From Darkness Into Light

January 27, 2008
Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 4-9; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
We don’t often read all of the lectionary passages for a given Sunday, because most of the time the messages are too disparate to bring together in a coherent way in the time we set aside for such. It remains to be seen whether this will be coherent or not, but as I read these four texts over the past few days and considered them in light of some of the present concerns that press in on us here at Clarendon, I was struck by some remarkable connections.
First, the text from Isaiah, with its celebratory reminder that on us a light has shone, rang wonderfully true to me. Oh, to be sure, there’s darkness a plenty these days. Some of us feel it in our bones, deep in our personal lives. Others look out upon the wider world and see wars and rumors of wars, economic uncertainty, and perceive a great darkness.
Nevertheless, I’m not dwelling in darkness this morning.
In a few moments we will gather as a congregation and break bread together. In and of itself, that is a sign of great light and hope. That we will do so in a beautifully restored space downstairs witnesses further to that light and hope. That we will do so a week after a goodly number of us filled 250 bags with groceries for our less fortunate neighbors magnifies that light and hope. That we followed up that service with a wonderful time of breaking bread together focuses us further on light and hope. That the next day, National Capital Presbytery endorsed the overture our session presented asking for a decisive change in our denomination’s constitutional standards for ordination makes me say, with Isaiah, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined.”
And let God’s people say, “Amen.”
Of course, none of this is a final word. The restoration of our space is not complete. We face some difficult challenges as a congregation in the days ahead. The hungry have not been filled nor the social and economic structures that leave so many in hunger addressed. The day of welcome for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people of faith has not arrived in the broader church or culture. So the words of light and hope are tempered somewhat.
But here I turn to the psalmist for comfort.
During my own darkest days of depression and hopelessness, the words of Psalm 27 have always been a balm.
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” it begins. And then, in the words that have often sustained me, this song of hope ends with this:
I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord;
be strong, and let your heart take courage;
wait for the Lord!
We need such words of light and hope for we can count on challenges and difficulties that seem to fill our days with darkness and despair.
Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth reminds us the divisions in the body are nothing new under the sun. Just like the earliest Christians, we will struggle to be of one mind – whether we’re talking about the church catholic, our own denomination, or even our own small family here.
Paul exhorts the church, saying, “Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose.”
A most honest rejoinder might be simply, “yeah, right.”
We are some 2,000 years into the “Jesus movement” now, and the days of one mind and purpose among the disciples are no doubt far fewer than the days of division, distrust, and dysfunction among us. So how can we proclaim words of light and hope when we, ourselves, so often experience and exhibit darkness and despair?
This is where the gospel is urgent and decisive, for each of us and for the world.
Consider Matthew’s account of the call of the first disciples. To begin with, Jesus is preaching metanoia – repentance, a turning away from the ways of the world to a way as yet unknown, the way of discipleship, of following Jesus. Breaking with a tradition that had disciples seek out their masters, Jesus goes out seeking followers. As John’s gospel puts it, “you did not seek me, but I sought you and called you.”
And whom does he call? What are the background qualifications of these first disciples? Rank or station? Wealth or power? Advanced degrees? Good voices?
Truly, it seems the only qualification is the willingness to follow, to abandon the security of the known for an opportunity … an opportunity for what, exactly?
To fish for people? Fairly obscure job description.
Elsewhere in the gospel account, Jesus tells would-be disciples that they must be willing to sell what they own and give the proceeds to the poor, they must become like the least, they must be willing to take up the cross.
Fairly obscure, still, but not very, how to put this … invitational?
Paul recognizes the challenge in his letter to the Corinthians. “This idea of crosses? Looks pretty silly in the eyes of the world. ‘Fools!’ they call us.”
And, well, why not? While the cross has long since become for us a sign of piety or religiosity, for contemporaries of Jesus or Paul it was a sign of imperial power and cruelty – a form of execution reserved for those who threatened the rule of Rome.
To lift high the cross and proclaim it as power was bound to look like the most foolish of all possible gestures – like truth and reconciliation in post-apartheid South Africa; like the formation of Solidarity in communist Poland in 1980; like the Montgomery bus boycott in 1955; like Gandhi’s march to the sea; like witnessing for peace in the midst of war; like lovers getting married when the church and state refuse to recognize their union; like going to seminary when the church refuses to affirm your calling; like planting a seed in the frozen ground; like bringing a baby into the world.
