LOOK: Supper at Emmaus medallion from the Tabernacle of Cherves
Detail of The Supper at Emmaus from the Tabernacle of Cherves, Charente, France, ca. 1220–30. Champlevé enamel and copper, overall 33 × 37 3/4 × 10 3/4 in. (83.8 × 95.9 × 27.3 cm). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
He is born There’s a reason now to carry on Toot your horns Write another song Love is here Seated at your table now Not livin’ in a stable now Love is king
So let us sing Let us sing Love is king Love is king (Repeat)
He is born There’s a reason now to carry on Toot your horns Write another song Love is here Seated at your table now Not livin’ in a stable now Love is king
Angels sing About the king Let it ring Love is king
So let us sing Let us sing Love is king Love is king
This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.
ANNOUNCEMENT: Vatican to hold Stations of the Cross art contest: Artists from across the globe are encouraged to participate in the Vatican-sponsored contest for fourteen new Stations of the Cross paintings. The winner will be announced September 30, 2024, awarded €120,000 (about $131,000), given a year to complete the commission, and then have their set of paintings exhibited in St. Peter’s Basilica during Lent 2026. The first step is to fill out an online application, which will become available January 8, with a deadline of January 31. Learn more at the link. (Update: The registration link is now live at https://contest.viacrucis2026.va/en/registration.)
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ART OBJECT: Burgundian Crèche, ca. 1450: In researching depictions of Joseph at the Nativity, I came across this charming little limestone-carved crèche from fifteenth-century Burgundy, France, acquired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Set inside a dilapidated brick interior patched with wattled matting, the scene portrays the infant Christ lying in a wattled manger that rests on a crumbling wall ledge. Such an unusual composition! I’m not sure why the infant is placed so precariously and at a height when there’s a carved cradle available on the ground, where angels kindly fluff his pillow, but I suppose it was to avoid overcrowding and for visual balance.
Circle of Antoine Le Moiturier (French, 1425–1495), Nativity, Burgundy, France, ca. 1450. Limestone with later paint and gilding, 17 3/4 × 25 7/8 × 7 1/4 in. (45.1 × 65.7 × 18.4 cm). Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
A donkey licks Christ’s feet while an ox licks his hand, which he appears to delight in, as he lifts his arm for better access. To the left and right of him are a trio of angels and shepherds, respectively, excitedly leaning in from outside to get a better look. Mary gazes up at her son in adoration while Joseph dutifully tends to a parental chore: drying one of Jesus’s freshly washed linens at the fire. (Dad doing laundry—huzzah!)
ART COMMENTARY: On The Adoration of the Magi by Domenico Veneziano: From the Visual Commentary on Scripture comes this 2022 video, one in a series filmed on-site at the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin. Theologian Ben Quash and art historian Jennifer Sliwka discuss an early Italian Renaissance tondo depicting the Adoration of the Magi.
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SONGS:
>> “Rejoice with Exceeding Great Joy”: Written by Lanny Wolfe in 1978 and performed by Reggie Smith, Charlotte Ritchie, and Ladye Love Smith at Bill and Gloria Gaither’s Homecoming Christmas 2006:
>> “Star of Bethlehem”: Written by Noel Dexter, arranged by C. S. (Cedron) Walters, and performed by the Jamaica Youth Chorale at their 2019 Christmas concert. Noel Dexter (1938–2019) was a Jamaican composer, choir director, and music educator, and this is probably his best-known work. It’s set to a Nyabinghi rhythm.
When the star of Bethlehem arise, hallelujah When the star of Bethlehem arise, hallelujah When the star of Bethlehem arise Come show me where the young child born!
There were wise men coming from the east, hallelujah There were wise men coming from the east, hallelujah There were wise men coming from the east Come show me where the young child born!
They brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh . . .
Not a man can save my soul . . . But Jesus! Show me where the young child born!
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VIDEO:“#NatZooZen: Giant Pandas Mei Xiang and Tian Tian in the Snow”: This Smithsonian’s National Zoo cam footage from January 2021 shows two giant pandas at play, sliding down a snowy hill! So adorable. Tian Tian and Mei Xiang arrived at the National Zoo in 2000 and in 2020 produced a cub, Xiao Qi Ji. All three pandas returned to Beijing in November, having been lent to the US by China as part of a cooperative research program whose contract has expired.
