Matthew 1:18-25

Josephs Story
Sermon preached December 20, 2015
I have come to you across the ages to tell you a story, my story actually. I am the one who is
called the forgotten man, the silent man - Joseph of Nazareth, the carpenter, the betrothed of
Mary, who is now great with child.
Forgive me these notes - I am an unlettered man, unaccustomed to speaking to a large crowd
such as this - and this is a story, an important story that I must tell rightly.
We grew up together, Mary and I. Our home, Nazareth, is a small village on the ridge of the
mountains running the length of our land. Only a few years difference in age separated us. We
grew up teasing one another, playing games in the streets as children do.
As I grew, the time came for my parents to choose a girl to be my wife. I was a boy of few
means, but I did have a trade, which I learned from my father, and which I will teach my son.
Remembering how well we got on as children, and knowing she was from a good family, my
parents sought out Marys, and after some negotiations, it was agreed that we would marry.
This is our way, that our parents choose the man, the woman, with whom we spend the rest of
our lives. We trust they know their children, and try to do their best for us. As for the girl and
boy to be married, they of course need time to begin to build a relationship of respect and trust,
and one hopes one day, love.
We call it our betrothal. It is a binding agreement, witnessed by the elders of the synagogue. It is
so awkward at first - suddenly, the girl whose braids you pulled, is now to be your wife. Our first
meeting after the betrothal - we were both embarrassed, could hardly look at each other - but we
began spending time together, talking, lying on the hillside amid the wildflowers with the sun
streaming down on us and talking, imagining - what our home would be like, how many children
we would have. Ah, those were wonderful days, and I thanked my parents for choosing wisely.
And I think Mary felt the same.
One day I was working in the back of our house, in my fathers shop, planing down boards to
make a door. Mary came to the doorway, would not come in, stood with the light behind her, but
even in the glare, I could see she had been crying. I went to her, asked what was the matter, she
pulled me outside, to a quiet spot. She took a deep breath, and what was to have been a prepared
speech dissolved into a torrent of words.
An angel...came to me...Holy Spirit...pregnant...child of the Most High... she
stammered out.
Pregnant. My chest tightened and I struggled to breathe; my ears filled with tears, my heart with
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rage.
You see, it couldnt have been my doing. Physical intimacy was denied us during
betrothal - it was for marriage only!
My temper flared, I grabbed her by the shoulders - Who was it? Who did you give yourself to?
I demanded. It wasnt anyone - Ive never - the angel - told me God did this to me!
What came out of my mouth then I will not repeat in such a polite gathering as this. I stalked
away, Mary clutching at my sleeve, I pulled away, and walked, and then ran, out of town, up into
the hills, to be by myself, alone, to think.
I felt, I felt
anger at this betrayal
shame for what the village would say
and stabbing hurt that felt like a knife twisting in my bowels.
You know how people are. As Marys belly would swell, the tongues would wag - two
possibilities only - either I did it, dishonored Mary and our families, or she had dishonored me,
my family, committed adultery.
Yes, adultery - thats what our law calls it, even in the betrothal period.
And the law was clear about what I must do.
Seek public vindication, denounce Mary before the elders of the synagogue, and publicly
divorce her for the just cause of adultery, and then watch her be dragged to the public
place of the village, and see her die under a rain of rocks for breaking the law of Moses along with the child growing in her womb. That was what the law said, and that was
what justice demanded, harsh as it may be.
Marriage - not a possibility. How could I spend the rest of my life looking into
the face of the child, knowing it was not mine; how could I marry a woman who
gave herself to another man, and did not even have the decency to tell me the
truth. God did it?
But I could also not watch her die. She had sinned, and cut me to the depths of my heart but should she die for that? Thus saith the law - but the prophets say God wants mercy
and compassion. And so, I sat on the hillside where Mary and I had lay under the sun,
sat there for hours, and watched the sun set towards the Great Sea, I knew what I must do.
I would divorce her, quietly - then she could move away and live with relatives in another
village, and some day perhaps even be married to someone else.
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Dont think it was an easy decision. My heart burned with shame, and I wanted to lash out with
the wrath of the betrayed! But...I still cared for her, and would not publicly shame her, would not
see her die, to try to ease my pain.