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by loving beyond reason even when it looks foolish or, worse, uncool?
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by giving beyond reason and forgiving beyond any expectation, even when it looks like we may be taken advantage of, we may “lose” in the eyes of the world?
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by living with utter abandon lives of making peace, doing justice, loving kindly even when it feels like we’re risking our security, our financial well being, our social status?
Why would we follow such a one as this? Wouldn’t we rather ask of God protection from all such risks? Wouldn’t we rather ask of God that we not suffer? That we not stumble or fall? That we not be weak and foolish?
What sort of God is it who responds to our suffering not by ending it but rather by entering into it with us? What sort of God is it who responds to our weakness not by giving us extraordinary powers but rather by becoming weak as well?
And, moreover, what sort of God is it who, seeing the weakness, suffering and poverty of the world, asks of us that we join in solidarity with those who are weak, suffering and poor? That we follow God precisely into the midst of the brokenness of the world?
As Joe Roos wrote recently in Sojourners, “this is the foolishness of the cross. All of us know pain and grief and disappointment in our lives. Our human wisdom wants a God who will heal us and make us feel better. The foolishness of the cross is a God who enters into our pain and bears our pain with us. […] And even more foolishly, this very same God expects us to do the same with each other: to enter into each other’s pain, to bear each other’s burdens and those of the world around us.”
This is our calling a church; indeed, this is what it means to be the church of Jesus Christ – not an institution in search of success but a community passionately living compassionately in the world. This is the way of Jesus; it is the way from darkness into light. Amen.

Come and See

January 20, 2008
Isaiah 49:1-7; John 1:29-42
There’s been a lot of talk over the past couple of weeks about the legacy of Martin Luther King – about his role in the Civil Rights Movement and how it ought or ought not shape and inform current political thought.
It’s not difficult to understand why contemporary political leaders – whatever their political bent – want to lay claim to the mantle of King’s legacy, so it’s not surprising that they make their claims when political campaigns and King’s birthday cross on the calendar.
Now I never expect any depth of theological reflection or understanding to emerge from any American political discourse – despite the fact that increasingly both Republicans and Democrats seem too often to think they are running for the office of “pastor-in-chief” rather than commander-in-chief. Nevertheless, the utter absence of any theological understanding of King’s role always disappoints me.
After all, before he was the “slain civil rights leader” that the media always refers to, he was a preacher’s kid, a seminarian, and a pastor. He always understood his role as that of prophet to the nation – a fundamentally theological self-understanding grounded in a deeply held conviction of personal calling and vocation.
So while it is rather simple and certainly a great deal of fun on the Sunday of the King holiday to seize upon King’s lofty rhetoric and sound a rousing call to let justice roll down like a mighty water and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream, it is urgent that we recall the roots of the rhetoric and be shaped and formed by the timeless Biblical call rather than any contemporary political exigencies that reflect a widespread theological amnesia.
What has this to do with us? With you and me and the church at Clarendon in this particular season of our life? Moreover, what has it to do with the Biblical texts that the lectionary places before us this morning?
As I read the political news of the past couple of weeks, I began thinking about King’s kitchen table conversion – an episode from King’s life that he referred to often, but that rarely gets mentioned in contemporary conversations about him – especially not in the kind of stories that we’ve seen emerge from the current presidential campaign.
As he related the experience, King was sitting at his kitchen table late one sleepless night in the middle of the Montgomery bus boycott. It was 1955, and King was 26 years old – fresh out of seminary and less than a year into his first pastorate. Thrust against his own desires into the forefront of the boycott, King was facing the first of the almost daily death threats that would accompany him for the remainder of his life. His home near downtown Montgomery had recently been firebombed – its front room destroyed.
The politics of the moment seemed hopeless. What we look back at across 50 years as the inevitable movement toward basic fairness looked at that moment like an impossible dream. King was at the end of his rope physically, mentally and spiritually.
