El lenguaje del regocijo del paisaje es particularmente poderoso porque uno normalmente piensa en el suelo bajo nuestros pies como un escenario, no como un actor. Es inerte, la plataforma y el trasfondo de las actividades interesantes y significativas de quienes aparecen sobre él.
No es así en el libro de Isaías. Al llegar a una de sus bisagras críticas, el libro retrata aquí un desierto que cobra vida en exuberante floración ante la prometida restauración de YHVH a su pueblo en peligro.
El desierto se regocija. Se encuentra engalanado con las galas del Líbano. La gloria de YHVH se desliza en su compañía y así las manos débiles y los corazones agitados se calman y se fortalecen.
Ha habido un cambio.
Volviendo a los temas constituyentes de la vista y la ceguera, de la movilidad y la lentitud, de la audición y la sordera, el trigésimo quinto capítulo del libro estalla de energía literaria y espiritual. Cuando YHVH se haya vuelto hacia Sión con una misericordia vivificante, se hace comprender al lector, todo será diferente.
El agua fluirá en el lugar más seco. Las extremidades bloqueadas impulsarán a su dueño a dar saltos de celebración. Un santo vigor se convertirá en el orden del día.
Como enemigos perseguidores, la alegría y el júbilo alcanzarán y desharán a los asustados viajeros, los más benignos atacantes. El dolor y la tristeza, para invertir la metáfora, huirán aterrorizados del ataque.
Pero para algunas personas -este escritor se cuenta entre ellas- y para todos los pueblos amenazados, la mañana llega con el aroma del peligro. Antes de que mis pies toquen el suelo, un millar de desastres potenciales han abatido brevemente mi alma.
Un comienzo es, por naturaleza, un momento en peligro, un tierno brote que puede extinguirse por el aplastamiento de una sola bota. En un comienzo puede pasar cualquier cosa. El miedo inclina la balanza de la percepción hacia el estrecho lado negativo de todas las eventualidades. El día necesita poco estímulo para deteriorarse en la oscuridad.
Una oración en el libro llamado Isaías sabe que la mañana es prima de los problemas. Puede que traiga o no cosas demoledoras. Pero puede que sí. La mera posibilidad es suficiente para que el miedo se erija como un susurro o un rugido. Sólo YHVH es suficiente para tales cosas.
Oh Señor, ten piedad de nosotros; en ti hemos esperado. Sé nuestrafortalezacada mañana, también nuestra salvación en tiempo de angustia.
Isaías 33:2 (LBLA)
Porque Israel conocía el peligro real, conocía también los miedos que se visten con ese disfraz. Como el peligro era real, el miedo a él era una fuerza con la que la nación debía contar.
Ese pensamiento se produjo, al menos para un círculo de corazones sensibles dentro de la nación en general, en forma de oración para que YHVH desnudara su brazo y -cuando fuera necesario- lo blandiera violentamente contra todos los peligros, reales y percibidos.
Se necesitaba a YHVH en la crisis, era necesario en el verdadero momento de angustia, porque sólo YHVH podía salvar a su pueblo cuando los bárbaros de carne y hueso estaban de hecho a las puertas. También se le necesitaba en la mañana que insinuaba que este día -tal vez- podría ser el más oscuro.
Sé nuestrafortalezacada mañana, también nuestra salvación en tiempo de angustia.
La preocupación recurrente de Isaías por la confianza se manifiesta en la metáfora de la inclinación. Como las costuras de un viejo par de Doc Martens, este lenguaje teje su camino visible a través de las múltiples capas de este complejo libro. La imagen capta la necesidad de un inferior de depender para su sustento y protección de los poderes de un superior. Isaías es persistente en sus advertencias de que ninguna presencia geopolítica tiene la credibilidad que busca el amenazado Judá. Sólo YHVH es digno de la inclinación de esta nación, de su confianza, de su inclinación.
