Silent Night

For the past 2018 years. Well, 2018 minus… let me see… the 11 days for the calendar readjustment of Pope Gregory in 1582, which the eastern Church never accepted... The fact that the Christian calendar doesn’t exactly start at “zero” after all. Except for all that, of course. Besides that. Where are we?

2018 years ago. The greater world was busily worrying about other things. Certainly other than the birth of a deity. It was wrapped in its own political turmoil, and cultural marksmanship. And intrigue. Just another corner of humanity. Another example of empire and civilization. Another oven for the desiccation of normal humans and the boiling down of humanity into a rich, cooperative soup. While we wait for a better life. Better living through infantry.

King Herod moldered in his palace. Pontius Pilate looked on, wondering how long the old fool would last. And why is he here to witness this shipwreck? Rome wouldn’t have put him here on a whim. Or a joke. Or to baby sit an insane Mideastern satrap. Or would they? Herod’s ministers lashed him with flattery. He looked on, revolted. Even though he craved adulation, the constant toadying only brought bile to his mouth.

Pilate spit in his throat.

A messenger came in. Pilate read it. “Sire,” he said.

“What is it?” said Herod?
“An emissary, Sire. It has arrived from the fire worshippers of the east. They wish an audience with you to discuss…” he trailed off.

“Discuss what?”

“It is absurd, my lord,” he said.

“I’ve no doubt it is. Well? What is it?”

“They say they have come from the east following a star.”

“What star?”

“They didn’t say, Sire.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“They say the star is leading them to a place, here.”

“Why here?”

“They say they have knowledge from the gods. They are on a quest, I suppose.”

“Religious types,” he said. “They always speak in riddles.” Then, “What do they want?”

“They say that the king of the Jews has been born here and they have come to worship him and bring him gifts.”

Herod sat and stared at his majordomo. “Well,” he said at last. “Isn’t that splendid?”

“We could just dismiss them. Drive them off. Noone will believe their nonsense about ‘king of the Jews,’ anyway.”

“I’m sure not. Though.”

“My lord?”

“We could kill them. That would take care of the problem. But…”

“But what, my lord?”

“But if you’ve heard this story of a king of the Jews, maybe others have, as well.”

“Messiah’s come and go. Look at Mattathias. Where is he today?”

“Dead. And a martyr. So, he is firmly fixed in our lives. Once you kill someone, you can never get rid of them.”

“Then leave them be.”

“Then you still can’t get rid of them.”

“Maybe we can discredit them. Just write them off as crackpots. Religious fanatics. Lunatics.”

“Were it that easy. No. This takes a large-scale campaign. Whispers in the shadows. Intrigue. A knife in the back on a dark alley.”

“Lies?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Maybe if we just let them go.”
“Go where? Where exactly does a god live?”

“They are not sure.”

“Typical. Then let’s find out, shall we?”

So, King Herod called the Zoroastrian mystics into his court. After interrogating them and ascertaining that they had no idea what they were talking about, he commended them on their obviously holy quest and urged them to let him know what they find. “So that I can come worship him, as well,” he said with sincere trust brimming from his convincing eyes. You have to know how to do that if you want to be a king in the Roman empire.

South of Jerusalem, along the central mountains of Palestine, the village of Bethlehem, the House of Bread, welcomed them. And outside the village, on the slopes of the hills carved by time and terror, shepherds tended their flocks, women baked bread and brewed beer. Children played. Men worked and cursed the Romans. Sheep slept. The sky wheeled above, setting the stage for choirs of angels. And a god was born. It was a silent night.

You know what happens next.