Joseph's Annunciation

Fourth Sunday of Advent (Year A)

Matthew 1.18-25

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

In two out of the three years of our three-year lectionary cycle, the Gospel for the Fourth Sunday of Advent focuses on the Virgin Mary. In Year C (last year), we hear the Annunciation: the account of the Archangel Gabriel coming to Mary to announce that she will give birth to the Son of God. In Year B (next year), we hear the Visitation: the event following the Annunciation, in which Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth who is pregnant with John the Baptist. Both of these stories are recorded in the Gospel according to Luke. And in both of these stories, Mary is the central figure. Which makes sense. As we move through Advent, as we move closer and closer to Christmas and the birth of Jesus, attention naturally shifts to the impending birth. And Mary does kinda have an important role to play in that whole process.

 

But here, in Year A of our lectionary, we hear a different take on the run-up to Jesus’ birth. A version of the story in which Mary is referenced, and yet does not make an actual appearance. Interesting, since the Gospel we heard today is Matthew’s version of the birth narrative, opening with, “Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way . . .” Matthew does rightly reference Mary and the fact that “she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.” All the key points of Jesus’ lineage: Son of God, born of a woman; therefore both divine and human. Beyond that, Matthew chooses to focus not on Mary, the one who would give birth to Jesus, but rather on the man Mary is engaged to—on Joseph. Someone who has no biological involvement in the matter whatsoever. And yet, Matthew feels it is important to make Joseph’s story the opening of his entire Gospel. A story that is, in effect, Joseph’s version of both the Annunciation and the birth of Jesus, all wrapped into one. But why? Other than being betrothed to the woman who would become the Mother of God, Joseph has no connection nor obligation to this child.

 

Although, from Matthew’s perspective, Joseph has a critical role to play, by virtue of his family history, by virtue of his genealogy. It is important to remember that Matthew was a Jew and was writing to a Jewish audience, building a case for how Jesus is not only the new Moses who will lead the people to liberation and a new life, but also that he is the long-awaited Messiah. One of the key attributes of the Messiah is that he will be of the line of David. As we hear in Isaiah Chapter 9, “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His authority shall grow continually, and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom. He will establish and uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time onwards and for evermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this” (Is 9.6-7). And as we heard in our Old Testament reading last Sunday, also from Isaiah, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him” (Is 11.1-2). Reference to Jesse, the father of David, from whom the Messiah would descend.

 

There’s just one small problem with the current situation, with the Messiah being the Son of God and born of a human mother. Since the understanding of family lineage is determined through the father’s line, not the mother’s, how do you determine the lineage of Jesus? The only way the child could be considered of the line of David would be if his father is a descendent of David. I suppose one could argue that by virtue of being the Son of God, Jesus is of the line of David, since David is ultimately descended from the first humans created by God. But for the ancients, that may have been a bit of a reach in more ways than one. So, in keeping with “we’ve always determined lineage this way,” it is just much simpler to go with lineage of the de facto human father. Best not to ask too many questions.

 

Now, Joseph does fit the criteria. As we see in the genealogy of Jesus which is the actual opening of Matthew’s Gospel, Joseph is indeed of the line of David. Matthew opens his Gospel with the words: “An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David” (Mt 1.1).  Tracing the genealogy from Abraham, through to David, to “Jacob the father of Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah” (Mt 1.16). Never mind the fact that Jesus would not share blood with Joseph. He is considered “in” by sheer virtue of being the spouse of Jesus’ biological mother. While this would not hold up under modern-day paternity tests, it was deemed valid by God in the choosing of Mary to be the mother of his Son. And to any human of the day, looking back, it all worked. All the boxes were checked.