A partir de una promesa anterior de eventual iluminación (‘En ese día el remanente de Israel y los sobrevivientes de la casa de Jacob ya no se apoyarán en el que los golpeó, sino que se apoyarán en el SEÑOR, el Santo de Israel, en la verdad’), el libro procede simplemente a advertir:
Por tanto, así dice el Santo de Israel: Ya que habéis desechado esta palabra, y habéis confiado en la opresión y en el engaño, y os habéis apoyado en ellos, por eso esta iniquidad será para vosotros como muro agrietado a punto de caer, como abultamiento en una pared alta, cuya caída viene de repente, en un instante. Su caída es como el romper de una vasija de alfarero, despedazada sin piedad; no se halla entre sus pedazos ni un tiesto para tomar fuego del hogar o para sacar agua de una cisterna. Porque así ha dicho el Señor Dios, el Santo de Israel: En arrepentimiento y en reposo seréis salvos; en quietud y confianza está vuestro poder.
Isaías 30:12-15 (LBLA)
Y nuevamente en el capítulo treinta y uno:
¡Ay de los que descienden a Egipto por ayuda! En los caballos buscan apoyo, y confían en los carros porque son muchos, y en los jinetes porque son muy fuertes, pero no miran al Santo de Israel, ni buscan al Señor.
Isaías 31:1 (LBLA)
En todos los casos, Judá aparece convocado por el profeta no a un quietismo contemplativo, sino a una confianza activa en YHVH frente a las alternativas temporales a su presencia fortalecedora. La retórica está salpicada de aforismos como ‘porque Egipto es un simple hombre y no Dios’.
Las cosas no son lo que parecen. El poder no es lo que presume. La protección procede de ámbitos menos evidentes para la frenética ansiedad de las miradas esquivas.
La exhortación que impregna este material es más severa de lo que podría parecer a primera vista. Palabras como éstas lo demuestran:
Porque el palacio ha sido abandonado, hecha un desierto la populosa ciudad. Collado y atalaya se han convertido en cuevas para siempre, un deleite para asnos monteses, un pasto para rebaños; hasta que se derrame sobre nosotros el Espíritu desde lo alto, el desierto se convierta en campo fértil y el campo fértil sea considerado como bosque. En el desierto morará el derecho, y la justicia habitará en el campo fértil. La obra de la justicia será paz, y el servicio de la justicia, tranquilidad y confianza para siempre.
Isaías 32:14-17 (LBLA)
Inevitablemente, para el legado isaístico, el deseado reposo está sujeto a la penúltima furia de la purificación, de la fundición, del horno. La paz, la rectitud, la tranquilidad y la confianza son cualidades que se han vuelto ajenas a Sión. Sólo las recuperará si se somete al trauma de la misericordia más severa de YHVH. El premio está disponible sólo para aquellos que abracen el dolor deconstructor del fuego de YHVH.
La vida nos impone un momento en el que estemos a solas con Dios. En las mejores variantes de esta crisis de soledad, la familia y los amigos permanecen con las manos amorosas extendidas de buena gana, pero sin efecto inmediato. No pueden hacer nada.
Uno está a solas con Dios. Es un momento de necesaria e inevitable singularidad. Uno descubre, en cierto modo, quién es en ese escenario escasamente poblado. Uno descubre quién no es. Uno se encuentra con Dios como sólo puede conocerse cuando no hay nadie más en la sala.
Las palabras más urgentes de los salmistas nos parecen intensamente apropiadas en ese momento. Salen sin esfuerzo de la página, ruedan por la lengua susurrante como un discurso autóctono. Articulan la forma del corazón asediado y solitario con indiscutible autoridad.
No hablan de Dios, sino a Él:
En ti, oh Señor, me refugio; jamás sea yo avergonzado; líbrame en tu justicia. Inclina a mí tu oído, rescátame pronto; sé para mí roca fuerte, fortaleza para salvarme. Porque tú eres mi rocay mi fortaleza, y por amor de tu nombre me conducirás y me guiarás. Me sacarás de la red que en secreto me han tendido; porque tú eres mi refugio. En tu mano encomiendo mi espíritu; tú me has redimido, oh Señor, Dios de verdad.