Ulyana Tomkevych (Ukrainian, 1981–), The Birth of Christ, 2016. Egg tempera on gessoed wood, 11 1/2 × 12 in. Sacred Art Pilgrim Collection of John A. Kohan. Photo: Victoria Emily Jones, at East Meets West: Women Icon Makers of Western Ukraine, St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church, Chatham, Massachusetts, 2017.
Frosty yet warm, this icon by Ulyana Tomkevych of Ukraine is one of my favorite Nativity paintings. It shows Mary embracing her swaddled newborn, Jesus, amid a bleak midwinter. She reclines across a red blanket of flowers inspired by Ukrainian embroidery patterns, which hovers mystically above a line of barren trees, suggesting that Christ’s birth has ushered in a new springtime.
The wisps of white against the cool green-grays at the bottom suggest snowdrifts, whereas the faint rose tints at the top imply a suffusing warmth. The silver semicircle at the top, with its emanating beams, represents the mystery and presence of God breaking into the world.
Following Greek Orthodox tradition, Christ’s halo is inscribed with the Greek letters ώ Ό Ν (omega, omicron, nu), spelling “He who is” (see Exod. 3:14). Tomkevych is a member of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church, which is in communion with the Holy See but follows the Byzantine Rite.
LISTEN: “Balulalow” | Original German words by Martin Luther, 1535 (title: “Vom Himmel hoch da komm ich her”) | Translated into Scots by James, John, and Robert Wedderburn, 1567 | Music by Peter Warlock, from his Three Carols suite, 1923 | Performed by Sting on If on a Winter’s Night, 2009 [see full credits]
O my deare hert, young Jesu sweit, Prepare thy creddil in my spreit And I sall rock thee in my hert, And never mair from thee depert.
But I sall praise thee evermore With sangis sweit unto thy gloir. The knees of my hert sall I bow, And sing that richt Balulalow.
Literal English translation:
O my dear heart, young Jesus sweet, Prepare thy cradle in my spirit And I shall rock thee in my heart, And nevermore from thee depart.
But I shall praise thee evermore With songs sweet unto thy glory. The knees of my heart shall I bow, And sing that true Balulalow.
English translation, from the German, by Catherine Winkworth:
Ah! dearest Jesus, holy Child, Make thee a bed, soft, undefiled Within my heart, that it may be A quiet chamber kept for Thee.
My heart for very joy doth leap; My lips no more can silence keep. I too must sing with joyful tongue That sweetest ancient cradle song.
These two stanzas in Middle Scots are an extract from the longer “Ane Sang of the Birth of Christ,” also known by its first line, “I come from heuin to tell,” from the Ane Compendious Buik of Godly and Spirituall Sangis (1567). In this part of the hymn, the speaker asks Jesus to be at home in their heart and receive their sweet songs. Mary is the model for this reception, love, and adoration of the Christ child—she who cradled him, praised him, sang to him, and held him close.
The word balulalow is derived from the Scottish word for “lullaby.”
For all fifteen stanzas in Scots, see here, and for Catherine Winkworth’s full English translation, here. The hymn actually originated in German from the pen of Martin Luther, who titled it “Vom Himmel hoch da komm ich her” (From Heaven Above to Earth I Come). It spread to the Netherlands and the British Isles in the 1560s.
In his recording, the cross-genre English musician Sting uses neither the German folk tune that Luther paired with the text upon its first publication, nor the melody Luther composed for it in 1539. Instead Sting uses the 1923 setting written by the English composer Peter Warlock for his Three Carols suite.
In Sting’s rendition, which he arranged in collaboration with Robert Sadin, the female backing vocals evoke a wintry wind and a snare drum creates a forward momentum, while a cello supports Sting’s languid singing. The tone is tender and haunting.
This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.
LOOK: Nativity icon from St. Catherine’s Monastery
The Nativity of Christ, Egypt, 7th century(?). Encaustic on wood. Holy Monastery of St. Catherine, Sinai, Egypt. Photo courtesy of the Michigan-Princeton-Alexandria Expeditions to Mount Sinai.
This Coptic icon of the Nativity bears all the traditional elements of Nativity icons. It shows Mary reclining in a cave next to her newborn son, Jesus, who lies in a manger, being affectionately licked by an ox and ass. Why those two animals? Because the church fathers read Isaiah 1:3 into the scene, which says, “The ox knows its owner and the donkey its master’s crib.”
The starry semicircle at the top represents the heavens. A thick beam of light descends from it onto Christ, confirming his divine paternity. On either side, from behind the grassy hills, angels rejoice, bringing glad tidings of the birth.
