Our second reading comes once again from the gospel of Matthew, but today we’re going back to the beginning – chapter 1. The first 17 verses of this gospel are a long list of names, spelling out Jesus’ genealogy from Abraham on down. We’re not going to read all of that out loud today (you’re welcome), but it’s important to know that the genealogy goes from Abraham to King David to the exile, all the way down to Joseph, who is listed as ‘the husband of Mary, who bore Jesus, the Messiah.’
You might be wondering: “why is Jesus’ genealogy traced through Joseph? That’s not how genetics works.” True, but they lived in a patriarchal society and did not have access to DNA tests, so your lineage was traced by the father who claimed you, regardless of biology. And Matthew makes sure to tell us precisely how Joseph came to play that part in Jesus’ story.
Listen for the word of the Lord from Matthew 1:18-25.
Scripture: Matthew 1:18-25
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said,
‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.’ All this took place to fulfil what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:
‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel’,
which means, ‘God is with us.’
When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.
Today is what I half-jokingly like to call ‘Joseph Appreciation Sunday.’ We get Mary’s side of the story in the gospel according to Luke, but Matthew makes sure to tell us how Jesus came to be known as ‘the carpenter’s son.’
Joseph, you see, was just living his life, working as a carpenter, engaged to a local girl named Mary. In the first century, a wedding took place in two stages. First came the engagement, which was a legal agreement between two families that often involved money and a written contract. But before the actual wedding ceremony, the groom was responsible for building a home (or building a private space in his family’s home) and gathering enough resources to support his new family. This could take up to a year, and meanwhile, the bride continued to live with her parents. When all that was finished, the two would go through the wedding ceremony and begin living together and doing all the things married couples do.
There was a plan, he was working on it, and his life was going to be pretty straightforward – until God went and made everything complicated.
By the time he’s visited by an angel in a dream, Mary was already pregnant. So Joseph had a choice: he could say ‘not me, sorry, I’m out’ and leave Mary to fend for herself. Or, he could trust in what God is telling him. He could choose to believe that the whispers, the stares, the people very obviously doing math in their heads from the wedding date to the birth – that was not going to be his family’s story forever.
He could have dismissed the dream as a side effect of that bread that tasted off and gone through with his plan to break the engagement quietly and send her away. But Joseph chose to trust that what God had promised would indeed come to pass – that the child he was about to claim and raise as his own would be known as the savior of his people.
It was not the most convenient timing, or the most traditional circumstance. But as all of God’s people are about to find out, God’s work in our midst does not abide by our schedules or our ideas of propriety. The gospel of Matthew does not pull any punches.
As it turns out, Joseph was one in a long line of people who have learned the hard way that God’s love is sometimes inconvenient, disruptive, and a little pushy. The overwhelming love of God can wash us in warmth and delight, and it can also derail the most carefully-laid plans and ask something of us.
Sarah Bessey is a Christian writer and speaker with several books about church, theology, and Christian living, and a large following. But her writing career began with essays about motherhood when she was a young mom with young children, trying to make sense of faith and parenting and church.
One of the essays she published in 2015 was titled “Shh, I’m here,” written when she was one month postpartum with her youngest child. I want to read you a couple excerpts.
“I’m here, you’re not alone. Shhhh, shhh now, I’m here.
And with those words, I lift my crying baby up and out of her darkness. She’s unaware of where she fits in her life, perhaps, but I know just where she is. I’m never far from her, even though to her new mind I’ve disappeared every time I’m not in her line of sight, but that’s not true.
And so when she wakes up or when she’s lonely or when she’s hungry or just wants someone to hold her, to calm her heart, she cries out and I quickly come to her, I rush to her, and I lift her up into my arms. After all, she’s gone from being held constantly, fed constantly, with me constantly so of course anything less feels like a downgrade to her. I am glad to accommodate.
For four babies now, this is the liturgy of bringing her back to me: Shhhh, I’m here, you’re not alone, I’m here, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.
…I’m teaching her that I will always come for her. I’m teaching her that she is safe and secure. I’m teaching her that I am reliable, that she is believed, that I don’t believe she’s manipulating me or bossing me. I’m teaching my child that I am here and she is not alone.
Dry your tears, small girl, I’m here, I’m always here.
I will always come for you.”
There are two ways to see ourselves in this beautiful, tender moment between mother and child. The first is the one that Sarah herself writes about later in the essay, in which God is the one whispering comfort in our ears, holding us close, promising to always come for us. She writes:
“What if we see God through the metaphor of a good mother with a newborn babe?
…
Isn’t this one of the great gifts God has given us? that we sometimes get just a glimpse into how God loves us? A share of the joy, a sign and a scent of the Kingdom among us already? God in her goodness, sharing with us what it means to love so selflessly, so unconditionally, so completely?”
This moment captures the heart of the good news of Christmas: that we are not alone, and never will be.
And.
The second way to imagine ourselves in this story is to put ourselves in Sarah’s shoes – as the caregiver, the first responder, the arms of love and comfort. Even beyond our own children, or the people we are legally responsible for, who are we running to when they cry out? Who will we allow to wake us in the middle of the night with their needs? Who will we sacrifice our rest, our contentment, our warm blankets for?
Like Joseph, who will we risk our reputation and best-laid plans for?
When I was a kid, I went to the same Christian summer camp for a week every year. We did all the summer camp things: swimming, field games, bible study, horseback riding, etc. But there was one day I dreaded every year: ropes course day.
This particular camp had what they called “the adventure zone,” where they had outdoor team-building activities, a climbing wall, and a high ropes course. As a clumsy pre-teen with a raging fear of heights, these activities were straight out of my nightmares. But every time, the instructors would give us the same spiel: there are three mental ‘zones’: on one end of the spectrum is your comfort zone. On the other end is the panic zone, where you’re just absolutely freaking out. But in the middle there is this little slice they called the ‘growth zone.’ And the only way to expand your comfort zone, they would tell us, is to venture into that growth zone. So it’s okay if you’re not 100% confident or comfortable when you’re doing this, and we don’t want you to wind up in the panic zone. But you do have to try. So I did. I got in the harness and climbed up the wooden pole and tried.
I still don’t do well with heights, and if I never walk another tight rope 30 feet off the ground, it will be too soon.
But I did learn that they were right about the growth zone. The only way to expand our comfort zones is by moving juuuuuust a little bit outside of them, until we’re comfortable there. And then we take another step. And another. And another.
Advent is full of love. Some of it comes easily – like, Hallmark-movie easily – and sometimes, love requires that we exit our comfort zones and grow into something new.
Beloveds, here is the good news: God came to us in the middle of the night whispering “I’m here, I’ve got you.” Rooted safely in that love, which will never abandon us, we can grow into a deeper, wider, higher, more impossible love every day.
Thanks be to God.