Salmo 31:1-5 (LBLA)
La metáfora de la roca, la fortaleza y el refugio residen en esta oración como su arquitectura principal. La necesidad de la rapidez divina establece el tempo de la oración. Si el Señor no se da prisa, no habrá rescate. La vergüenza, en su postura despreocupada y descarada, ocupará el lugar que antes ocupaba la integridad.
Nadie puede ayudar.
Sólo YHVH.
Él puede moverse o no. El salmista sabe que todo depende de esto. Nosotros también.
Hay poco conocimiento secreto, poco esoterismo que valga la energía que se necesita para descubrirlo y absorberlo. Sin embargo, hay una verdad que sólo es accesible cuando la vida nos lleva a ese espacio abierto en el que estamos solos. Un último y desesperado grito suplica a YHVH que se una a nosotros allí, instruyéndole incluso en la mecánica de inclinar su oídohacia nosotros.
Dado que el primer paso hacia la sanación de un cuerpo es un diagnóstico preciso, se perdona al médico que se esfuerce con sus detalles hasta el punto de agotarnos. Así, los oráculos proféticos de Isaías insisten una y otra vez en los comportamientos que son la materia misma de la enfermedad nacional. Si Israel/Judá ha de curarse, insiste el profeta Isaías, debe aceptar comprender la aflicción mortal que la ha abatido.
Debe ver. Debe escuchar.
Porque este es un pueblo rebelde, hijos falsos, hijos que no quieren escuchar la instruccióndel Señor;que dicen a los videntes: No veáis visiones; y a los profetas: No nos profeticéis lo que es recto, decidnos palabras agradables, profetizad ilusiones. Apartaos del camino, desviaos de la senda, no oigamos más acerca delSanto de Israel.
Isaías 30:9-11 (LBLA)
La retórica de Isaías pone en primer plano a los niños por dos motivos. En primer lugar, en los oscuros diagnósticos de los primeros capítulos del libro, en los que se describe como niños obstinados a adultos que deberían saber más.
En segundo lugar, cuando la promesa redentora del libro llega a su plenitud, una Israel ya adulta -que se había imaginado a sí misma como una mujer sin hijos- se queda atónita al ver cuántos niños vuelven a ella desde lejos.
En el pasaje que acabamos de citar, los ‘niños’ son el ‘pueblo rebelde’ de YHVH, impaciente ante cualquier palabra que pueda coartar su libertad de autodestrucción, ya sea una palabra de instrucción o de corrección.
Aunque aquí no se esfuerzan por silenciar al vidente y al profeta, cooptarían su mensaje. Convertirían el filo afilado y quirúrgico de la fe yahvista -un instrumento cuyo filo tiene que ver con la vida y la sanación- en la suave comodidad del ensimismamiento religioso.
Ya sea silenciando al profeta o comprando su mensaje, el resultado es el mismo.
Los niños rebeldes dan las órdenes, en la encuesta de Isaías, mientras que aquellos a cuya palabra deberían someterse son ordenados como empleados de nivel básico. Las órdenes vienen en un quiasmo perfecto (incluso aquí el profeta es un artesano), en forma de staccato:
No veáis. No nos profeticéis lo que es recto. Decidnos palabras agradables. Profetizad ilusiones.
Preferimos, muy a menudo, que nuestra piedad sea así.
A falta de alguna fuerza, queremos que el profeta sea nuestro consolador, nuestro animador, el entrenador de nuestra autoimagen.
Sólo porque YHVH está dispuesto a someter a los suyos al dolor para que caigan en la redención, nuestra esperanza permanece viva. Y nosotros con ella.
Tal vez los rabinos tenían razón al afirmar que algunos de los ‘escritos más profundos’ no son aptos para ojos inexpertos. O tal vez el cínico proverbio que afirma que ‘la escuela se desperdicia en los jóvenes’ esté, después de todo, en lo cierto.
