Today, Sunday 4 January, the western Church celebrated the Epiphany of the Lord. The Gospel reading told the story of the Eastern Magi coming to Jerusalem to find a recently born king. The prospect of a new king scared the piss out of King Herod the Great and the Jerusalem elite. In subsequent verses we find that Herod tried to kill all the children that might possibly be this new king. Jesus, we learn made an Exodus to Egypt, however. Nonetheless, the powers eventually got Him, put Him on a Roman cross. We would hope this would be the last time those in power would have tried to kill Jesus, but it struck me again today that they won't stop; be it the Jesus born in Bethlehem 2000 years ago, or the Jesus born next door, the Jesus living in Gaza, the one in prison, sick, powerless and therefore mirroring that which the powerful fear the most in themselves. I wrote this poem in reflection. It's probably not finished, but may we see the Epiphany of the Lord, even in a place like Gaza.
When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him... [H]e was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or younger.
The Gospel According to Saint Matthew 2.3, 16
The Gospel According to Saint Matthew 2.3, 16
These things happen. They always do,
always will. And you think you can do
something about this? You always will.
Jesus has been killed once, outside
Jerusalem. And Jesus has been killed
many times over and again, inside and
out, Jerusalem. For the the rulers, their
rubies and diamonds, it's more paletable
when Jesus is a Palestinian. Jesus, He
was killed once; she and her children
have been killed again. Troops on
cummerbunded horses, ironclad thinking
dungeons, with piercing arrows and
munitions. There is no God but God. No
Anglo or Semite. These things happen.
Jesus hangs inside and outside Jerusalem,
eyes crossing back and forth over
frightened Jerusalem, shrieking Bethlehem,
olive pitted Gaza.