From the right, three magi approach with their gifts (unusually, their horses are placed apart from them in the bottom left), and in the center, a shepherd plays a pipe while his flock frolics on the grass.
In the bottom left, Joseph sits dejectedly with his head in his hands. He is being assailed once again by doubt as to Jesus’s true paternity. Could Mary’s outrageous story really be true? Or was she sexually unfaithful? In some Nativity icons Satan appears to Joseph in the guise of an old man to tempt him to distrust Mary and to doubt Jesus’s divinity. Anyone would be a fool to believe it, he taunts. It’s possible that the man with the pointed red cap at the far right of this icon is meant to be the devil on his way to Joseph, but if so, it would be an odd compositional choice. Anyway, in Nativity icons, Joseph stands for all skeptics, for those who struggle to accept that which is beyond reason, especially the incarnation of God.
Next to Joseph, two midwives bathe Jesus in a basin. (Jesus appears twice in the composition. He’s identified by the cross-shape in his halo.)
There’s just something wonderful about the classic Nativity icon. When you look at this, you’ve got Joseph in the corner. . . . And then you have this dome that is overarching the scene. That is, speaking in Charles Taylor’s terms, that’s the “immanent frame”—that’s the cosmos as we know it. And it’s shattered! By what? By the light that comes from outside. In other words, the Kantian universe has been pierced and God has revealed himself and said, “This is how I choose to come into the world.”
And there you have the Virgin Mary, and she almost looks seed-like when you look at these icons. She’s on her side because, thank you very much, she just gave birth. And there’s Christ. And the donkey and the ox are there, symbolizing both Jew and Gentile. In other words, the book of Romans in one shot. Boom. Right there.
Then you’ve got the magi sometimes off in the distance, to symbolize all corners of the earth, to symbolize most in particular the Assyrian Church of the East, the expansion of Christianity all the way to the Pacific Ocean by like the fifth century, folks. Gotta remember that! These are the Christians whom we have lost contact with. The global reality of Christianity is communicated by these icons.
And then, of course, you’ve got the shepherds to symbolize, we might even say, all classes incorporated into this faith—not just across the globe, but across socioeconomic status. All of it is communicated just by meditating upon it.
And then you have this cavern—not some sweet little stable, but a cavern, a cave. And folks, it’s the cave of your own psyche as well. It’s a depth-psychology dimension of the Christian tradition. A Nativity icon is what God wants to do in your soul. This is intended to be a spiritual experience.
The dating of the particular icon pictured above has been debated. It is circulating in many places online with an attribution of “seventh century,” perhaps in part because of its use of encaustic (a common medium for earlier icons). But Father Akakios at St. Catherine’s Monastery at Mount Sinai, the institution that owns and houses the icon, told me that’s probably too early, that it’s more likely a later icon that incorporates earlier elements.
From the Sinai Digital Archive, it appears that Kurt Weitzmann, an art historian from Princeton University who had the icon photographed on one of his four research expeditions to Sinai in the late 1950s and early ’60s, proposes the sixteenth or seventeenth century as its likely time of creation. Cathy Pense Garcia, head of Visual Resources Collections at the University of Michigan (which manages the Sinai Digital Archive jointly with Princeton), was unable to confirm an approximate date and said that more scholarly research is needed.
It’s such a wonderful icon! I hope to see some academic writing about it in the future, as my research turned up next to nothing.
Today the Virgin cometh unto a cave to give birth to the Word who was born before all ages, begotten in a manner that defies description. Rejoice, therefore, O universe, if thou should hear and glorify with the angels and the shepherds. Glorify him who by his own will has become a newborn babe and who is our God before all ages.
(Η Παρθένος σήμερον, τον προαιώνιον Λόγον, εν σπηλαίω έρχεται, αποτεκείν απορρήτως. Χόρευε, η οικουμένη ακουτισθείσα, δόξασον, μετά Αγγέλων και των ποιμένων, βουληθέντα εποφθήναι, Παιδίον νέον, τον προ αιώνων Θεόν.)
Virgin and Child, from the Rabbula Gospels, Syria, 586 CE. Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence (Plut.1.56, fol. 1v).
Among the earliest works of Byzantine iconography, this painting is from a sixth-century manuscript of the Gospels in Syriac (Peshitta version), completed at the Bēṯ Zaḡbā Monastery in northern Syria. It shows the Virgin Mary standing under a colorfully patterned aedicule, holding her son Jesus, who faces us. Perched on the roof are two peacocks, a symbol of resurrection and eternal life.