O tal vez sólo las madres y los padres deberían leer algo así:
Por tanto el Señor, que redimió a Abraham, dice así acerca de la casa de Jacob: Jacob no será ahora avergonzado, ni palidecerá ahora su rostro; porque cuando vea a sus hijos, la obra de mis manos, en medio suyo, ellos santificarán mi nombre; ciertamente, santificarán al Santo de Jacob, y tendrán temor al Dios de Israel. Los descarriados de espíritu conocerán la verdad, y los murmuradores aceptarán instrucción.
Isaías 29:22-24 (LBLA)
Los pródigos de Jacob no sólo se habían desbocado por su cuenta. Habían sido arrastrados a tierras lejanas por los poderes de su época para sufrir el rápido exterminio de nuestro ciclo de noticias o el lento exterminio de la asimilación a las formas del extranjero.
Jacob, en sentido figurado, se inclina en la vergüenza del duelo de un padre en silencio.
Todo ha desaparecido.
Entonces, de repente -la frase está ausente en este pasaje, pero es una de las favoritas de estos giros isaísticos en otros lugares-, ¡aquí están!
Dos ironías rondan este breve pasaje de restauración excesiva. En primer lugar, la respuesta de Jacob no queda registrada. Todo lo que sabemos es que los pródigos han vuelto en cuerpo y alma. Santifican al Dios de Jacob. No son los proverbiales exfumadores con sus prohibiciones de cara de acero, ni los ruidosos y seguros de sí mismos recién convertidos con un plan para su vida. Por el contrario, estos hijos perdidos -ahora encontrados- permanecen ante su Retornador en un silencio asombrado.
Jacob no les enseñó tales cosas, porque estaban lejos, se habían ido, las voces de los niños de los recuerdos torturantes nunca se volvieron a escuchar.
De hecho, esto lleva al lector a la segunda ironía del texto.
Porque cuando vea a sus hijos, la obra de mis manos, en medio suyo, ellos santificarán mi nombre; ciertamente, santificarán al Santo de Jacob, y tendrán temor al Dios de Israel.
Isaías 29:23 (LBLA)
Son, afirma YHVH, ‘la obra de mis manos’, que ahora se encuentran ‘en medio de él (de Jacob)’.
Esta no ha sido la obra de Jacob, esta resurrección de los hijos muertos, este regreso de los pródigos, este luto convertido en danza.
No leemos aquí la respuesta de Jacob a esta majestuosa imposibilidad.
¿Los que mueren injustamente deben simplemente ser olvidados?
En un mundo como el nuestro -destrozado y perverso-, para demasiados es lo más alejado de una pregunta enigmática. Los escombros del campo de batalla y del barrio destrozado cubren demasiados cuerpos sin vida para ello.
Se ha convertido para nosotros, como lo fue al principio, en una cuestión muy real.
Los primeros capítulos del testimonio bíblico afirman la validez de la pregunta y declaran que, al menos en este primer episodio de fratricidio, la amnesia no conquistará a los muertos victimizados, no anulará su significado perdurable, no silenciará finalmente su grito.
Y Caín dijo a su hermano Abel: vayamos al campo. Y aconteció que cuando estaban en el campo, Caín se levantó contra su hermano Abel y lo mató. Entonces el Señor dijo a Caín: ¿Dónde está tu hermano Abel? Y él respondió: No sé. ¿Soy yo acaso guardián de mi hermano? Y Él le dijo: ¿Qué has hecho? La voz de la sangre de tu hermano clama a mí desde la tierra.
Génesis 4:8-10 (LBLA)
Los estudiosos de las Escrituras se han preguntado a menudo si Urzeit ist Endzeit (aproximadamente: “el primer tiempo es el último tiempo” o “la primera época es la última época”). Es decir, ¿los nuevos cielos y la nueva tierra prometidos coincidirán de algún modo con los rasgos del despertar primordial de la creación? ¿Existe una correspondencia entre lo que era al principio y lo que será al final?