He gave voice to his helplessness – literally – in a desperate prayer. He put it this way:
“One night toward the end of January I settled into bed late, after a strenuous day. Coretta had already fallen asleep and just as I was about to doze off the telephone rang. An angry voice said, "Listen, nigger, we've taken all we want from you; before next week you'll be sorry you ever came to Montgomery." I hung up, but I couldn't sleep. It seemed that all of my fears had come down on me at once. I had reached the saturation point.
I got out of bed and began to walk the floor. […] Finally I went to the kitchen and heated a pot of coffee. I was ready to give up. With my cup of coffee sitting untouched before me I tried to think of a way to move out of the picture without appearing a coward. I sat there and thought about a beautiful little daughter who had just been born. I'd come in night after night and see that little gentle smile. I started thinking about a dedicated and loyal wife, who was over there asleep. And she could be taken from me, or I could be taken from her. And I got to the point that I couldn't take it any longer. I was weak. Something said to me, "You can't call on Daddy now, you can't even call on Mama. You've got to call on that something in that person that your Daddy used to tell you about, that power that can make a way out of no way." With my head in my hands, I bowed over the kitchen table and prayed aloud. The words I spoke to God that midnight are still vivid in my memory: "Lord, I'm down here trying to do what's right. I think I'm right. I am here taking a stand for what I believe is right. But Lord, I must confess that I'm weak now, I'm faltering. I'm losing my courage. Now, I am afraid. And I can't let the people see me like this because if they see me weak and losing my courage, they will begin to get weak. The people are looking to me for leadership, and if I stand before them without strength and courage, they too will falter. I am at the end of my powers. I have nothing left. I've come to the point where I can't face it alone."
It seemed as though I could hear the quiet assurance of an inner voice saying: "Martin Luther, stand up for righteousness. Stand up for justice. Stand up for truth. And lo, I will be with you. Even until the end of the world."
In the quiet of the darkened house, King heard God speak.
No promises of success, nor even that the burden would become somehow lighter; rather, King heard a voice saying simply, “I will be with you.”
I have heard that same voice. Perhaps you have heard it, too.
You don’t have to compare yourself to King to share in that experience. Personally, I suspect I am living something much closer to the life that King wanted to live, as opposed to the one he was called to live. The world owes an unpayable debt of gratitude that he followed the calling of God rather than the selfish desires of his own heart for a comfortable and secure life of reading, reflecting and teaching. It takes a faith of unfathomable depth to follow such a call, and I, for one, surely prefer the lure of security to the risks of faith – to follow my own desires rather than God’s calling.
That calling from God comes in the same voice as that assurance of divine presence.
I heard it decisively the first time I truly took note of the passage from John that we just read, with its vague but compelling invitation: come and see.
“Come and see,” says Jesus; “I will be with you,” God echoes.
“Do I trust this?” asks the human heart.
The first time I attended to that invitation, I flirted with it for a long time – years even. I danced close enough to it to engage it at church camps and at divinity school; and then I ran from it as fast and far as I could, and avoided it altogether for many more years.
At the time I never gave it this much thought or analysis, but I suspect that somewhere in the depths of my soul I understood that this invitation to “come and see” was asking of me more than I wanted to give.
When, after long years of avoidance, I did eventually again attend to the invitation when hearing it, as if for the first time, in this very passage from John, I responded more out of curiosity than any conviction, I assure you.
“Come and see.”
“Well, why not? What have I got to lose?”
“Come and see,” was the invitation to the disciples. No details about what they might find, or what might be asked of them. Just the simple, “come and see.”
When I heard that in 1995 at the Maxwell Street Presbyterian Church, something in it was compelling enough to come and see. I certainly did not respond thinking that I’d wind up here, this morning. I never imagined a dozen years ago that I was embarking on a journey of faith that would involve any witness for justice or for peace. I certainly did not imagine there would be wounds or scars along the way.
But, like the first disciples, I was looking for something. Not necessarily for “him of whom Moses spoke,” but looking, nonetheless, for deeper connection to something that would draw me out beyond my own narrow concerns, my own small fears and limited hopes. None of that was, of course, anything on the order of the personal concerns, fears or hopes of a Martin Luther King in 1955. He was already a prophet living into God’s plan. But the point is precisely that no matter where you find yourself, when you come to the end of your rope, the end of your own capacities, precisely then you are open to this invitation – come and see; and precisely then you are open as well to the assurance, “I am with you always.”
