanding Hebrew. That reminds me that I should perhaps take a look at some of the names of the Bible and see what their meaning was. Maybe I might gain some new insight into their character or mission in life or something else important.

Next week we celebrate the birth of Yeshua, “God is salvation.” We call him “Emmanuel” (God with us), or one of the names we have heard in the O antiphons this past week (in Latin). By whatever name we call him, we rejoice at his birth and want to share it with the whole world.

Come, let us adore him, the Grace of God given to all humankind for all ages, the salvation of God for all as well, and the joy of heaven come down to earth.

Merry Christmas and God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café  Saturday, December 21, 2o19.

A Simple Remedy

It’s almost Gaudete Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent. We’ve been taught that Advent is a time of patient waiting and expectation, a time to reflect and plan for the coming of the Christ Child at Christmas.  Unfortunately, the closer we get to Christmas, the more frantic we seem to become.

It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed this time of year. I know I experience it, even though I am not doing much Christmas shopping, participating in parties and events, or contributing to outreach programs or children’s activities.  The house isn’t going to clean itself, especially when three cats are busily shedding fur faster than I can vacuum it up. The tree isn’t going to redecorate itself when the self-same cats knock off ornaments oh-so-innocently. I won’t even think about the dishes that seem to dirty themselves if I turn my back for a minute. Bills still have to be paid, appointments I have to keep, and early nightfall, making the days seem shorter and shorter. It’s all part of this time of year, but sometimes it gets to be a bit too much.

I was sitting in my rocker the other night, trying to knit a scarf that should become a present but finding myself making mistake after mistake due to inattention. Trying to write didn’t seem to be any more successful, and even attempting to comprehend the latest book I was reading didn’t work.  Sitting and thinking encouraged the hamster wheel of my mind to spin nearly out of control, to the point where I was becoming less and less functional. Then it happened.

There was a commercial on TV that had a darling little boy walking down the aisle of an airplane, giving fist bumps to guys sitting on the aisle. As adorable as that was, it was the music they were playing that got to me. I heard a jazz pianist play “Linus and Lucy” from the Charlie Brown TV specials from years ago made my shoulders drop in relaxation, the hamster-wheel slow down, and a smile come to my face.  It made me feel like a kid again in a time where things weren’t so tense and scary, where I felt safe and happy, and where I could open the daily paper and find the Peanuts comic strip.

It felt like a good time to be alive, to remember what it was like not to have to worry about finances or the state of the world, and to look forward with joy to Christmas. It was fun rehearsing for the Christmas music in school and church. Mama would let me help make the cookies and cakes that made the house smell good (and be shared with my class at school and Sunday school, and friends and family over the holidays). I would flip through the vast Sears catalog, trying to choose what I would most like to see under the tree on Christmas morning.  It was a slower, more relaxed time, or so it seemed. It probably didn’t feel that way to Mama.

Still, I have been hearing that jazzy little tune in my head all day. I especially remember it in the context of the Christmas special where Charlie Brown found a very skimpy little tree and put a Christmas ball on it that almost bent it in half. Linus recited the Christmas story from Luke 2, and the tune made them happy enough to dance around. Even the little tree seemed to perk up. 

I love Christmas. I love the carols and Messiah. I love the colored lights and the smells of evergreens from the trees and wreaths. It used to seem that people were a little kinder to each other during this season, and maybe there are still times and places where that happens, or I hope it does. It was such a beautiful part of the waiting. Smiling at strangers came easily, and people were happy to be greeted, whether it was “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.”

Christmas can be a tough time for lots of people, me included. Each year seems to bring one more empty place around the tree or the dinner table. Anniversaries of tragic events threaten to sabotage the happiness I feel it is my right during this time of year. That’s when I need that jazzy little Charlie Brown theme. It makes the circle seem complete, even if physically there are still gaps.

Here’s a thought. If things seem to be getting to be too much, I’ll find A Charlie Brown Christmas on YouTube or cable or maybe on DVD. It doesn’t take very long to watch, but I will let myself watch it as a child would, with innocence and enjoyment. I will remember when life was simpler and kinder, a time when even a bare little tree could be made beautiful. If Christmas has painful memories, I will acknowledge them and then try to think of ways to make new memories that can be part of the present and the future, not the past. I can even use a little tune to lighten my heart and lift my spirits.

