DAY 6 — VALLEY
The Shadow Beneath the Mission: When the Cradle Points Toward the Cross
If Day 5 was the bright summit of purpose, Day 6 is the valley where that purpose becomes painfully clear, because the Child who came to save will not be spared the world He came to rescue.
Herod’s rage erupts.
The same king who trembled at the news of a baby now unleashes violence on a town that never asked to be part of prophecy.
It is the darkest moment in the Nativity —
a massacre ordered by a man terrified of losing a throne he was never meant to keep.
And heaven does not stop him.
Not because God is indifferent, but because the story is moving toward a different kind of victory.
A newborn becomes a refugee.
Joseph wakes from a dream with urgency in his chest.
“Get up. Take the child. Flee.”
And so the Holy Family runs.
Into the night.
Into uncertainty.
Into Egypt — the land of Israel’s ancient bondage.
The Messiah begins His life as a displaced child,
carried by parents who have nothing but obedience and each other.
This is the valley of displacement,
the valley where God Himself becomes the stranger.
THE PROPHETIC CRY: RACHEL WEEPS
Matthew reaches back to Jeremiah —
to the mother whose tears became the national lament of Israel.
But to understand why her cry belongs here,
we must trace her story through the generations.
Rachel — the mother of sorrow and beginnings.
She dies giving birth to Benjamin.
Her final breath names him Ben-Oni —
“son of my sorrow.”
Her death becomes the first great maternal grief in Israel’s story.
Her absence becomes a presence.
Her tears become a symbol.
Rachel is the mother who knows the cost of bringing life into a broken world.
Rachel — the mother of the nation.
Her sons, Joseph and Benjamin, become the tribes that anchor Israel’s identity:
- Joseph gives us Ephraim and Manasseh — the northern tribes.
- Benjamin gives us the tribe from which Saul, Esther, and Paul will come.
So when Jeremiah says,
“Rachel weeps for her children,”
he is not speaking of two sons.
He is speaking of the whole nation —
the exiles, the captives, the lost.
Rachel becomes the mother of Israel’s tears.
Rachel — the mother of Bethlehem.
She is buried near Bethlehem.
Her tomb stands on the road where mothers have walked for centuries.
So when Herod’s soldiers descend on Bethlehem,
Matthew is not being poetic.
He is being literal.
Rachel’s tomb is right there.
Her cry is right there.
Her grief is right there.
Bethlehem’s mothers become Rachel’s daughters.
Rachel — the mother of the world’s sorrow.
Her cry is not confined to Israel.
It is the cry of every mother who has lost a child.
Every parent who has buried hope.
Every family crushed by the violence of kings and systems.
Rachel’s voice becomes the universal lament of humanity.
MARY — THE ANSWER TO RACHEL’S CRY
And now Mary enters the valley.
Mary, who stitched revelation into resilience.
Mary, who carried the Ancient of Days beneath her heart.
Mary, who knows her child is the Savior.
Simeon’s prophecy lands like a stone in her chest:
“A sword will pierce your own soul too.”
Rachel weeps for children lost.
Mary bears the Child who will restore them.
Rachel cries for a nation in exile.
Mary carries the One who will bring them home.
Rachel mourns the world’s sorrow.
Mary delivers the world’s Savior.
Rachel’s tears are the valley.
Mary’s Child is the mountain rising from it.
The cradle points toward the cross.
This is the valley beneath the mission.
Not a valley of despair,
but a valley of honesty.
The incarnation is not God avoiding suffering.
It is God choosing it.
Entering it. Carrying it.
The shadow beneath the star is long, but it is not the final word.
Life is Fun, But Not a Joke 