Sorrow Archives - call me pasturescott

the best of times, the worst of times: bethlehem and ramah

[5 minutes]

Happy New Year!

It is customary for many in our faith community to approach the new year with — in football lingo — a spiritual ‘fresh set of downs.’ So what’s one of the first plays we run? Right. We advance with a new Bible reading plan, right? My goal in 2025 is to tackle the New Testament along with the Psalms. Okay, enough with the football jargon.

So [opening my Bible], Matthew it is.

Matthew’s opening scenes are familiar for obvious reasons. My Advent meditations covered these passages and I quickly find myself here once again. I also spoke at a local church’s Christmas banquet using the same birth narrative as found in the first gospel. You may have read a version of it recently (“Keeping Jesus Out In Front“). I know this passage pretty well.

But, as is often the case for students of the Book, something can jump off the page that you’ve never seen before. You know what I’m talking about. That is what happened to me this morning.

Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had ascertained from the wise men.
Matthew 2:16

Then was fulfilled what was spoken by the prophet Jeremiah:
“A voice was heard in Ramah,
weeping and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.”
Matthew 2:17-18

In the same carol as “glad tidings of comfort and joy” is this tragic verse of inconsolable grief and sorrow.

How do you reconcile “good news of great joy” with “weeping in Ramah” …in the same breath?

Not even ten verses earlier, Matthew goes out of his way to stack superlatives in describing the mood of the Magi when they found themselves on the right track to find Baby Jesus. The rejoiced exceedingly with great joy! The wise men were so deliriously happy they couldn’t contain themselves. High fives, back slaps, whoops and hollers commenced!

But things looked a whole lot different in Ramah and other surrounding towns.

Herod was furious. The Magi had agreed to bring him the baby king straightaway, but they changed the script on him and kept the child’s identity and location a state secret. Hotheaded Herod was beside himself.

Who is this baby???

He would show them. Herod ordered a genocide of all the baby boys in the region and suddenly Judea’s Silent Night, Holy Night turned into terror. Like Egypt during the plague of darkness and death, only wails and loud weeping were heard across the land.

Okay. I didn’t like where this was going, but the Holy Spirit made me look. Here’s what I wrote in my Bible journal:

God will permit the deaths of innocents as he carries the story of redemption forward. There is weeping in Ramah though there be good news elsewhere.

Guido Reni’s *Massacre of the Innocents*

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times indeed. You can’t visit Bethlehem without hearing the wails of Ramah. That’s just how it is in this sad, tragic, very broken world.

Yesterday, in New Orleans, thousands were gathered on Bourbon Street to ring in the new year and enjoy the atmosphere around college football playoff game. Then, frenzy. Moments before a white pickup truck tore through a crowd of people, the streets were teeming with festive joy and frivolity. Seconds later, the sound of screams and sirens filled the night. Fifteen dead, dozens injured.

So what do we do with that paragraph I wrote? God permits the deaths of innocents, etc. How do we frame those words to people who are in shock over such a senseless act of terror? People who are likely to cancel you straight up for trying to pull the God-is-still-sovereign card.

I confess I want to keep my mouth shut. Just bury my nose in a book and don’t address it. But can we? There is the matter of timing, of course. Maybe don’t bring up Jimmy Carter’s political blunders on the day he died? There’s also the matter of courtesy. Waiting to be invited into the discussion instead of barging in and pontificating.

For the purposes of this post, I am speaking of an event that happened 2000 years ago not something that happened yesterday. The truth still remains, however. God does permit evil to bare its fangs now and then, but only in keeping with two incontrovertible rules:

God must win in spite of how everything looks right now.
the devil and his kingdom must be destroyed because it has been declared so from the beginning, and God can’t lie.

This world is broken and mercilessly mean, yes, but remember: God is broken-hearted by it; and he is the ONLY one with the power to change things.

Ramah is real. Rachel weeping for her children is our lot in this life. Evil people will do evil things and, I believe, 2025 is going to be filled with more evil and more weeping than in years past. Ramah is hard. Ramah is real.

But so is Bethlehem. “Jesus Joy” is real also.

Herod was the devil in Ramah, to be sure. But let’s not miss the bigger Story: Jesus still got born, shepherds told the news, souls got saved, the Church was born, Christ is exalted, the devil and his demons will burn in the lake of fire forever, and our King from heaven will return to dwell with us. And so shall we forever be with the Lord…in the eternal best of times. Weeping may last through the night, but the Man of Joy gets the final say.

Selah, beloved.

this too shall pause

Rain, rain, go away.

Come again, some other day…

We sang that tune as children, hoping that rain wouldn’t ruin our summer plans. As adults we hope and pray our family trip to the ballpark won’t be rained out. We won’t mind if there’s a deluge on the way home, but just don’t rain on our chance to watch our favorite team play.

And so it is in the weather patterns of life. As much as we want “rain, rain go away,” we’ll gladly settle for a break in the clouds.

I have sympathy for the Gen Z-ers who’ve been dropped onto an Omaha Beach of constant extremes. The news of the day never seems to quiet for them; everything is mass hysteria and one outrage after another. For them it’s like the London blitz every day.