For a blog post on one of the Rabbula Gospels’ other full-page miniatures, see here.
I love you, Lord I love you, Lord Jesus, Jesus Jesus
Eight days after his birth, Jesus was circumcised as the Jewish law stipulates (Lev. 12:1–3) and given his name: “When the eighth day came, it was time to circumcise the child, and he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb” (Luke 2:21). Thus many churches celebrate January 1 as the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus.
The name Jesus—or Yeshua (יֵשׁוּעַ), as he would have been known to his fellow Aramaic speakers (“Jesus” is the Greek transliteration)—means “Yahweh saves.”
This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.
Judith Tutin (Irish, 1979–), Nativity, 2011. Oil on canvas, 60 × 40 cm. Private collection of Fr. Jim Doyle, Wexford, Ireland. Photo courtesy of the artist.
In this semiabstract Nativity painting by Judith Tutin, Mary and Joseph adore the newborn Christ child as God the Father looks down from above, holding in his arms a portent: the traces of a cross. One might also see, overlapping the intimation of a crossbar, the outstretched wings of the Holy Spirit as dove, hovering over the earthly scene below.
This central triad of Father, (crucified) Son, and Spirit evokes the Gnadenstuhl, or “Throne of Mercy,” an iconography of the Trinity that emerged in twelfth-century Europe. Tutin innovates on this type by showing, at the base of the cross, the Son in his infancy, thus drawing together the doctrines of the incarnation and the atonement.
Applied in broad, loose brushstrokes, the deep crimsons and golds further underscore the themes of blood and glory.
LISTEN: “A Stable Lamp Is Lighted” | Words by Richard Wilbur, 1958 | Music by Jennifer Wyatt, 2002 | Performed by Ardyth & Jennifer on WinterFire, 2002
A stable-lamp is lighted Whose glow shall wake the sky; The stars shall bend their voices, And every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry, And straw like gold shall shine; A barn shall harbor heaven, A stall become a shrine.
This child through David’s city Shall ride in triumph by; The palm shall strew its branches, And every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry, Though heavy, dull, and dumb, And lie within the roadway To pave his kingdom come.
Yet he shall be forsaken, And yielded up to die; The sky shall groan and darken, And every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry For stony hearts of men: God’s blood upon the spear-head, God’s love refused again.
But now, as at the ending, The low is lifted high; The stars shall bend their voices, And every stone shall cry. And every stone shall cry, In praises of the Child By whose descent among us The worlds are reconciled.
Richard Wilbur (1921–2017) [previously] was a major American poet, serving as the nation’s second poet laureate and winning two Pulitzer Prizes and a National Medal of Arts. He was a champion of formalist poetry, working within the constraints of meter and rhyme.
He wrote this text to be sung at a December 7, 1958, candlelight service in the Memorial Chapel of Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut, where he was a professor in the English Department. It premiered with a choral setting by Richard Winslow, director of the university’s choral society. Wilbur also sent out the text in his family Christmas cards that year.
A few years later, it was published in his collection Advice to a Prophet (1961) as “A Christmas Hymn,” with Luke 19:39–40 as an epigraph: “And some of the Pharisees from among the multitude said unto him, Master, rebuke thy disciples. And he answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.” This passage takes place upon Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem the week of his death. People were lauding him as a king who came in the name of the Lord, which the Pharisees considered blasphemous. When they demand that Jesus repudiate such ridiculous claims, he instead validates them, replying that even the inanimate stones know his kingship and would shout, “Hosanna!” if human voices failed to.
The hymn stretches from Christmas to Palm Sunday to Good Friday, then circles back to Christmas, covering the span of Christ’s life.
“Not many other major poets in the past seventy years have written Christmas hymns, classic, straightforward Nativity celebrations with no irony to them, and which work beautifully in a traditional church service,” notes Bruce Michelson in Wilbur’s Poetry: Music in a Scattering Time. Wilbur is an example of a modern poet who was very accomplished at his craft and respected by the establishment as well as being a person of Christian faith.
“A Stable Lamp Is Lighted” appears in a few dozen hymnals. The standard tune for it is ANDÚJAR by David Hurd from 1983, but I prefer the one by Ardyth & Jennifer, Celtic harp and vocal duo Ardyth Robinson and Jennifer Wyatt, based in Shad Bay, Nova Scotia.
