Sometimes stories in the Bible become so well-known that the characters are never released into our lives but are trapped in time, annually unboxed for seasonal sentiment.
In her poem “Nativity Figure Speaks,” Jeanne Murray Walker casts the mother of Jesus as the narrator. Mary patiently describes the journey and the weather and the innkeeper. But then there’s an interesting shift in the poem, and the reader is addressed directly, invited into the narrative action. Mary concludes the poem by saying, “Reach out, release us from this wooden crèche.”
Martin Luther (who loved Christmas) was fond of the phrase “living word” when he spoke of the Bible’s aim. He believed that until the story took root in our actual lives—until we saw ourselves as characters in the Bible’s pages—then there was little chance of the Scriptures shaping and forming believers into the radical community known as church.
In Luther’s way of thinking, it’s not so much that Bible readers are watching characters in a familiar play. Instead, the characters come alive in our lives.
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I assume you have one—a crèche, that is. Our kids always delighted in trotting out the small wooden figures, acting out scenes, making the long journey down to Bethlehem, vilifying the innkeeper, all that. In Matthew’s rendition of the Christmas story, a surprising character takes center stage—not the famous momma or even her bawling bambino. (Yes, he cried. I apologize to all lovers of “Away in a Manger,” verse two.)
In Matthew’s version, it’s Joseph who grabs most of the biblical ink (1:18-25). Joseph wakes up one morning and finds himself facing a ticklish predicament. Three facts emerge that slowly tighten the collar around Joseph’s neck: 1) his fiancee is pregnant; 2) he is not the father; and 3) the Holy Spirit is.
Well, merry Christmas, Joseph.
Martin Luther (who loved Christmas) was fond of the phrase “living word” when he spoke of the Bible’s aim.
In the movie Saved (2004), largely a parody of self-righteousness, a teenager named Mary becomes pregnant. Friends quickly vanish. Mary sits in church for the annual Christmas play and listens to her pastor read the traditional story about a virgin giving birth.
The film viewer overhears Mary’s thoughts about the other famous Mary: “I know this is wrong, but do you ever wonder if she just made the whole thing up? I mean, it’s a pretty good one. It’s not like anyone can ever use virgin birth as an excuse again. I don’t really think she made it up, but I can sure understand why a girl would.”
Joseph initially decides to dismiss Mary quietly (19). Lesser men would have dismissed her loudly. To be pregnant and unmarried was scandalous in the first century. But to claim divine impregnation suggests psychosis no matter the year. Joseph wanted to do the right thing without calling attention to Mary. That alone would have made a pretty heroic story, but there’s more.
Joseph has a dream. “Do not be afraid,” says an angel. (Angels are forever saying this sort of thing in the Bible, often with exactly the opposite effect.) “For the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit” (20). Full transparency: I doubt I’d be comforted by such a dream.
Joseph, however, follows the dream instructions to the letter. He never utters a spoken syllable in the story—or a single recorded word in the entire Bible. Instead this quiet man goes about the business of protecting reputations other than his own. Joseph doesn’t seem to care what others think of him. He is mostly concerned about what others think of Mary.
Joseph deserves quiet emulation.
I have a friend who’s fond of saying, “When all is said and done, there’s more said than done.” But with Joseph, it’s just the opposite. There’s more done than said. He wordlessly goes beyond what is expected, at great personal risk.
“He took [Mary] as his wife” (24). That six-word declaration is a close second to the center-stage miracle of Christmas. And maybe Matthew’s Gospel wants us to see a connection between the famous child and his earthly dad. For Joseph exhibits the very behavior that the baby will one day preach and teach about—putting others first, maintaining a holy disregard for social convention and what’s expected, protecting the vulnerable, and bearing another person’s shame and ostracism.
These are traits of sacrificial love. Joseph, with his silent actions, foreshadows the words his son will one day share with his disciples: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34). Even before the birth, Jesus’ dad anticipates the sort of life and love that a savior would bring into the world.
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St. Joseph should be known for more than aspirin. He doesn’t leave a legacy of pithy words. Silently surveying the birth, he’s in the background in most manger scenes.
In Joseph, we find one whose sacrificial behavior heralds another birth—the birth of the church, disciples of the one who lived and died for others. Joseph deserves quiet emulation.
“Reach out,” whispers the poet, “release us from this wooden crèche.” ✝