Isaiah 7.10-16; Psalm 80.1-8, 18-20; Romans 1.1-7; Matthew 1.18-end
I like it that you are largely silent.
You speak with your actions rather than words.
Words from the feminist theologian, Nicola Slee, in her poetic meditation on Joseph.
What do you see when you look at Joseph?
He sings no song; he slips from view.
But he is there: do we notice him, this man who loves bound up with love of Mary, and in our Maker’s love?
The Mysteries performed here last night, gave space for his loves; his emotions and his resolve.
He’s a man returning home from a journey.
A man labouring in love for his beloved.
‘Come hither to’ he says; ‘be nought dismayed’ says she.
We know his toil; his longing from home. We see his longing for intimacy; a life together.
And yet he when he sees ‘a womb too high’ he fears that he’s ‘tarried too long’.
He feels betrayed and disgraced.
He appears to us a man who is bewildered and distraught.
Mary’s words speak to him of a child with a heavenly father; but they cut no ice.
He exclaims with questioning and disbelief ‘Goddes child?’
He walks away: to think, to rage, to grieve.
There is sorrow here; not cheer. He goes for a beer.
He resolves to do this: to spare Mary public shame and disgrace; he plans to dismiss her, to let her go.
In this space between of human resolve and fear, our medieval playwright puts words on Mary’s lips: she prays.
She prays to God the Maker’s love who made man; but in her womb is now being man made.
She prays that Joseph may know the truth; that God might ‘heal the rift’.
At first, perhaps, Joseph does not want to be troubled by the presence of an angel.
And yet, the message seeps into his heart: be not afraid, Joseph.
Marry your beloved Mary; for she speaks truly.
The child in her womb is conceived from the Spirit.
Name him Jesus.
He is our Emmanuel.
God is with us.
‘Change thy humour’, says the angel, ‘go cheer her now’.
He goes resolved to obey this new command.
He returns: he looks with love.
Greeting his beloved with a kiss; he seeks her mercy.
Seeks mercy from the God with us, flesh of her flesh.
He resolves to do this: he doesn’t cling to his fixed judgements; he seeks forgiveness for hurt caused; he speaks tenderly to his beloved; he acts with strength and determination on her behalf.
He resolved to do this: he resolved to love this little one; this child who is God with us; our Maker’s love in his mother’s womb.
He’s a man of loyalty and conviction: his character put now to new service.
Mary and Joseph travel together: cold and weary.
Each of them wondering what they have done; knowing they’ve been chosen to carry and protect this child.
Each of them echoing words of pray: offering all they have for God’s plan; asking for help to be strong.
And last night voices softly sang:
Breath of heaven, hold me together, be for ever near me.
Breath of heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy.
The breath of heaven is at work in this.
This pregnancy raises questions of faithfulness in Joseph’s mind for fear of human betrayal; but he learns this is actually a sign of divine commitment to us.
It is in this pregnancy that the breath of God chooses to be with all people.
Our Maker’s love is made no longer hid from our eyes; but born in flesh and blood.
This body will heal and touch, speak and be heard; break bread and feed us.
For now, this body grows, unseen; his mother feels his kicks, and perhaps Joseph too.
In Mary’s womb, the breath of heaven is knit together with our flesh. Sheltered; protected; sustained.
God is with us in an infant body that will be birthed and held and nursed.
In someway, perhaps Joseph offers womb-like protection. He shelters mother and child from Herod’s rage; he protects them as they flee to Egypt; he sustains them in that land by his work.
What do you see when you look at Joseph?
How might he inspire us to be more open and receptive to God’s love?
Joseph has an immense capacity to trust.
Yes, he gives his feelings full reign - in his confusion and turmoil. And yet, when the angel reframes the situation - allowing him to glimpses the truth and mystery and love - he embraces that strange new reality.
He teaches us how to seek mercy when we misunderstand. He teaches us to be unafraid to change our minds - to change our resolve - when we are confronted with a new reality.
Admittedly, biblical angels - like the angel we saw on the stage last night - are very convincing. Sometimes, it can be harder for us to grasp the truth so readily.
But then, Joseph was steeped in the promises of scripture too; he heard the echos of Isaiah being fulfilled. He was able to join the dots and trust God’s faithfulness rather than human suspicion.
He was prepared to think the best rather than the worst. To risk love rather than hiding behind fear.
Joseph was also courageous.
He showed courage in changing his resolve; courage in seeking a place for Mary to give birth; courage in taking them to safety.
In our own generation, countless families flee violence. They seek refuge and a place of safety.
It may not be that we are called to be “Josephs” in that front line responsibility; but perhaps we can be mindful of the support we can give to charities working with refugees; or to agencies offering women and children refuge closer to home.
Joseph fled with his family to protect them. He waited until it was safe to bring them home to Nazareth. We can only imagine during that time that he plied his trade and earned a living.
As our medieval play depicted Joseph, he was a man who toiled and laboured in love.
Perhaps the child Jesus, as he grew, learnt from Jospeh something of the creativity and skill of such labour; perhaps he appreciated the discipline of work, the effort and the energy.
The one called Jesus, our Emmanuel, saw in the stability of his earthly home the nature of life’s labour of love.
There is something immensely practical in this; very down to earth. In exile and in homecoming, no doubt Joseph, like Mary, had time to ponder the the mysterious events surrounding Jesus’ brith.
A lifetime later, it’s in Paul’s handwriting that we see a distillation of all that Joseph had grappled with and learnt to embrace. His resolve was rooted in prophets and scriptures; he heard the shepherds tell of the good news of peace.
Like Paul, Joseph knew obedience of faith and the grace of his calling: we like Paul now belong to this Jesus.
Jesus draws us back to our Maker’s love. He is our redeemer.
He is declared to us as God’s Son, the same declaration that Joseph received.
He is the one who is risen from the dead that we might receive new life.
The one who was nourished by Mary and by Joseph now nourishes us in bread and wine. We, like them, are to bring this light and love of God with us to others. Let’s return to Nicola Slee’s poem:
I like it that you are largely silent.
You speak with your actions rather than words.
You stood by Mary and did not disgrace her.
You raised the boy as your own,
though you knew he was not.
I like those medieval paintings of you,
doddery and old, falling asleep in the corner of the stable
or looking on from a little distance.
Perhaps you are crouching over a small fire,
cooking up some mess for your young wife exhausted by labour,
or coaxing her to eat.
There is tenderness in your bearing,
a gentleness outdoing the painterly meekness of the donkey and ox.
You don’t demand our attention.
I like it that you didn’t lord it over wife and child,
that you let them be the stars.
I like the fact that you’re no paterfamilias, ruling the household.
I like the kind of man you were content to be.
© Julie Gittoes 2019