La respuesta del canon bíblico parece consistir en un sí matizado.
Es más, cuando el testimonio bíblico se ve más forzado a asegurar a sus lectores que nuestro horrible tiempo intermedio no es simplemente un triste y violento descenso al infierno, parece centrarse más específicamente en aquellos elementos del Principio que volverán a nosotros en el Fin. Llamamos a este tipo de literatura apocalíptica o reveladora, entre otras cosas porque su insistencia en que el futuro de Dios debe ser radicalmente diferente a la vida tal y como la hemos conocido requiere nueva información. Depende menos de las continuidades con el presente y más de las rupturas bruscas del camino de la historia y su reorientación hacia algo totalmente nuevo. Sus verdades no pueden derivarse de la realidad que conocemos, por lo que deben ser reveladas o desveladas si queremos captarlas.
El capítulo 26 de Isaías forma parte de esa sección apocalíptica.
Ven, pueblo mío, entra en tus aposentos y cierra tras ti tus puertas; escóndete por corto tiempo hasta que pase la indignación. Porque he aquí, el Señor va a salir de su lugar para castigarla iniquidad de los habitantes de la tierra, y la tierra pondrá de manifiesto su sangre derramada y no ocultará más a sus asesinados.
Isaías 26:20-21 (LBLA)
La sangre de Caín todavía clama, por así decirlo, en los oídos del autor profético-apocalíptico.
Cuando la voz isaística clama en extraños versos sobre una resolución cósmica de los males que amenazan la existencia misma del pequeño Israel frente a los conquistadores bandidos, recuerda la amenaza mayor. Esta amenaza no es tanto el peligro de que este poder asirio o aquel imperio babilónico pueda devastarnos de nuevo, sino la amenaza más elevada y profunda de que esto pueda ocurrir sin que nadie mire para impedirlo ni siquiera para lamentar el injusto silenciamiento de los condenados cuando haya ocurrido.
El texto asegura a su lector que YHVH tiene reservado un castigo para los que blanden la espada injustamente. Pero, significativamente, hay algo más en esta reactivación divina que la mera retribución que YHVH impondrá al vencedor. La tierra, leemos, pondrá de manifiesto su sangre derramada en ella. Dejará de conspirar con el encubrimiento de la sangre inocente, derramada desde los tiempos de Abel hasta el presente.
No es casualidad que en este conjunto de ideas también se insinúe algo parecido a la resurrección, ni que la resurrección se sugiera a sí misma incluso en estos versos isaísticos, ya que sólo -según cierta lógica- un renacimiento y una revivificación son adecuados para silenciar las pretensiones de la injusticia letal. Si se ha quitado la vida, hay que volver a darla. Ninguna mera contabilidad forense, ningún mero castigo de los asesinatos, es suficiente para la restauración de lo que se ha perdido.
Pero por ahora, en los días de un profeta mucho antes de que la ‘resurrección’ se haya convertido en una forma de pensar en tales cosas, el texto hace una promesa más tranquila: estos caídos, su sangre cubierta por eones de polvo y tierra, no serán olvidados.
La sangre de Abel, la sangre de ellos sigue clamando mientras YHVH observa y toma nota.
A sermon preached at Wethersfield Evangelical Free Church, Wethersfield, Connecticut, USA on 3 December 2022
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Yesterday, Karen and I each celebrated a very special day in our home across the river in Portland.
We were there at the same time, breathing the same air, inhabiting the same space … walking the same dog.
But the special day we celebrated was different in each case. She had hers … and I had mine.
My special day was defined by USA vs. the Netherlands in the knock-out stage of the World Cup. Now I know that some of you don’t believe that the World Cup every fourth year represents the pinnacle of sports and that we should all join the rest of the world in just stopping everything else we were doing and taking in the spectacle. Can I just say, in a spirit of transparency, I just don’t get that. But we can talk about it at another time.
