Twenty seven dead.  Twenty of them children.  There are no words.  And publishing thoughts still in process is a risky thing, but it seems important to try.

Children.  Not a teen angry at classmates – although that is equally tragic.  Not an employee angry at perceived wrongs by a boss or company – also tragic.  But children – most of them 6 or 7 years old.  There are no words.

How do you attend 27 fune

rals?  What about the one grade level that will always be smaller and gradually work its way up the ladder over the next 12 years?  How do parents and teachers guide young children through this, deal with questions and sleepless nights and fears that no child should have to experience? 

When will this end, this seeming escalation of violence?

During Advent and Christmas I’m always spiritually watchful for some new insight into, or connection with, the story that is so familiar.  Jesus born in a manger.  Shepherds.  Wisemen.  We’ve heard it so many times.  The incarnation is an incredibly wonderful miracle and I never lose my wonder at that event.  But the story, the biblical narrative, seems so familiar.

In an unexpected way, the events on Friday jolted me into a part of the story I’ve never spent much time in before.  “When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi.”  (Matthew 2:16)

We don’t talk much about this.  I don’t know how many died.  But I do know there were tears and grieving, that there were mothers and fathers who would understand the anguish of the Newtown parents.  That there was a town in shock.

Madeleine L’Engle, in An Irrational Season, wonders whether Jesus’ tenderness toward children was partially a response to knowing that Herod’s actions in the massacre were connected to the news of Jesus’ birth.  That in one sense, He was responsible for their deaths.

Who can fathom losing all the boys in a town under 2 years old?  Or losing 20 young children in a school in Connecticut? 

Into this world – the one 2000 years ago and the one today – comes Jesus, the hope of the world, the light that overcomes darkness, the one who cares for the brokenhearted.

We know the end of the story.  Light wins.  Darkness loses.  But in the meantime – in this in between time – there are so many occasions for tears, for grieving.  So many tragedies.  So much that is “not okay”.  School shootings.  Abused and exploited women and children.  Poverty.  So many issues and policies that need wisdom in the midst of thoughtful and intelligent discussions.  What do we do about guns, mental illness, school security?  These are important discussions. 

But right now it’s also okay to grieve.  To admit that we can’t understand “why”.  There are tears that are appropriate to shed.  It’s okay to wonder “How do you cling to a glimmer of hope and light in the face of such darkness?”

For me, it’s also become important to say “God is still God”.  I don’t want to get caught up in wondering why God allows – or doesn’t prevent – evil.  Or to discuss free will and the fall.

I just need to affirm that God is still God.  The baby born 2000 years ago is still the hope of the world, the light shining in the darkness, the one who can be clung to and who binds up wounds and cares for the brokenhearted.

God is still God.  God is still God.  God is still God.