 

In agreeing to buy into this proposition, Joseph is taking a huge risk. In agreeing to allow his name to be used for purposes of establishing genealogy he was risking his name in other ways. As we are told, “When . . . Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit . . . Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.” Upon finding out Mary was pregnant, Joseph’s initial reaction was to call off the marriage. Because of the type of man he was, and obviously in love with Mary, it pained him to do so. And yet, as we say today, it was about the optics. The immediate presumption on the part of anyone they knew would have been that one of two things had occurred. Either Joseph had given into temptation and slept with Mary before they were actually married, violating social norms against premarital sex; or, that Mary had been unfaithful to Joseph. Either way, things would not go well for Mary. She would be subject to ridicule and shame. And technically, under Jewish law, execution for her apparent indiscretion would be warranted. Hence, Joseph’s initial resolve to dismiss her quietly. It was a no-win situation. No one would believe that the child was actually conceived by God. Who ever heard of anything like that?

 

Enter the angel of the Lord, appearing to Joseph in a dream: “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.” There is whole lot wrapped up in the one statement. There’s a whole lot wrapped up in one phrase: “do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife.”

 

Because Joseph would have undoubtedly had a lot of fears. Not just for the well-being of the woman he loves, for the shame and disgrace she would have to endure. But also for himself. Not only would her reputation be ruined, but so would his. A man whose fiancée became pregnant would be suspect if he did not dismiss her. It would either imply that the child was his, in which case, it said something about his moral weakness. And if Mary had actually been unfaithful and he was willing to forgive her and raise her child as his own could be viewed of a sign of another form of weakness on his part. Either way, it would not look good on him, resulting in potential shunning by his peers, being looked down upon by those he encountered.

 

The angel seeks to assure Joseph that following his true nature—obviously being deeply compassionate—would be the best thing, and that God would take care of the rest. Joseph, also being a man of profound faith, “did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.”

 

There is another reason for Joseph to have been afraid of taking on the role as earthly father to the Son of God. You have to admit, raising the Son of God would have been a daunting prospect. Perhaps Joseph was initially afraid of getting in the way of God’s work. Of potentially messing up God’s plans. What if he did something wrong in trying to raise Je

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Salvation History 101

Third Sunday of Advent

Advent Lessons & Carols

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

Advent is a liturgical season not quite like any other, with its multiple layers of meaning. Thus far this season, we’ve looked at the various Advents—the various comings or arrivals—of Jesus into our midst. His Advent at his birth on Christmas. His Advent at the end of the ages at the Second Coming. And, between these two, his Advent in our day-to-day lives. All the while, anticipating, watching and waiting, preparing, for his arrival in all its manifestations.

 

These Advents span a vast period of time from 2,000 years ago to an as yet unknown point in the future at the end of the ages. Although, in actuality, the story of Advent spans the entirety of history—from the very first humans, represented by Adam and Eve in the story of Creation, to the culmination of salvation history with the ultimate fulfillment and realization of the Kingdom of God at the end of the ages. The multiple meanings and manifestations of Advent provide the foundational structure for the arc of human history. For the arc of our relationship with God in what we refer to as salvation history. Salvation history being the “personal redemptive activity of God within human history in order to effect his eternal saving intentions.”[1] In other words, God’s ongoing actions to be in relationship with us and to provide for our salvation.

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Winnowing

Second Sunday of Advent (Year A)

Matthew 3.1-12

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

Today we are introduced to John the Baptist—the poster child for Advent. Generally viewed as one, if not the, key image of the Advent season, namely because of his message to “prepare the way of the Lord,” which is, after all, what Advent is all about. Preparing the way of the Lord, preparing for Christ’s coming, be it at his birth in Bethlehem on Christmas or at the end of the ages with his Second Coming. John’s message applies equally to both.

 

Before we get to John’s central message, a bit about John himself. He is, as my mother would say, “a bit of an odd duck.” In more ways than one. We are told that he “wore clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey.” We also know that he hung out in the wilderness of Judea, in the region of the River Jordan. This paints an image of him, as is often depicted in artwork, as a sort of eccentric, scraggily, wild man living alone in the desert issuing his prophetic messages. To our modern-day sensibilities, it would be easy to dismiss someone like this as being just not quite right somehow. Raising the question: prophetic or delusional, if not downright crazy? The type that most of us would go out of our way to avoid. And yet, it is this same image of John that would have been very compelling to the people of first century Judea. The description of John—his physical appearance, his demeaner, his choice of habitation—would have all come together to create a completely different image of who John was. To the point that they sought him out.