This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.
Salvador Dalí (Spanish, 1904–1989), The Angel, 1947. Ink and watercolor on paper, 12 3/4 × 10 1/4 in. Hallmark Art Collection, Kansas City, Missouri.
In 1947, Hallmark commissioned the famous modern artist Salvador Dalí to create a small set of original paintings for its Gallery Artists line of Christmas cards to hit the market in 1948. The Angel is one of them. Painted in his typical surrealist style, it shows a headless angel playing a lute, the snowy mountains in the background mimicking wings. At the bottom right, the newborn Christ lies naked on the ground, cushioned by straw and adored by his mother. On the left a shepherd sits on a tree stump, also playing a lute, its soundboard blending into the landscape in the background. At the warmth of their song, the snow begins to melt away.
LISTEN: “Celestial Hearts,” traditional Yorkshire carol | Arranged and performed by Kate Rusby on Holly Head (2019)
Come, let us all rejoice To see this happy morn We’ll tune our hearts and raise our voice We’ll tune our hearts and raise our voice Tune our hearts and raise our voice Upon this Christmas morn Upon this Christmas morn
Go, humble swain, said he To David’s city fly A promised infant born today A promised infant born today A promised infant born today Does in a manger lie Does in a manger lie
Now angels all on high Sing heav’nly peace on earth Goodwill to men and angels’ joy Goodwill to men and angels’ joy Goodwill to men and angels’ joy Resound across the earth Resound across the earth
With looks and hearts serene Go see the babe, your king A host of angels then was seen A host of angels then was seen A host of angels then was seen The shepherds heard them sing The shepherds heard them sing
From one of England’s most popular folk singers, Kate Rusby, comes a modern interpretation of the Yorkshire carol from Worrall and Oughtibridge known as “New Celestial” (Roud 17724). Rusby arranged this version with her husband and producer Damien O’Kane, adapting the traditional lyrics.
This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.
Nuestra Señora de Humildad / Our Lady of Humility by Allan Rohan Crite
Allan Rohan Crite (1910–2007) was a Boston-based African American artist best known for his religious paintings and drawings, many of which place holy personages among everyday people in Boston’s South End. He was Episcopalian.
On using Black figures to narrate biblical stories, Crite said:
I used the black figure in a telling of the story of the Lord, the story of the suffering of the Cross and the whole story of the Redemption of Man by the Lord, but . . . my use of the black figure was not in a limited racial sense, even though I am black, but rather I was telling the story of all mankind through this black figure. (quoted in Julie Levin Caro, Allan Rohan Crite: Artist-Reporter of the African American Community, p. 20)
The image above, which I found years ago at the now defunct brushesandpigments.com with very little captioning info, sets the Nativity in an urban neighborhood. Sitting on a stoop, Mary bends her head down to look lovingly at her son Jesus, cradled in her lap. The banderole at the bottom reads, “Nuestra Señora de Humildad / Our Lady of Humility.”
As indicated by the inscription, this pen and ink drawing belongs to a type of iconography especially popular in the fifteenth century, showing Mary sitting on the ground or on a low cushion, usually holding the Christ child in her lap. The word “humility” derives from the Latin humus, meaning “earth” or “ground.”
I’m not sure why Crite uses Spanish here—whether he spoke it as a second language, or had Spanish-speaking neighbors, or was working on commission—but I do know he visited Mexico and Puerto Rico.
LISTEN: “Poor Little Jesus” (aka “Oh, Po’ Little Jesus”), African American spiritual
Oh, Po’ Little Jesus. Dis world gonna break your heart. Dere’ll be no place to lay your head, my Lord. Oh, Po’ Little Jesus. (Hum)
Oh, Mary, she de mother. Oh, Mary, she bow down an’ cry. For dere’s no place to lay his head, my Lord. Oh, Po’ Little Jesus.
Come down, all you holy angels, Sing round him wid your golden harps, For someday he will die to save dis worl’. Oh, Po’ Little Jesus. (Hum)
I find this spiritual so moving. The five-part harmonies—or even just the two parts in Rev Simpkins’s version—are lush and carry such pathos.
From his humble beginnings in a Bethlehem stable to his ignominious death on a Roman cross, Jesus was no stranger to want and sorrow. He wasn’t impoverished, but he wasn’t wealthy; he had a simple upbringing in the small town of Nazareth. His mother probably longed to give him more than she could. She understood in part the hardship of his calling, knew the rejection he would face—and so she sings, “This world’s gonna break your heart.”
