placed our burger order, and settled into a booth. “Okay, Frank McIntosh, I have a question for you.” He let the statement hang in the air for several seconds. “Do you think . . . do you think I’m retarded?” I’m pretty certain I’ve never been asked a question to which I was so eager to reply “no,” but the contortions of his face suggested a recent history. I didn’t answer right away; I asked what he thought about the word and why others felt a need to use it to describe him.
What followed was a remarkable conversation about our friendship and our differences and his sometimes painful attempts to get other people to understand him. He talked about how it felt when people looked at him strangely when he was at the mall with his friends and why God had chosen to make him this way. And it was like time stood still during our conversation. The nervous shaking of his hands was gone. He looked hard into my eyes and did not turn away. “No, Bobby,” I said, using a word I’d come to despise. “I don’t think you’re retarded.”
A letter arrived just before the wise men made their annual journey one recent Epiphany. “This is your old friend, Bobby. Do you remember that time when you were naked as the baby Jesus outside the shower and received a phone call from the singing chipmunks?”
Almost forty years have passed since that call. And yes, Bobby, I do remember. And give God thanks for such an old and gifted friend, so wonderfully made.
1. Cambridge Dictionary (online).
1. King Herod’s Fear2
“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him” (Matt 2:3).
In the old silent movies, the director would often employ a device known as an “iris-out.” Beginning as a large circle on the screen revealing a fairly wide panorama of visual information, the diameter of the circle slowly closes upon a small detail that doesn’t seem all that important at the time, but actually serves as a crucial transition into the next scene. A little tidbit I’d never really noticed in a story about stars, night journeys, and lavish Christmas gifts for a new baby is my new “iris-out” for the Epiphany season as the church year moves from manger to the risky ministry of Jesus.
When the magi visit King Herod that night so long ago, those wise guys ask a question about the whereabouts of a certain child. The text reports that Herod, upon hearing this question, “was frightened.” This strikes me as very strange. I’d understand if his royal highness was alarmed, or maybe even confused, but that’s not his first reaction. King Herod is afraid. Literally quaking in his boots concerning the birth of a small child who (please don’t forget) is still wearing diapers. One of the most powerful men in the world becomes utterly undone by a simple question: Where is the King of the Jews?
“Now wait a minute,” Herod must have pondered. “I thought that I was King of the Jews”—and this important man of means had indeed been given jurisdiction over this pesky tribe of people by the big boys in Rome. So help me here. What is it about this question posed by the magi (Persian strangers from the East) that would make Herod’s knees knock? “And all Jerusalem with him”! (Matt 2:3). Why is such a powerful guy so utterly spooked by such a pitifully impotent threat who requires burping and a lullaby before a good night’s sleep?
Danish theologian Soren Kierkegaard died in 1855. His writings were not well received in his hometown of Copenhagen, and it is said that Kierkegaard died alone and friendless, an outcast from the church. He is not the easiest guy to read; I’ve tried. But here’s a short sampling of his writing that makes perfect sense to me. Kierkegaard is explaining the behavior of the scribes (Herod’s head honchos in interpreting these biblical matters) on that night when foreigners followed a star: “The scribes, meanwhile, were much better informed, much better versed. They had sat and studied the scriptures for years, like so many dons. But it didn’t make any difference. Who had the more truth? Those who followed a rumor, or those who remained sitting, satisfied with all their knowledge?”3
Kierkegaard may be a tough theological nut to crack at times, but here I understand the man perfectly, because he’s essentially describing me. Do I really need to know any more about Jesus before I set out? Do I not have enough scriptural information about the man to send me on my way? Or is it simply easier to enjoy the perks and allowances of a resident scribe?
Here is the key to understanding Herod’s fear (and perhaps our own). Jesus is not to be studied and admired from a distance, cozily tucked away in some manger twenty centuries removed, dying eventually on a sad cross. Our Lord’s kingdom is a movement, an arduous and inviting journey; light in the dark of night where even the starry heavens collaborate in spreading the great good news. The entire cosmos delights in this birth.
Discipleship is always an exercise in exchanging kings, exchanging security, exchanging where we place our trust, our hope, and our gold. Christianity spells the erosion of an old order where we no longer look to earthly rulers for marching orders. Do you see why Herod was afraid? His entire system of governance by control and intimidation was crumbling.
In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the marvelous fable of C. S. Lewis now on the big screen, we see the utter panic in the face of the White Witch as her winter realm begins to melt away. She is threatened by what she hears as Aslan’s reign emerges. The White Witch may not do away with all the babies in Narnia under age two,4 but in the movie her fear is just as palpable as Herod’s.
Please don’t mistake this battle of kingdoms as only waged long ago and far away. There will always be a battle for our hearts with issues that involve ultimate trust and hope. And if this doesn’t make us fearful at least occasionally, if it doesn’t make our knees knock, then perhaps we haven’t really heard the one called Lord.
The first word spoken out loud by a human being (Matt 2:2) in the book of Matthew is the word Where. It’s a word that assumes a search is occurring. Where is the king? That single word must forever remain on the lips of Christians living in the world today, living in the United States. For false kings abound. And it is tempting to bow in all the wrong places in exchange for a host of passing securities.
Remember this “iris-out” for Epiphany. “When King Herod heard their question, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him.” God bless the poor guy—if he only knew what we Christians know today.
A tongue-in-cheek confession from one (yours truly) whose evangelical knees regularly knock in scribal immobility.
For further reflection:
1. As a transitional exercise, what “iris-outs” from the previous season of Advent would you highlight?
2. Name a few improbable promises made by national political leaders in the twenty-first century, perhaps playing upon a perspective of fear.
2. This essay first appeared (in slightly different form) in Honeycutt, “Herod’s Fear.”
3. Kierkegaard, Meditations, 35.
4. See Matt 2:16–18.
2. Drenched in Divine Delight
“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased” (Matt 3:17).