That’s the invitation and that’s the promise that echo again for us right now. “Come and see.”
This calling is real and it is urgent. I am a witness here.
Beyond our narrow concerns, small fears and limited hopes God is calling us to live into a future of God’s own imagining. The world cannot wait. God will not be mocked.
So, whether it’s from courage and conviction, or out of curiosity, “come and see.”
God is calling us, right here and right now, to be the community of faith at Clarendon that will make a difference in the world. God is calling us right here and right now to stand up for righteousness wherever we find ourselves; to stand up for justice wherever we find ourselves; to stand up for truth wherever we find ourselves.
“I will give you as a light for the nations,” says the Lord. “that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.”
And the same God who invites us to come and see, the same God who calls us to stand and be light in the darkness, is the same God who promises to be with us always – even when we are weighed down by our own fears, even when we are at the end of our own capacity, even when our imaginations fail us and our hearts break open. Into those open hearts, then, God pours out this invitation: “Come and see.” Amen.

Baptized to Serve

January 13, 2008
Matthew 3:13-17; Isaiah 42:1-9
How many of you remember your own baptism?
I’ve heard stories of my own – I’m sure I was a perfect angel; you can ask my mom!
But I certainly have no recollection of it. Like many good Presbyterians, I was baptized as an infant, as is decent and in good order reflecting our conviction that baptism is God’s action in which we are claimed as God’s own. As Jesus told his followers, “you did not choose me but I chose you.”
I am sure that I did not feel any great sense of choseness on that particular Sunday morning in the University Presbyterian Church of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and that is probably a good thing. For if we truly understood the depth of what it means to be called by God into lives of loving service, most of us would turn away from the font in fear and trembling.
I try to place my self in Jesus’ sandals. If I’d been in his place I cannot imagine that I would have walked into the river knowing which way the current was running; how swift and sure it was to take him to Calvary and a cross.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer was right, as his own life surely demonstrated: when Jesus calls us he beckons us to come and die.
Right about now Molly is probably thinking, “I wish he’d preached this before the ordination service while there was still a chance to bolt for the door!”
Perhaps it is a bit of “bait and switch,” to order the service of worship this way. We tend to do the same thing with baptism. We place these sweet and powerful moments of worship, with their sacramental overtones, early in the service, and maybe it’s only a spoil-sport who would follow them up with a prophetic word about the meaning of God’s call and claim on our lives.
But, as far as I can tell, that’s the only authentic purpose for the church: to equip the saints to answer God’s call.
Oh, to be sure, there are a number of ways to do that, a number of steps for each of those ways, and as many callings as there are gifts. But the purpose of the gathered community is to praise the giver for the gifts and then to figure out how to use them to further God’s purposes in the world.
We certainly don’t ordain folks for the glory of it! We don’t ordain folks for the power of it! We don’t ordain folks for prestige of it! We don’t ordain folks for the money!
(If we do, I missed the memo on it, and so did the rest of you ordained folks this morning!)
So, if it’s not for glory, for power, for prestige, for money, what is it for? What is the call of God for?
Isaiah’s words tell us what it means to be called by God. These words tell us what it means to be a servant and to be a disciple, to follow in the way that Jesus traveled from his own baptism, his own moment of ordination:
Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.
He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street;
a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.
He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth; and the coastlands wait for his teaching.
Thus says God, the LORD, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread out the earth and what comes from it, who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it:
I am the LORD, I have called you in righteousness, I have taken you by the hand and kept you; I have given you as a covenant to the people, a light to the nations,
to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness.
The call of God is about justice. It is about righteousness. It is about liberation. It is about new light in the darkness, a voice for the voiceless, sight for the blind. It is about hope.
The community of faith – the church – gathers in order that we find our sight, find our voice, find our light, find out hope, and the gathered community empowers each of us to take those gifts into all the world to work for the justice and righteousness – the restoration of right relationships – that God desires, that are the marks of God’s kingdom.
That’s what ordination is all about.
The challenge comes in trying to live it out. That challenge touches each and every one of us, whether or not we have been called to the particular office of elder, or deacon, or minister of the word and sacrament.