In any case, my special day was over before noon. It ended in sadness, to the tune of 3-1 Netherlands, USA goes home, seeya’ again in four years, hopefully this time with Colombia in the mix of national teams that classify. It’s so cruel…
On the other hand, Karen’s special day was just getting up its head of steam by noon as mine was ending in tears. It was a much happier celebration than mine: She turned our home into a Christmas miracle.
The tree is up, more beautiful than ever, and lit so you can see it from the front street. The dining room is as Christmasy as a dining room can be, all ready for the onslaught of family that will begin in another two weeks. We calculate that we’ll even have enough chairs for everybody this year, which will represent a Hospitality Personal Best for the Baers.
In fact, it even smells like Christmas over there, and I have no idea how that even works.
So as of yesterday by about 4:30 in the afternoon, the Baers are ready for Christmas.
Even though my special day was not such a happy one, it did have the silver lining of becoming the day when I begin my annual practice of re-reading the passages in our New Testament that tell what we’ve come to call ‘The Christmas Story’.
I love doing this. The combination of familiarity … on the one hand … and a fresh reading … on the other … are always life-giving for me. And I find that I’m once again captivated by one of the ‘bit players’ in the Christmas Drama: Joseph.
In fact, if anybody asks me what I want for Christmas this year, my answer is gonna’ be this: I wanna’ be Joseph.
Maybe I can persuade you to join me. Maybe our gift to those nearest to us this year can be being more like Joseph than we used to be.
Let me see whether I can find the words to tell you about this guy as I’m encountering him…
Joseph is like a neighbor whom I assumed I knew, but on further reflection I discover that I didn’t really know him at all.
Now Christian art and tradition—especially at this time of the year—provides for Joseph a large place. He kind of looms over the manger scenes you see around, like a slightly gawky uncle who hangs around but doesn’t say much.
But in Scripture, Joseph is nearly always in the shadows of people who seem to be more important than he is. And then, when the scene has finished, Joseph is quickly forgotten.
Yet none of the Christmas Story would have happened if Joseph had not given his assent and played his role.
I find myself wondering whether I am willing to find my place in the shadows of people who are more important than I am. And whether I am prepared to be quickly forgotten.
All year long, I live a version of this question in my morning prayers. You see, I use a model for prayer that some of you use to shape your own spiritual discipline.
You see, I’m an early riser, but I’m a cranky early riser.
I make my coffee, then I find my favorite chair, and I set the table for my conversation with God as some of you do ….
I am a Son – Deeply loved by God.
I am a Servant – Called to put the needs of others above myself.
I am a Steward – Called to invest what God has given me to the work of his kingdom.
More days than not, that second breathed prayer: I am a servant … called to put the needs of others above myself … plows the furrow that my life will follow for the next 14 or 15 hours. I can almost feel my heart settle into its rightful place as I make that daily affirmation of reality before God.
Though I wouldn’t have given it this name before yesterday, it strikes me now that it’s a kind of Joseph Prayer, one that our man Joseph might have been comfortable praying himself.
And now because of the unexpected turn of events that has Pastor Scott home sick and me standing here opening the Word of God for the People of God this morning, I can appropriately turn my own encounter with Joseph … overshadowed, obedient, forgettable Joseph … into a question for you, my sisters and brothers in Christ: Are you likely to choose a place in the shadows of people who are more important than you are? Are you willing to be quickly forgotten?
* * *
Let’s dive into the biblical portrayal of Joseph.
Joseph is remembered only in the two ‘infancy narratives’ found in Matthew 1-2 and Luke 1-2.
The Matthew account revolves around Joseph without exactly exalting him, while in Luke the focus is very much on Mary.
In Matthew, Joseph receives something of the honor that would seem to be due to the husband of Mary and the father figure in the home of our Lord. Still, he is hardly a highly revered figure in Matthew’s story of Jesus’ birth. The spotlight falls on Joseph when the story requires it. But it doesn’t linger or stay with Joseph longer than it needs to.