Jesus spent three determinative years of his adult life as an itinerant preacher, traveling from place to place and reliant on the support of others; as he told a scribe who aspired to follow him: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” (Matt. 8:19). That ministry culminated in false charges, abandonment, and a public execution.
The Incarnation required vulnerability on the part of God. God chose to make himself susceptible to hurt by entering fully into the life of human struggle. But out of the hurt and struggle that Christ endured came salvation.
“Poor Little Jesus” seeks to stir up pity for Jesus’s plight. Underlying that pity is a thank-you: thank you, Jesus, for taking on our flesh and dealing with our sin, so that we might be free.
The spiritual is not to be confused with another spiritual of the same name (recorded, for example, by Odetta) that goes, “It was poor little Jesus . . . didn’t have no cradle . . . wasn’t that a pity and a shame?”
This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.
Käthe Kollwitz (German, 1867–1945), Turm der Mütter (Tower of Mothers), 1937–38. Bronze, 27.9 × 27.4 × 28.8 cm. Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto. Photo: Craig Boyko / AGO. Kollwitz lost her son in World War I, and much of her work from then on grappled with the horror of that loss or expressed antiwar resistance.
a sculpture by Käthe Kollwitz
Five Bethlehem women close ranks to shield sons with hip and hide. “We will rest in the peace of His hands before your swords pierce a child. Spare them or shower us with spears. Let our blood disarm you, rout you, haunt you, cowering through nights that smother your sleep.” A bosom is no breastplate, a skirt no fortress wall. As futile as Babel the tower falls in, life upon life. Death seizes all.
Evelyn Bence (born 1952) is a writer and editor living in Arlington, Virginia. She is the author of Room at My Table; Prayers for Girlfriends and Sisters and Me; Spiritual Moments with the Great Hymns; and the award-winning Mary’s Journal, a novel written in the voice of Jesus’s mother. She has served as religion editor at Doubleday, managing editor for Today’s Christian Woman, and senior editor at Prison Fellowship Ministries. Her personal essays, poems, and devotional reflections have appeared in various publications.
When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the magi, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the magi. Then what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled:
A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.
—Matthew 2:16–18
Even though we often omit it from our Christmas pageants and sermons, the Massacre of the Innocents recounted in Matthew 2 is part of the Christmas story. December 28 is set apart yearly to commemorate the babies who lost their lives in this slaughter. View posts on this subject from previous years here and here.
LOOK: Massacre of the Innocents by Lippo Memmi (attrib.)
Attributed to Lippo Memmi (Italian, ca. 1291–1356), Massacre of the Innocents, ca. 1335–45. Fresco, Collegiate Church of San Gimignano, Italy.
In the Collegiate Church of San Gimignano, this scene is part of a narrative cycle on Christ’s infancy in six upper bays, comprising also the Annunciation, the Nativity and Adoration of the Shepherds, the Adoration of the Magi, the Presentation in the Temple, and the Flight to Egypt.
LISTEN: “And Herod Rages On”| Words by Kate Bluett, 2020 | Music by Elise Massa, 2020 | Performed by Elise Massa
The streets ran red in Bethlehem; our little boys were gone when soldiers came on Herod’s whim, but Herod rages on. No newborn king his light should dim; he’d be the only dawn, sent men to tear them limb from limb— and Herod rages on.
Two thousand years, all filled with births and stained as red as dawn by blood that soaks the thirsty earth, still Herod rages on. And what is all this bloodshed worth, our sons and daughters gone, but barren fields and empty hearths, while Herod rages on?
Dear infant Christ in Joseph’s arms, escaped before the dawn, O come and heal how we’ve been harmed, for Herod rages on. The sirens shriek, deep fear alarms; when will you make them gone? Or must we wait ’til hate’s disarmed? For Herod rages on.
The stones that wept in Abel’s gore cry out with every dawn ’til swords are laid down evermore, while Herod rages on. Someday he’ll fall to rise no more; someday he will be gone. Our hearts ’til then are bleeding sore, and Herod rages on.
This song by Kate Bluett and Elise Massa views Herod as representative of any political leader whose policymaking or direct command threatens the lives of innocent children today. Lord, have mercy.
This post is part of a daily Christmas series that goes through January 6. View all the posts here, and the accompanying Spotify playlist here.
Art & Theology 