This morning, as we surrounded Molly with love and support, we promised something of utmost importance. We promised, in pledging our support and committing to follow the leadership of our elders, we promised again to follow the leadership of Christ, the head of the church.
It was not just elders who made that promise; it was each and every one of us.
I’m going to take a moment here to point specifically toward some of what I believe to be entailed in that promise. I hope that I do not sound harsh or frustrated or disappointed. Please believe me when I say that is not how I feel. I am trying to find a voice here that is not the “dad” voice saying, “clean your room.”
Believe me, I know that is not my most effective voice – take one look at my kids’ rooms and you’ll know that my “clean your room” voice carries zero weight!
On the other hand, I also know that the “dad” voice holds some of my deepest, most authentic feelings of sure and certain love. So if I slip into that voice, it is because I love you; I love this community; I have such high hopes and expectations.
We’ve just journeyed together through Advent, and along the way I witnessed the best of what and who we are.
Our worship services were powerful and profound because your voices – many of them – were sounded with clarity and passion. We sung God’s praises well, from our youngest on up. The music was beautiful. This space was lit to the glory of God.
Not only that, but we worshipped God in compassion, charity and justice. We gave with incredible generosity to the least of these – especially our sisters at the new women’s shelter, but also to the AMEN programs.
Beyond these important local concerns, our voice was heard again in the broader church, as the overture that originated with our session’s committed call to create a church that welcomes, embraces and empowers our GLBT sisters and brothers began its journey through the denomination’s polity.
Beyond even all of that there is much, much more going on in the life of this small community of faith, and come our January congregational meeting in a few weeks we’ll share it more fully.
So, what’s the problem?
Well, look around us this morning. There are far too many empty seats here, which translates quite quickly to a budget that we will struggle to meet unless we do something about it.
All of that good work that we are already doing, that faithful work that we are called to do, that promised, committed, loving service that we are baptized into – it will go for naught in this good place unless we make some changes.
The problem is – my problem is – I do not know what those changes are.
I wish I could stand up here this morning and hold out a flow chart and spell out seven steps to success … or even 12! But I cannot.
Oh, to be sure, I read the latest ideas from the Alban Institute, the emerging church movement, and all sorts of other church gurus. I’ve been to various and sundry training events, and will continue to go.
Still, I do not feel at all equipped for “growing the church.”
In fact, I’m not even sure I know what that means.
For instance, does growing the church mean filling pews on Sunday morning? Does it mean balancing our budget? Does it mean bagging more groceries at AFAC? Does it mean witnessing more for peace and justice and for a church as generous and just as God? Does it mean more potluck lunches? Does it mean more or better or different Christian education and spiritual formation? Does it mean more varied worship and music?
Or does it mean less? Less focus on Sunday morning – and more focus on the rest of the week? Less focus on what we do here together – and more focus on each of us living out our faith day-by-day in every action that we take?
Or is it something altogether different? After all, as Brian McClaren’s most recent book from the emergent church movement puts it, Everything Must Change.
Like I said, I am not sure I know what “growing the church” means.
It’s at this point when I fear slipping into the “clean your room” voice. As that one never works, let me try a different Dad voice. You know a leader is effective if people follow; the Dad voice that works is the one when I say, “let’s go down to Maggie Moos!” That one always works; I can lead a family to ice cream with the best of ‘em.
So, let’s tackle our challenges with joy and energy, even as I confess that I’m not sure what some of these challenges actually entail, nor that I am the one to lead such an effort.
So, what am I sure of?
Just a couple of things.
First, above all else, God loves us – we are the beloved ones, with whom God is well pleased. We are called, baptized, ordained for joyous service of a this loving God.
Second, this is a house full of joy and love and compassion. There’s so much that I don’t know, but I’m living proof that ignorance is bliss! There’s plenty to stress about in life; let’s pledge to make this congregation a place of holy laughter. In fact, if you’ll promise right now to make this a place of holy laughter, I’ll promise to resist the temptation to pun … no, I won’t.
Third, this is a house of promises. We’ve made promises this morning: to lead, to follow, to serve and support, to love. God’s promises remain the foundation of our own: God promises to love us, to be ever present, to welcome us back again and again and again.