Sleep would not come for a long time that night. And then - one moment I was staring at the
ceiling amid the snores of my family - and the next - there was a figure before me, a man, yet not
a man, nor a woman - bright, frightening, strong...and he, it, spoke, spoke of Mary and the child,
telling me it was the Spirit of God who placed that child in Marys womb, that this child would
save us from our sins, and that I should take Mary home as my wife.
I awoke, and sat bolt upright. It was so real - but was it wishful thinking? And it was so
incredible - a virgin, pregnant by the Spirit of God! Who had heard of such a thing? And
what child was this, growing in Marys womb, this child that would save us from our
sins, this child I was told to name Jesus?
A dream - was it the secret hopes of my heart speaking in the night? Could I believe such
a dream? Yet that is what I chose to do - to believe in the unbelievable, to believe that
the child in Marys womb had no human for his father.
So I married Mary, earlier, much earlier than planned. Everyone knew that Mary must be
pregnant - and so we had none of the usual celebration - the week of feasting and joy that
normally are part of a marriage. We married, quietly, and began living as husband and
wife.
It was as I feared - we were not shunned, but you know how people like to disguise their
own sin and shame by pointing it out in others - we were the topic of conversation for
quite a while - Couldnt control themselves, could they? Yes, and do you know what I
heard - its not even his baby! The stares, the whispers, the wagging tongues - are your
people so interested in the failures of others? And Mary - poor Mary - would keep her
shawl pulled down close around her head, and have to walk quickly through the village as
the other women would put their hands on their hips and shake their heads at her. How
wrong...how wrong they were about Mary - but who could expect them to understand?
Marys womb began to swell with this new life, this child of miracle and mystery. We would lie
together at night, and our hands would trace the curve of her belly, saying nothing, full of
wonder, full of fear, feeling the kicks of this one...this child from above. Why us, we wondered a young woman barely beyond childhood, only just able even to have a child, a man not far from
boyhood with no means or power? Why would he not be born in a palace, or to the wife of the
high priest? Why born to common folk like us? It is a mystery - perhaps one day we will
understand.
It was something of a relief when news of the great census came. Our high and mighty emperor,
Augustus, wanted to count all his subjects so he could better tax them. For some bureaucratic
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reason, I had to return to the village of my ancestry - Bethlehem in Judea, close by Jerusalem. It
is my one claim to fame - I am descended from David, our great king of a thousand years ago,
and Bethlehem was the city of his birth. The prophets say that one day we will have another king
from his line.
I was certainly not going to leave Mary alone in Nazareth to endure the abuse alone, to risk that
some vicious person would try to drag Mary before the elders to accuse her of immorality. We
went together, I with a few coins in my purse and our donkey, making our way south to
Bethlehem.
Praise God for hospitality. The city is full of those come to register, but I have relatives in
Bethlehem - cousins - and they received us. It has been a little crowded - the guest room was
already occupied, but we have crowded in with the rest of my cousins, sharing the main room.1
We are grateful for it, and no one here seems to have heard the circumstances of our marriage,
the doubtful parentage of the child.
Very soon the child will be born - Mary is so great with child she cannot rise from the floor
without help. I wonder - I have so many questions - will anyone know who this child is when he
is born? Will he be greeted for who he is? And how should I raise such a child?
Many questions, few answers. But I do know this - I will raise this child Jesus as my
own, though I will never see my likeness in his face. I know that some day he will seek
his identity in another, whom he will call Father;and my role will diminish. But until
then, I will be his father; I will teach him mercy and love, I will teach him to love and
serve the God who sent him; I will do everything in my power to prepare him for
whatever the Lord - blessed be he - has for him. And though he be the son of another, I
hope he will be my son as well.
I must go. The time is drawing near, the baby will soon be born, and I best be with Mary.
1. See Kenneth Bailey, A Clear View of Jesus Birth, for more on this. Bailey is a biblical
scholar who spent nearly thirty years in the Middle East, and argues convincigly from linguistic
evidence and cultural practices that Joseph and Mary were given shelter by one of Jospehs
relatives in Bethlehem. The greek word kataluma, usually translated inn, actually means
guest room. Mary and Joseph, therefore, were not able to sleep in the guest room of the house
(which was a common feature of most houses of the time) because it was already occupied,
perhaps with another relative in town for the census. They instead slept in the main room of the
house, where animals were kept and fed during the night, and where the manger - feed trough was located.