For me, the most beguiling aspect of Joseph’s legacy is how he is not remembered. After the incident in Jerusalem when Jesus was twelve years old, Joseph is not mentioned again in the entire New Testament except in a few instances where Jesus is called ‘the son of Joseph’ or ‘the carpenter’s son’.
But already I am getting ahead of myself and forgetting Joseph almost before I have remembered him. This, it seems, happens often with Joseph, standing there in the shadows and vulnerable to our forgetfulness as important events swirl around him.
Let’s peer into Joseph’s legacy as it comes to us in Matthew 1.16—2.23.
a righteous man and unwilling to expose Mary to public disgrace …
Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. And her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly.
Matthew 1:18-19 (ESV)
Now I wonder whether you learned this remarkable glimpse of Joseph the way I did in my youth. It’s a strange thing, because our English Bible translations going back to the King James Version get it right. Yet somehow I understood that Moses was just—obedient to God’s savage and unyielding Law—yet somehow at the same time unwilling to put Mary to shame. In this, my boyhood understanding of this fascinating passage, Joseph was more merciful than God’s Law. His heart won out over his head.
But the biblical text suggests that this was not his dilemma. In fact, because he was a just man, he was not willing to throw Mary under the bus as he could well have done if he had been out to protect his own reputation above all else. In Joseph, his alignment with God’s own heart was the very thing that moved him to treat Mary with nobility and kindness, even at the risk of his own name. God’s Law had formed him to be this kind of man.
Already, Joseph becomes a human figure, forced to accommodate competing claims, to make the most of a situation that is complex and not of his making. In his patriarchal culture, where it falls to Joseph to call the shots on how to deal with Mary and her situation, he risks himself to care for her, without telling us in any detail how he feels about the awkwardness of his situation. Already, I begin to like this Joseph, to feel that he knows something about the competing claims on my life …
promptly responsive to God-given dreams and God-sent angels …
Lots of markers in this text describe not just the sequence of Joseph’s response, but the promptness of it.
When Joseph woke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him:
Matthew 1:24 (ESV)
Now when they had departed, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Rise, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” And he rose and took the child and his mother by nightand departed to Egypt …
Matthew 2:13-14 (ESV)
But when Herod died, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt, saying, “Rise, take the child and his mother and go to the land of Israel, for those who sought the child’s life are dead.” And he rose and took the child and his mother and went to the land of Israel.
Matthew 2:19-21 (ESV)
Brothers and sisters, the languages of the Bible have their ways of giving us cues about the speed or the sloooooowwwneeees of the events they narrate to us. These texts in Matthew 1 and 2 show Joseph moving promptly to obey God’s strange commands to him in what must have been a deeply puzzling period of his once tame life.
So this Christmas, I want to be more like Joseph, quickly responsive to God’s direction in my life.
But there’s more to Joseph if we read carefully between the lines.
principled about sex and relationships …
When Joseph woke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him: he took his wife, but knew her not until she had given birth to a son. And he called his name Jesus.
Matthew 1:24-25 (ESV)
responsible for his wife and child …
Do you like this guy as much as I do? Do you admire him?
I wonder how I passed him by so often and for so many years. But there he was, Joseph in the shadows, allowing others to claim the limelight.
I think again of that second line of my morning prayers: I am a Servant – Called to put the needs of others above myself. And I want to be Joseph this Christmas.
I mentioned that Joseph is more at the center, although never a dominating figure, in Matthew’s edition of the Christmas Story.
As it turns out, Joseph is remembered by Luke also. So he’s not an entirely forgettable character. He matters. There’s some weight to him. He’s a force.
He’s just very comfortable in the shadows.
I really, really like this Joseph dude…
So let’s see what Luke has to say.