Waiting and reflecting just might be a bit easier if there’s a little jazz playing in my mind.

Two Sundays until Christmas.  Enjoy them!


God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, December 14, 2019.

Photos and Memories

I’ve been thinking about pictures all day. It’s made me wonder what we did before cameras and digital devices that record images that we can look at weeks, months, even years later, and bring back memories that we might possibly forget if we didn’t have the photos to remind us.

One image I have in my mind today is my beloved first indoor cat. My then-husband named my little dilute calico “Dammit” because the ex- was forever yelling at her to get off the table, down from the curtains, or just on general principles. At her heaviest she weighed only six pounds, and the rabies tag she wore for years looked so huge on her. She was my trial baby, born six months before my son, and remained my beloved soulmate until her death twenty years later. I still miss that cat.

The other photo that has been in my thoughts and my heart today is a Christmas photo of my little blonde, curly-haired, blue-eyed boy that I swear was the cutest child ever born. He was born in the Philippines, and the picture I love best was one I took on his second Christmas, the first one we spent back in the States after our return. He wears his blue-and-white one-piece pajamas with the long sleeves and non-skid soles, the blue figures of the cloth being much lighter than the color of his eyes. I swear, I would have given almost anything to have eyelashes as long and as thick as his! His chubby little face had the sweetest grin as he opened a present, a Tonka Winnebago motor home. I have that snapshot tacked up next to my desk where I can see it often. He’s still adorable, some 45 years later, but this was my little boy blue.

Thinking about that picture made me consider Mary, mother of Jesus. Granted, Jesus never got a Tonka truck under a Christmas tree, but Mary never had a camera to take photos of her baby boy as he grew up. All her memories would have been kept in her head, not precisely somewhere she could keep with her to pull out and show to curious neighbors and relatives who lived at a distance.  Did she have particular memories of adorable-child images that all mothers have of their offspring?  Did she think about them from time to time as something reminded her of those times?  I don’t see how she could have kept from remembering them; I think all mothers have those moments.

I wonder what her memories might have been when Jesus grew up, such as when she and his siblings went to try to convince him to come home, fearing that he would be thought insane and in need of familial care and, very probably, confinement. Did she think back to times in his life when she might have doubted whether or not he would have problems when he grew up? Did she look at him there among the crowd, and then hear that he repudiated her and the siblings? Did her heart ache for the little boy who would run to her and put his chubby arms around her in a huge hug? I imagine that might possibly have gone through her mind at the time.

And then there was when she stood at the foot of the cross, looking up at her grown-up son being executed as a criminal. Was there room in her heart for anything but the horror of what she was seeing and knowing the agony and fear he was feeling? Did she remember the first time she cradled him in her arms, wrapped warm and tight, and being safe in the shelter of the hay-strewn stable?  Did she feel the presence of the other women, crowded around her there on Golgotha, witnessing what she was seeing, and supporting her in their communal grief? Did she miss Joseph’s arms around her, and the bustling of the midwife tidying up their temporary accommodation in Bethlehem?  Did she think of the long trip to Bethlehem and then the journey to Egypt to escape the threat against her baby’s life? Perhaps she spared a thought for the three-day trek from Jerusalem when she and Joseph first missed Jesus and the rush back to find him in the Temple, astounding the rabbis with his knowledge and poise. Maybe all the memories ran through her head as she looked upwards, and her one wish was to take him in her arms again and soothe him, even though she knew it would be impossible.

I think of modern-day mothers who live in dangerous times and who hold their children close, hoping that no harm will ever come to them but fearing that that will most probably be a hope that will not happen. How many of them will not have a photo of their child to remember them in happier times, only memories of shattered, battered bodies lying amongst the rubble of bombed and burned homes? What of the children who have been ripped from their parents’ arms to be put into cages and tents far from anything familiar, and who cry for comfort and safety? How can it be possible for us to cherish our children so much but have so little regard for the children of others who are lost and afraid?

My heart aches for Mary, even as I prepare to celebrate the beginning of the journey to Bethlehem and beyond. I have the chance to look back at various times in my son’s life, knowing she didn’t have that luxury except in her memories. Right now, I honestly want to keep my eyes on that picture of my little two-year-old boy, smiling as he opens a toy under the Christmas tree. Looking at photos of migrant children and those who are incarcerated simply because their parents sought to bring them to safety as Mary and Joseph tried to find in Egypt is almost more than I can bear.

