WHEN WE READ the classic fairy tales to our children or grandchildren, we may find ourselves beginning with the familiar words, “Once upon a time…” Those words create a sense of expectation for what will follow. They tell us that we’re about to be ushered into a world of make-believe and adventure, where magical things happen, danger is near, and acts of foolishness or heroism await. Even when I would make up bedtime stories for our kids on the spot, I would often begin with those words. Hearing them, the kids would fall silent and wait to see what would happen next.

Luke could have begun the story of Jesus by giving us the facts: On such-and-such a date, a couple named Joseph and Mary had a child, and named him Jesus. Instead, he sets the stage by introducing characters Luke’s readers might not recognize and paints their backdrop with broad strokes:

In the time of Herod king of Judea there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly division of Abijah; his wife Elizabeth was also a descendant of Aaron. Both of them were righteous in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commands and decrees blamelessly. But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old. (Luke 1:5-7, NIV)

“In the time of Herod king of Judea.” Depending on what he had been taught as a believer or a seeker, Theophilus may not have known who Zechariah and Elizabeth were. Chances are, however, that he had heard the name of Herod, or at least understood what it meant for him to be designated “king of Judea.”

Herod would have been somewhere around the age of 70 as Luke’s story begins. Though the historian Josephus called him “Herod the Great” to distinguish him from his sons, Josephus did not portray him as a great man, but as a brutal tyrant. As we read in Matthew’s gospel, when visiting magi told him that a baby had been born to be the “king of the Jews,” Herod “was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him” (Matt 2:3). Herod, of course, was troubled because he was viciously protective of his power, and would not risk having anyone usurp his throne.

But Jerusalem was troubled because Herod was troubled; he had already built a murderous reputation. His story would make for good television, except for the lack of a happy ending. His father, who had been appointed the procurator of Judea by Julius Caesar, appointed young Herod as prefect in turn. Eventually, the Roman Senate granted him the controversial title “king of the Jews.” But it’s not as if the position was vacant; a Jewish dynasty known as the Hasmoneans already held the throne. In a sense, Herod was a pawn in the struggle between Antony and Cleopatra, and literally had to fight for the title bestowed on him by Rome, deposing the Hasmonean king Antigonus, whom Antony beheaded at Herod’s request.

Soon after, he married a Hasmonean princess named Mariamne, hoping to legitimize his title as king. It didn’t take long, however, for him to begin believing the rumors that Mariamne and her Hasmonean family were plotting against him. One by one, he had them murdered or executed—including his wife.

It’s no surprise, then, that Matthew tells us that when Herod’s ruse to trick the magi into revealing the baby’s location failed, he flew into a rage. He had all the baby boys in the vicinity of Bethlehem slaughtered, even those up to the age of two years, just to be sure (Matt 2:16).

A more compassionate portrayal of Herod might see him as a deeply troubled individual who was trying to find his place in the world. Feeling insecure in his role as king of Judea, he resorted to murder. But according to Josephus, Herod had loved Mariamne, and was forever tormented for having executed her.

Moreover, Herod wasn’t Jewish by birth, so how could he be “king of the Jews”? He was a Jewish convert descended from the Edomites, who historically had been the enemies of the Jews. Thus, he tried to earn the people’s approval and loyalty by marrying a Hasmonean; we know how that worked out. He spent an enormous amount of money expanding and beautifying the Jerusalem temple, but that didn’t help his cause either. The people would not forget that he was an Edomite, nor would they forgive him for murdering the Hasmoneans. And in Matthew’s gospel, Herod’s part of the story ends without fanfare; he’s dismissed from the narrative with three simple words: “After Herod died…” (Matt 2:19). It’s the insignificant finale to a life of paranoia and violence.

. . .

“IN THE TIME of Herod king of Judea.” Like “Once upon a time” or “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away,” these words tell us that a story is about to begin. I suspect that Luke began that way because he knew Theophilus and other readers would have known at least something about that period of imperial history. Depending on how one dates Luke’s gospel, Herod would have died some 60 to 90 years before Luke wrote those words. But the most extensive account of Herod’s life, contained in Josephus’ Antiquities of the Jews, may not have been published until after the third gospel had been written.

It may be, then, that all Theophilus knew about “the time of Herod” was that it was a time of political turmoil and unrest, marked by the things men and governments would do to assert their power and dominance. Why, then, would Luke turn to the story of an old priest and his wife? Because Luke is about to tell the story of where the real power lies.

Let the story begin.