Winston Churchill told the people of London in 1942, “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” As the nation sagged beneath the rubble left behind by German war planes, its leader comforted them with (I’ll improvise here), “We’re grieving and angry and sad, but we’re still here; we’re alive; we have today. There may be more woes to come but at least we don’t have to endure what is past anymore. We have discovered this day that we are made of better stuff than we realized.”

Bless God for pauses. They allow us to catch our breath; reassess. Sure, the forecast is bleak. Bills will again come due, your reverie will get interrupted, a recent victory will be short-lived, chances are you will get sideswiped out of nowhere. But for now, in this holy moment, hear God say, “I got you. It’s okay.”

The night is long, but the sun will shine. It may be fleeting; the afternoon may bring bad news yet again. But that sunrise means new mercies and is a reminder that God was present.

The sun comes up, it’s a new day dawning;
It’s time to sing Your song again.
Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me,
Let me be singing when the evening comes.

Paul had a friend named Onesiphorus who visited him in prison often. The apostle put the experience of having such a man in his life into a letter, describing him as “a breath of fresh air.”

The Lord grant mercy to the household of Onesiphorus, for he often refreshed me and was not ashamed of my ^[a]chains
2 Timothy 1:16

Long ago I spent some time meditating on that word “refreshed” and imagined Paul as a farmer ploughing on an oppressively hot day. As he stands in the middle of the sun-baked clay, he removes his farmer hat and wipes the glistening sweat from his farmer brow. The air is still and unbearably close. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there’s a breeze. It blows in quietly and gently wraps him in its embrace. Finally, air! He can breathe; he is instantly refreshed, if but for a moment. This was what Onesiphorus’s encouragement did for God’s man in the heat of his crucible.

Long seasons of hardship have us crying uncle, but it seems like no uncle is coming to rescue us. How many times have we felt drowned beneath the waters of oppression? We gasp, desperately needing a chance to to come up for air. Just when we right ourself enough to tread water, it drags us down, pushes us under, grabbing and holding us. Please, God, air!

This morning our pastor led in a prayer of confession and repentance and as I was quietly opening up to the Lord the warring in my soul, a kind woman walked over to me and asked if she might lay a hand on me and pray. Of course I said yes. She prayed silently, and when the pastor said amen, Rachel said amen and removed her hand. I thanked her and for the next hour I could feel where her hand rested on my back. She blessed me with hope.

A good night’s sleep, a meaningful verse, a gentle hand on your shoulder, a smile from a stranger. These are things that can aid us in moving forward, even if it’s in shuffling half-steps. I pray whatever you’re going through, it is the end of the beginning. I pray for the refreshing wind of God to wrap you for a time and give you strength to put your next foot forward. I hope the sky opens up and gives you some breathing room.

We know it’s not the end, but at least we can reckon that it’s the end of the beginning, and that’s good enough…for now. I can’t wait for the heavenly-mandated full-stop of suffering of all kinds, when every teary eye is dried, and there’s no more pain, no more curse. But for right now I give thanks for when God hits the pause button.

SPEAKING OF PAUSES…I’m not going to be posting quite as regularly for the next couple months or longer. I’m not dormant; I just completed a couple of smaller writing projects and now I’m part way through a bigger one, one that’s consuming most of my writing energy. I humbly ask for your prayers to finish well. Selah, beloved.

Facing Another December

“I don’t want to be remembering Graham, I want to still be knowing him.” – Ken Hatcher, a friend

At first glance it’s just a leaf. But a second tells a heart-rending story.

This leaf —

battered,

weathered,

lonely,

still holding on to one more day of normalcy —

fights against change of a painful sort. Sandy and I, too, wish we had had a different outcome three Decembers ago, but God had another story to write with our son. And so we faced the inevitable, released our grip, and

Just.

Let.

Go.

Mary and Joseph felt the icy chill of their own ‘December’ all those yuletides ago. Aged Simeon prophesied to the Nativity couple, when their newborn was a scant eight days young, that their innocent bundle would grow up to cleave the young mother’s heart in half.

Nothing about this young couple would ever be on the scale of normal. From nuptials to cradle to grave they braced against the arctic cold of constant opposition. No one knew their private pain, which was pain enough. All Mary could do was ponder it in her heart.

Our son wasn’t the Son of God. He didn’t lead a sinless life, heal paralytics, or save the people from their sin. He wasn’t Immanuel or Savior or King. He struggled with himself, with his demons, and with the world, and he died, another December ago, having lost his battle with addiction.

But Graham knew Immanuel.

He was held by the Savior.

And he was shown mercy by a King who dispenses it lavishly and undeservedly.

So…we brave through yet another imperfectly perfect December, plough onward, face forward, appeal upward, hoping someone would just mention him and not forget him, reach for grace yet again that reels in joy as it whispers past, and deliberately remember all the good. With Graham, thank Jesus, there was an awful lot of that.

And…we look at the bigger picture, the one where we are still knowing Graham…because he is home, after all.

Even in this – another December – God is still good.