Even though I have just begun the season of Advent, the images on my wall remind me that the journey doesn’t end at 11:59 PM on December 24th. Still, I can’t help but think ahead and put myself in Mary’s place. I’ve been a mother (still am, thankfully), and have reminders of my little boy’s first home-made Christmas ornament (a reindeer made from clothespins he made in daycare at age four), pictures of him sitting on my brother’s front steps on a trip back to Virginia when he was about ten, and a graduation picture from high school. I treasure them and hope that Mary had good memories to hold in her heart through the years of her life.

Cherish the memories of the good things and times and work for those who need good things to happen for them.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café  Saturday, December 7, 2019.

St Andrew to the Fore

A man walked by the sea where fishermen landed their boats, unloaded the fish, and worked on their nets. He summoned two men from the many present on the beach that day with a single gesture. He didn’t know them personally, but he evidently saw something in the two of them that told him that they were men he could trust, teach, and who would carry on his work. Their names were Peter and Andrew bar Jonah, and they had just met the man who would change their lives forever.

Andrew became one of the 12 disciples. Legend has it that he was the first one chosen, although Peter might have been the elder as he was already married when Jesus called him and his brother. They followed Jesus, learned from him, and took his teachings out into the world both before and after the Resurrection.  Andrew became a missionary to Greece and Asia Minor, possibly including parts of Russia and Poland. He was martyred in the city of Patras, Turkey, by crucifixion on an X-shaped cross, called a saltaire, which became one of his more customary symbols.  Following his death, his relics were gathered and hidden as per a dream given to St. Regulus, who did as the vision commanded.  In 356, Constantinus II ordered that the relics should go to Constantinople, but Regulus had another dream in which he was told to take what relics he had not sent and put them on a ship to sail to the end of the earth.  The boat wrecked on the western coast of Scotland near the town of Kilrymont, later renamed St. Andrew’s in honor of the saint.

Festivals celebrating St. Andrew have been held in Scotland since sometime around 1000 CE, and in 1320, Andrew was made the patron saint of Scotland. The saltaire-shaped cross of his martyrdom became part of the Scottish flag and was incorporated later into the flag of the United Kingdom. His relics were placed in a chapel in the Cathedral of St. Andrews, a medieval church built in the 11^th century. When the monasteries and religious places were pillaged and desecrated at the time of the Reformation, the Scottish relics were shipped to Rome, where many of them remained.

Many people are familiar with St. Andrews, Scotland, not so much for the saint himself but for the game of golf. It is one of the oldest and most prestigious golf courses in the world. Golf has been played in various forms in far-flung parts of the world, but the course at St Andrew's is where the  18-hole game we know today was established (previously it had been 22), as well as a code of standards for the course and the game. For many golfers, a trip to and a chance to play a round at one of the four courses at St. Andrews is the equivalent of a trip to Jerusalem, and probably as expensive as a trip to the Holy City, with accommodations, and tours included.

Needless to say, St. Andrew is a patron saint of fishermen, and places such as Scotland, Romania, Ukraine,  Patras (the city in Turkey where most of his relics are now located), and Barbados. His patronages also include singers, single laywomen, anglers, farmworkers, pregnant women, and golfers. Religious medals honoring St. Andrew are for sale in religious stores, but there are also medals for those golfers who wish to invoke the blessing of their patron saint as they walk or drive their golf carts from hole to hole like a journey to a sacred shrine such as Compostela or Jerusalem. There are also golfing rosaries, with small replicas of golf balls marking off the prayers. What will they think of next?

Many of us look at St. Andrew primarily on his feast day. Churches sometimes celebrate the day with the Kirking of the Tartans. Those of Scottish descent bring a piece of their tartan to lay on the altar rail, parishioners wear their clan kilts, and often bagpipe and drum bands play processionals and recessionals, with the eerie and sometimes heart-pounding sound of the old country bouncing from the ceiling and walls. It’s been compared to the wailing of lost souls, but it is also a significant part of the Scottish identity, a soul-stirring reminder of the reason wars have been fought, brave men summoned, and the dead remembered – just not on the golf course, please!

Gum beannaicheadh Dia thu. God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café on Saturday, November 30, 2019.