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Invited into Hope

First Sunday of Advent (Year A)

Isaiah 2.1-5; Romans 13.11-14; Matthew 24.36-44

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

Happy New Year!

 

Yes, today we begin a new liturgical year and a new liturgical season: Advent. The term Advent derived from the Latin adventus, meaning “coming” or “arrival.” The four-week season in which we anticipate and prepare for the coming of the Christ Child on Christmas.

 

Although, as we look at our readings for this, the First Sunday of Advent, there is nothing that even remotely points to the birth of Jesus, of God incarnate, of God in the flesh. Instead, in our Old Testament reading we get a lovely vision of a future Jerusalem and of universal peace. In our Epistle reading, we get a stern warning of the need to “wake from sleep” to prepare for some sort of battle, to “put on the armor of light.” And in our Gospel reading, we get even more and urgent warnings about the need to “keep awake” because we do not know when the Son of Man will come, and failure to be vigilant could result in our being left behind when he does come. All of these readings pointing not to the birth of the Christ Child, but rather to what is sometimes referred to as “the end times,” to the Parousia, to the Second Coming of Christ.

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No Kings . . . Except One

Christ the King (Proper 29C)

Jeremiah 23.1-6; Colossians 1.11-20; Luke 23.33-43

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

Today we celebrate the feast of Christ the King. For those who are more politically engaged, the irony will not be lost that we celebrate this day at a time which has seen not one but two public calls for protest and action in what have been termed “No Kings” days—one in June and one in October. Protests against the increasing tyrannical actions of our current administration in Washington, DC. While organized as protests against an American president, these actions were actually international in nature, with protests occurring around the world—although, depending on the form of government in those places, the protests carried such names as No Tyrants Day or No Dictators Day.

 

Truth be told, the celebration of Christ the King Sunday on the veritable heels of international protests against kings, dictators, and tyrants is coincidental, although in keeping with the original intent of this celebration. Christ the King Sunday was established precisely because of concerns on the part of the Roman Catholic Church regarding the rise of nationalistic political movements and all that goes with them. Although, while still relevant today, those original concerns leading to the establishment of Christ the King Sunday were not raised recently, but rather 100 years ago.

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Toward New Heavens and a New Earth

Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 28C)

Isaiah 65.17-25; Luke 21.5-19

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

On any given Sunday, the scripture readings—especially the Old Testament and the Gospel readings—are generally in alignment thematically. The framers of our lectionary—the list of assigned readings for the day—have purposefully selected Old Testament passages that, to some extent, exemplify or enhance the Gospel reading. Or vice versa. But that certainly does not seem to be the case today. As we near the end of our liturgical year, both our Old Testament and Gospel readings point to visions of what is to come: to an “end time,” to an end of the present reality documented by Isaiah and by Luke. And yet, the entire theme of this metaphorical “end times” as it were—what that “end time” will look like—is thrown into a tailspin.

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Inheritance

All Saints’ Sunday

Ephesians 1.11-23; Luke 6.20-31

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

For a society and a people that seem to spend a fair amount of time denying our mortality, not wanting to think about the one event that we are all certain to experience—our own death—it is interesting that we devote not one but three days to remembering the dead. These three days are, of course, Halloween, All Saints’ Day (November 1) and All Souls Day (November 2), in which we remember and celebrate all those who have gone before, including saints, martyrs, and all faithful departed believers. While secular society focuses primarily on Halloween, a time of reveling in and even poking fun at the more gruesome and normally terrifying aspects of death, the Church primarily focuses on All Saints’ Day and All Souls Day (also known as the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed). On All Saints’ Day, we remember those whom we typically think of as saints, those who have been canonized, or specifically declared a saint, by the Church. These include the likes of our patron St. Gregory the Great, and other big names such as St. Francis of Assisi, St. Patrick, the Blessed Virgin Mary, etc. On All Souls Day, we remember all the faithful departed—all the “ordinary” folks who have died. We remember our own loved ones who have entered into eternal life.

