The Massacre of Innocence Part Two

I promised a return to a short stretch of road in the concubine’s murder story, and here it is: the road between Bethlehem (of Judaea) and Jerusalem.  In the concubine’s story (Judges 19:1-21:25), her master the Levite departs with her (while she is still alive) from Bethlehem in the “afternoon,” as “the day draweth toward evening” (or so says his father-in-law, wishing him to stay.)  But, instead:

“…the man would not tarry that night, but he rose up and departed, and came over against Jebus, which is Jerusalem….And when they were by Jebus, the day was far spent” (KJV).  Not wishing to spend the night in a city of (as yet unconquered) pagans, the Levite travels on to an Israelite town:

“And they passed on and went their way; and the sun went down upon them when they were by Gibeah, which belongeth to Benjamin”—co-religionists of the Levite, some of whom promptly set to raping his young concubine to death.

I present this geography lesson not as an idle exercise, nor even to throw a disparaging light on the author of the story from Judges (but really, “Beth-lehem-judah” must be six miles—as the crow flies, no less—from Jerusalem, and Gibeah another four—surely too much for the longest afternoon; in setting up the story of the girl’s murder, the author was clearly making it up as he went along.)

I present this geography lesson because of the indisputable kernel of fact that it reveals: Bethlehem and Jerusalem are in the same neck of the woods.  Their proximity might be judged greater or lesser for various purposes, but for the purposes of deciding if this or that can be discarded from the Bible—at least an authoritative Bible—the implication cannot be denied: Either the concubine story has to go, or Matthew’s Infancy Narrative has to go, or perhaps both.

The early Christians who knew anything about Judea knew that Bethlehem and Jerusalem are near neighbors, even if those Christians got their geography from Judges.  When we read the story of the Massacre of the Innocents there is no hint that Herod was compelled to send swift messengers to rouse some distant garrison to do the horrid deed.

Here is the story from Matthew, a story that—if judged to be spurious—must bring down the rest of the Infancy Narrative:

“Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently enquired of the wise men.

“Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet, saying,

“In Rama there was a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not” (Matthew 3:16-18).

And so this sad story has a detachment of soldiers march the few miles to commit the atrocity “in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof”.  If those “coasts” extended a mere mile or two along the road to Jerusalem, one might well imagine the author of Judges describing the screams and wails as echoing in the very courtyards of the Temple.

The existence and the safety of roads were crucial to the economy and society of the Holy Land; few things would define the efficacy of Herod’s despotic reign more than would the regularity of travel, though even in the shadow of his capital the security of the few rough roads was a constant concern.

And of course those roads were used, in Jesus’ time and in the decades afterwards, by persons who knew how important travel was in Israel and always had been.  And they could imagine travel as an element of the lives of their forefathers—or, to return to Matthew’s genealogy of Jesus—foremothers.  Matthew saw fit to mention Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba:

There were only so many ways to get from one place to another in biblical times.  Tamar, playing (literally) the harlot, was informed, “Behold thy father in law goeth up to Timnath to shear his sheep” (Genesis 38:13).  She knew just where to wait for him on the way.

Rahab was the harlot of Jericho, who lived in the house of the famous wall and who sheltered the Israelite soldiers sent as spies (Joshua 2:1-21).  It would not be hard to imagine a soldier of Herod’s, assigned for some time to Bethlehem, sneaking away from his post for a night’s visit to a prostitute in Jerusalem.

A working man might have left Jerusalem at first light and still have expended a good day’s work in a field near Bethlehem, remaining for the night on the threshing floor—though he could scarcely have expected such a night as was enjoyed by Jesus’ foremother Ruth and her (literal) intended Boaz—in the neighborhood of Bethlehem, no less (Ruth 3:1-18).

And as for Bathsheba, spied out and lorded over by King David (2 Samuel 11:1-27): Herod, were he so inclined, might have left Jerusalem in the morning to hunt, spied some comely maiden in the “coasts” of Bethlehem, given necessary orders to swift mounted lieutenants, and have inspected her—bathed and perfumed—by the waning sunlight in his palace chambers.

I dwell so on the proximity of Bethlehem to Jerusalem because it must figure in the believability of Matthew’s Infancy Narrative, and also—we will shortly see—because I must contend that the narrative is not merely unbelievable, but actually inimical to Jesus’ ministry.

First, the unbelievability.  The “wise men” (mind-numbingly obtuse in the ways of ancient politics) show up at Herod’s court saying “Where is he that is born King of the Jews?”  (I suppose that two thousand years of Christian mercy ought to have made us blush at the very thought of subjecting to serious analysis this output of one called “Matthew,” but nonetheless here we are.)

“When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him.

“And when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born.

“And they said unto him, In Bethlehem of Judaea: for thus it is written by the prophet” (Matthew 2:3-5).

And still:

“Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, enquired of them diligently what time the star appeared.

“And he sent them to Bethlehem….” (Matthew 2:7-8)

So there we have it.  The “wise men” show up asking the single most momentous question that “all Jerusalem” could hear, and “all Jerusalem” hear it—and “all Jerusalem” know that the wrong answer to that question could bring the legions of Rome down upon them.

And “all Jerusalem” have access to the prophecy about Bethlehem of Judaea.

And “all Jerusalem” know where Bethlehem of Judaea is—a trip of part of a day or part of a night.  And Herod questions the wise men and sends them, as he believes, to Bethlehem.

So somehow we are supposed to visualize Herod in weeks or months of tormented unknowing, realizing at last that the wise men had duped him in not reporting back?

“Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently enquired of the wise men.”

The story, as related by Matthew, is a masterpiece of implausibility.  How could Herod, through his minions, not have tracked the wise men to the very doorway of the Nativity?  His lieutenants’ only obstacle might have been crowds of common folk staring at the exotic travelers.  Many could have clung to the procession all the way, enjoying the shade of the beasts in the single day or enjoying the safety of the company in the single night.

It would be as plausible to concoct a horror-comedy about Al Capone at the height of his power, frustrated in some plan of his because a precious valuable or clue is to be buried in the coffin of some deceased rival kingpin.  Instead of sending people to see where the body is buried with great pomp, this fictional Capone waits a couple of months and then sends burly types to the well-known cemetery to dig up every grave with a tombstone less than two years old.

The trick to writing a horror-comedy is, I suppose, the proper balance of horror and comedy—otherwise one is liable to end up with neither.  In the Infancy Narrative of Matthew, the laughable nature of the un-laughable horror is bad enough, but the damage it has done in the intervening centuries is far worse.  We must turn next to that damage—wrought against the very substance of Jesus’ ministry.