Finally, we must clean our rooms! Whatever that metaphor may mean for you in terms of the life of this congregation, we must clean our rooms! Our spiritual health, our wholeness, what the gospels call salvation, depends upon it.
If it means stretching out of your comfort zone to share your faith with a friend or neighbor and then invite them to “come and see,” then clean your room. Spiritual health is measured in part by the extent to which this story of faith shapes every aspect and relationship of our lives. If we are spiritually healthy, we share our faith with others.
If it means stretching out of your comfort zone to give more, then clean your room. Spiritual health is measured in part by the extent to which this story of faith shapes our relationship with money. When I think about my own financial decisions I ask myself this question: am I giving in to a passion to consume, or to a consuming passion to be faithful? If we are spiritually healthy, then our treasure will follow our hearts.
If it means stretching out of your comfort zone to offer yourself to the community in a new way, then clean your room. Spiritual health is measured in part by the extent to which we give of ourselves in service to others. The way you spend your time is the way you spend your life. If we are spiritually healthy, we will be spending time in those gospel places where Jesus spent his time: in the company of the voiceless, powerless, poor.
Baptism is a cleansing, so on this day when we mark the baptism of Jesus, let the waters of baptism roll down in a mighty stream of justice and righteousness, and cleanse us for the service we have been called to offer. May it be so, for us, the church at Clarendon. Amen.

Strange Dreams

December 30, 2007
Text: Matthew 2: 13-23
You know the feeling.
You sit up straight in bed in a cold sweat. It’s two in the morning, and you’re wide awake. A dream has shaken you out of a sound sleep, and now your heart is racing and your head is aching.
So it is with Joseph in this story in today’s gospel.
We can picture it. He’s sitting up in that cold sweat. He looks toward the heavens.
“Again with the dreams, God? This is you again, isn’t it? The last time, you sent an angel to tell me I should go ahead and marry her, pregnant as she was, despite the fact that the child wasn’t mine, because….because why? Because the child was from the Holy Spirit? It was a strange dream then, but I obeyed it, because when You send a messenger, we’re supposed to obey.
So now I have another strange dream, a frightening dream, and I’m supposed to pack her up and the baby and travel quickly to Egypt – no easy trip, mind you, with a wife who has just given birth and a newborn. Yes. Yes, I’ll go…but what is this you’ve gotten me into now?”
Yes, we can picture it, his confusion, his fear. Herod had a reputation for doing bad things. He was worse than his Roman masters. The Lord warning Joseph that Herod wanted to kill this child, well, it was a strange thing that Herod would take notice of Jesus, but strange things had been happening to Joseph lately, so he took heed and took them to Egypt. In the aftermath of that escape, a generation of Bethlehem’s infant sons was killed at Herod’s command. Then it was quiet, except for the weeping of the grieving mothers. Herod assumed he had solved his problem, this problem child whom he feared would challenge his throne.
A few years passed. It was quiet. Herod died. Joseph and Mary and Jesus were living under the radar screen in Egypt. And once again, Joseph’s sleep was disturbed by a dream. God’s voice, once again: "Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child's life are dead." That familiar voice, once again commanding him. And all the gospel tells us is that he didn’t question, didn’t negotiate…he just did as he was told…but he was afraid. He had heard that Herod’s son, just as frightening as his father, had taken the throne. So God gave Joseph another dream, and Joseph took his little family to Galilee.
Kind of makes you wonder about Joseph, when you hear about all those dreams, and how each time, Joseph obeyed, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t you want to question God at least a little? At least say “Why me, God?”
Because above all, Joseph was an ordinary man. Extraordinary things didn’t happen to him. He was just a carpenter, an older guy, lived simply. He just wanted a wife and family, and he got…this. A pregnant wife who wasn’t pregnant by him. A child who came from some sort of action of God, he wasn’t sure how to explain it. And dreams. Dream after dream, ruining his sleep, making his life so much more complicated than he wanted it to be. He was an ordinary man, and God called him to be extraordinary.