 

Some churches, including our own, combine All Saints’ Day and All Souls Day into one commemoration, remembering all the saints who have gone before—famous and ordinary, known and unknown. After all, in the truest sense, a saint is any faithful person—that is, all believers. In more recent times, the celebration of all these saints, both famous and ordinary, occurs on the Sunday immediately after All Saints’ Day, and is known as All Saints’ Sunday. Which brings us to today. So just why do we spend all this time and energy focusing on the saints who have gone before?

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Embodying Prayers for Justice

Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 24C)

Luke 18.1-8

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

In our society, we love stories about an underdog. One who, on the surface, has little to no possibility of winning in whatever situation they find themselves. And the more the odds are stacked against them, usually because of unjust or corrupt systems, the more we root for the underdog. Perhaps because we see something of ourselves in that particular person or the situation they are confronting. The underdog fighting the good fight and ultimately prevailing against all odds is a common theme in many books, movies, plays, television shows, and video games. A motif that continues to draw us in, because we can all relate in some way or another. And since, in most portrayals produced for mass consumption, the underdog does eventually prevail, we derive not only entertainment from the story, but also a sense of hope that, if the protagonist can prevail, so can we.

 

This motif is not new to our time or our society. Just because they did not have movies and video games in first century Palestine did not mean this theme of the underdog was not popular then, as well. We see an example of this in the parable Jesus tells in today’s Gospel reading. The parable of the widow and the unjust judge. Perhaps the first century version of such stories as Norma Rae and Erin Brokovich.

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Us and Them

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23C)

Jeremiah 29.1, 4-7; Luke 17.11-19

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

We are all too familiar with the phenomenon of “us vs them”. Dividing ourselves into groups based on perceived differences in attributes has undoubtedly been a “thing” for nearly as long as the human species has existed. Archaeological evidence indicates that such distinctions were likely at play at last as far back as the time when both Homo sapiens and Neanderthals shared our planet. We know these two species encountered each other and interbred. And yet, over time, Homo sapiens (us) thrived and survived while Neanderthals (them) did not. Most likely due to ongoing inter-species conflicts.

 

However, the eventual dying off of “them,” of Neanderthals, did not mean the end of “us vs them” thinking, of “us vs them” conflicts. In the intervening 40,000 years, the “us” that is Homo sapiens, the only remaining species of human beings, found new and innovative ways to categorize ourselves as “us” and “them.” Be it based on physical attributes, such as skin color or area of origin, or be it ideological, such as politics or religion. Look at our recorded history and you see that there was always an “us” and a “them.” Sometimes living together somewhat amicably, but more often than not, at conflict to one degree or another. If nothing else because one group had greater power and oppressed the other. Certainly, all the major conflicts throughout history have been based on an “us vs them” perspective that was rooted in physical or ideological differences, if not both. Even in the history of our own nation—a nation ostensibly built on the idea, the dream, of equality for all. And we see it played out with increasing vitriol in our own time: the “us vs them” of race, the “us vs them” of immigration status, the “us vs them” of gender identity, the “us vs them” of sexual orientation, the “us vs them” of political affiliation, the “us vs them” of religion.

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Increase Our Faith!

Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 22C)

Luke 17.5-10

St. Gregory’s, Long Beach

 

“Increase our faith!” Strange words out of the mouths of Jesus’ disciples—out of the mouths of men who had at least enough faith in him and in their God that they were willing to give up their jobs and to devote three years of their lives following Jesus around the countryside proclaiming God’s love. How much more faith do you need?

 

Although, I suppose that is part of our nature. To always want more. To always want to do better. And no matter how good we are, it never seems enough. We are, after all, our own worse critics. Thinking we still are not where we should be. This applies to all areas of our lives. To our relationships—am I loving and caring enough? To our jobs—am I good enough, productive enough? To our physical well-being—am I healthy enough, fit enough? To our intellect—am I smart enough, well rounded enough? And yes, even to our spiritual life—am I faithful enough, do I love God enough, am I serving God enough?

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