Sermon. In Praise of the Coventry Carol: Rejoice in Lamenting!

Sermon. St Michael and All Angels, Little Ilford. 29.12.19.

·       Matthew 2.13-23

In today’s gospel Matthew gives his account of the Holy Family’s escape into Egypt and return to the Holy Land, but with a move to the North, to Galilee and to Nazareth. He tells us quite explicitly that this story fulfils various prophecies. But, over and above that, the story into and out of Egypt resonates with the central stories (central story) of the Old Testament (Hebrew Bible). So, in that way too, Matthew lets us know that Jesus is something like the fulfilment of those earlier stories.

It would be worthwhile setting this out in some detail. But the danger with this particular gospel passage is that we concentrate on Jesus and his family so much that we treat the intervening story as a detail, a little adornment, an aside. And that won’t do. For the intervening story is the slaughter of the innocents. Or maybe that is too familiar a way of putting it. The intervening story is of a powerful man, and the forces of law and order, invading people’s homes, and murdering harmless infants in cold blood.

Surely the most painful story in the New Testament. Worse than the crucifixion? I think so. We are used to thinking of Jesus as having had a brief but fruitful adult life, and we are used to making sense of – or at least trying to make sense of - his death. Here, it’s right in front of our eyes that neither of these things applies. These are infants, cut off, killed, really before their life had started, and for no good reason, for no reason at all, just because of one inadequate man’s cruelty, resentment and fear.

What do we do with this story?

On the one hand, we can take some comfort from the fact that it is likely that this never happened. I mean it probably never happened quite as we understand Matthew as he writes it down (as mass murder). He may have developed and expanded a story, for his own theological purposes. (That idea need not threaten us.) Herod was a Jewish “King” of sorts. But he had his role as a puppet of the Romans. The Romans were brutal. But they were so brutal they would not have been embarrassed about making a record of such an act, which they’d have called an “expedient execution”, no doubt. But we have no such record. We have no other references, anywhere.

On the other hand, we can take no comfort from the notion that the story is quite impossible. It is only too possible. Powerful rulers do misuse their power, do find it convenient to do away with people, to protect their own privileges. They have done so throughout history, and we had better not kid ourselves. Parents have had to mourn the deaths of their children and still do, including their willed deaths at others’ hands – including after killing. So the story fits only too well within the human story.

I am not going to tell you the “secret meaning” of this horrific story. As if I could! I’d like to say something else. If we take this story to heart, what we most need is surely not an answer, still less a justification. What we most need is some way to lament, to feel the pain, and sing it out. To articulate pain and grief.

And the good news is: we can do this. In fact, we English speakers are blessed with an excellent way of doing this. We already have a faultless lament for the Holy Innocents.

That woe is me, poor child, for thee
And ever mourn and may
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

This is from the Coventry Carol, which comes from the medieval Coventry Mystery Plays. The words are 15^th century, the tune we have for the words is 16^th century. We will hear this later, as our anthem.

It happens to be my favourite carol, although that might give the impression I am more glum than I actually am. I simply think it is musically perfect and the words match. (Yes, brothers and sister, you heard that right: I don’t want to amend a single word! [cf. Advent 3 and Carols]).

For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

Let me add this. I am proud that this is one of our oldest carols. We English-speaking people have this as our heritage. This will to take seriously the story of the murder of the innocents, and offer a fitting lament.

We might even say that lament – songs of grief and the staying with grief – are a central thread of English creative writing. Not a golden thread, but a purple, a dark purple thread.

Shakespeare did it well (of course). We actually heard some of that in St Mary’s Singers’ Carol Concert, a wintery lament:

            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

                        Thou art not so unkind

            As man’s ingratitude;

                        Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

                        Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

            Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

[Amiens, in As You Like It.]

But the journey of English lament does not stop, and maybe does not peak there. We can plot lament in Shelley, to Auden, to Larkin, to… well, tell me who your favourite English-speaking poet is, and we can look for a lament.

What do you make of all of this? I say: Rejoice! Rejoice in the lamenting! Rejoice that we are so good at lamenting. In this life, we need to lament, not to swallow down but to sing out our pain. And we can.

Moreover, our Bible too in effect says this with great force. If we think of the hymn book of the Bible, the book of Psalms, we find laments. Plenty of laments. How many? In truth, it’s hard to say. In truth, psalms often do “hand-brake turns” when it comes to their themes and moods and tones. From praise to lament to rage to calm to praise, and more, without any intervening stages. So it is notoriously hard to classify individual psalms. But, you know, if wouldn’t be out of the range to say that one third of the psalms are lament, or contain lament.

And our hymn books don’t.

Yes – you knew I’d get some criticism of something musical in somewhere. I dare to think it is valid. I ask: where are our laments, these days? Dare we share with Gd our pain and distress and loss and grief? If we dare not, what does that say about us? If we dare not, what does that say of Gd, of what we think of Gd, of how we seek to treat Gd?

Does this sound like a miserable message for the first Sunday of Christmas? Maybe. I’ll take that. But! But it’s our gospel account today which compels us to at least touch upon such things. So let one of the changes we make in the time ahead be that we look at how we might better offer chances for good lamenting. Nothing is more natural and at times necessary.

We need to be able to lament before Gd. We need Gd to sanctify our pain. For Gd will.

That woe is me, poor child, for thee
And ever mourn and may
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

Amen.