There’s a picture at the National Gallery. It is small, just a pencil sketch, really, by Rembrandt. It is later in Jesus’ life. Remember when Jesus was twelve and got separated from his parents after the Passover feast and he started teaching in the Temple? This picture tells the tale of the three of them, reunited again, heading for home. A mother, a preteen boy, the family dog, and dad. And let me tell you, dad is mightily ticked off. The expression on his face, his strong carpenter’s hand gripping his son’s wrist like a vise, his hat squashed down over his grumpy face. The tension is so high in this little sketch that even the dog is cringing, running alongside them, looking like he’s afraid he might get whacked with Joseph’s walking stick. This is not a distinguished-looking older gentleman who is distant from Mary and Jesus, this is an angry workman whose son got lost, whose wife had been a basket case for the past three days, who is wondering, for perhaps the thousandth time since the first dream, what he had gotten himself into and why he kept saying “yes” to the God who had put him there. His face is an ordinary father’s face. This ordinary, faithful man who loved a child who in the sketch is staring up to the sky as if he wants to commune with his heavenly father. This ordinary man with an extraordinary child.
And that’s the most remarkable thing of all. In Matthew’s gospel, Joseph is given only a hint of what is to come. He knows from the beginning that this is a special child, from God, destined to “save the people from their sins.” This is a child to fulfill the prophecies of old. Joseph knew his Isaiah, that passage that was read this morning. He knew that there was to be a savior, and God told him that this little child was it. But how was this to play out? Was this to be a military leader? A king? Joseph knew they were from the line of David, but it was beyond all comprehension, what this all would mean. And yet, although he did not know the whole story, he followed God’s directions. He acted on faith. This ordinary man who just wanted a family of his own ended up with something very different, but he didn’t shrink away from the task. He stayed with Mary, and he raised Jesus as his own.
The gospels don’t tell us anything about Joseph after the incident at the Temple, but I picture him as an ordinary father, letting his toddler son play with blocks of wood in the shop, while keeping the sharp tools out of his reach, I picture him asking the boy if he had said his prayers in the evening, telling him to help his mother with that heavy bucket of water from the well, showing him how to throw a ball. I imagine him wondering what the future held for this boy, who in childhood seemed like any other little boy. His boy, and yet not. Not his boy, and yet utterly his. An ordinary man, with a child who held the promise of us all.
Sometimes we are shaken by what God seems to be asking us to do. When I realized I was being called to ordained ministry, I said no for several years, before I was brave enough to say yes. It frightened me. I was just an ordinary woman, wanting to live my life in a way that was good for my family and was faithful to God. But God asked me to do something I didn’t expect. I sat up in bed, shaking, in a cold sweat. I was frightened, even though what God was asking of me was a great deal less than what he asked of Joseph. But Joseph was my teacher.
What did Joseph do, in those moments of his dreams? When God was asking him to do the unexpected thing, something he felt was beyond him? He said yes. And his yes was a deeply moving one.
When Jesus was born, Matthew tells us that Joseph named him. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It’s more significant than that brief phrase suggests. Scholars tell us that by giving Jesus his name, Joseph was identifying him in that society, in that time, as his own son. He was adopting him as his own.
There may have been whispers about Jesus’ paternity in those days; the town was small and there was little privacy. The gospel doesn’t tell us. But if there were, those whispers would have been shut down by this act, this naming. It protected both Mary and Jesus. It was a first act of love toward a child who was a mystery to him. The name, too was an act of faith. The name he gave him was Jesus, or Yeshua – God saves. An act of faith, in that name, an act of belief in the God of his dreams. And the subsequent acts of love, of protecting, of teaching, were the same beautiful acts of a caring father, an ordinary man who did the extraordinary. Why? Because this ordinary man was extraordinary in his faith, in his righteousness, in his love of his God.
So this day, after the glory and angel songs of Christ’s birth, when the presents are unwrapped and some toys are already broken, when we’re thinking we really should take down the decorations and put the tree out on the curb, when we begin to move back into the humdrum of short winter days, we remember an ordinary man who listened to what God told him in his dreams and who said yes, and yes again.
We are ordinary people. God may not ask us the big things. But there may a thousand little extraordinary ways in which we can be faithful in our days, even in these short, dark, winter days, that will make the light shine and the angels sing once again,
Amen.
---Mary Brennan Thorpe