I’m gonna’ roll Luke’s glimpses of Joseph out pretty quickly here. After all, Joseph is really a man in the shadows in this, the third of the three gospels, as Luke tells the Christmas Story from his particular angle of view.
Let’s remember that Luke is concerned to provide an almost professionally historical accounting of events. He says so in that memorable first paragraph of his two-volume work, one that starts with his gospel and then continues with what we call The Acts of the Apostles:
Inasmuch as many have undertaken to compile a narrative of the things that have been accomplished among us, just as those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses and ministers of the word have delivered them to us, it seemed good to me also, having followed all things closely for some time past, to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, that you may have certainty concerning the things you have been taught.
Luke 1:1-4 (ESV)
So then he works his way through John the Baptist, King Herod, that feisty old couple Zechariah and Elizabeth, all the way up to the culminating announcement of Jesus’ imminent birth.
Now tune your ear to Joseph’s appearance. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it:
In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. And the virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!” But she was greatly troubled at the saying, and tried to discern what sort of greeting this might be. And the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. And the Lord God will give to him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”
Luke 1:26-33 (ESV)
Joseph is basically reduced to a genealogical marker and a silent partner to Mary, who is front and center and happens to be betrothed to this Joseph guy, who is otherwise unmentioned.
Luke 2.1-5, the census and the journey to Bethlehem …
Then, after a whole lot more very consequential stuff in a very long chapter 1, Luke’s second chapter begins with the engaged couple’s journey to Bethlehem. Again, listen carefully or you’ll miss Joseph-in-the-shadows.
In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town.And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
Luke 2:1-7 (ESV)
And Joseph also went up…
That’s all the press he gets!
Luke 2.15-19, the silent bystander as the shepherds visit and Mary contemplates …
Then here come the shepherds. Watch for Joseph…
When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.” And they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger. And when they saw it, they made known the saying that had been told them concerning this child. And all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.
Luke 2:15-20 (ESV)
I mean, we even get concluding summaries of Mary’s ponderings and the shepherds’ rejoicing. But where is Joseph? Invisible. And maybe content to be so.
Luke 2.22-35, the duty of Jerusalem, the parents’ marveling, and Simeon’s message to Mary …
Sadly, we don’t have time to read about Simeon, one of my favorite figures in the Christmas story—maybe I’m just drawn to the old dudes—except for this summary:
And his father and his mother marveled at what was said about him. And Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother, “Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed (and a sword will pierce through your own soul also), so that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed.”
Luke 2:33-35 (ESV)
So God is revealing long-kept secrets to human hearts, all of it having to do with the birth of this Infant King … and who gets a special talking-to from Simeon the aged prophet? Mary.
And where is Joseph. Invisible. Again.
Luke 2.41-52, twelve-year-old Jesus’ precocious wisdom in the temple and his parents’ consternation, which Mary speaks …
Now having told the Christmas Story, Luke compacts a lot of time into a few sentences in order to round out the picture of Jesus’ origins. Many of you will remember the amazing wisdom of the young Jesus, speaking in the temple precincts with Israel’s spiritual giants and public intellectuals. When his parents find him back in Jerusalem, utterly consternated by his behavior, who delivers the parental reprimand to the Young Messiah?
Mary. Joseph is silent. Not culpably silent, I think. Not irresponsibly. Just silent. Standing by, out of the limelight while the Lord accomplishes his greatest work.
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Then, as quickly as he has appeared at the beginning of two of the four gospels, Joseph is gone.
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I find this Joseph an interesting man. I would like to know him better, for I too often feel that I live in the shadows of people and events that are much larger than I am. I too often wonder whether I will be remembered, and—if so—how and by whom? Or, like Joseph, largely forgotten.
Yet, upon further reflection in the light of God’s coming near to us in Jesus, I wonder what would have happened if Joseph had not played his critical but overshadowed role in the events of Jesus’ birth.
Would there have been no travel to Bethlehem with pregnant Mary?
No protecting of her honor when she fell pregnant under apparently shameful circumstances?
No hospitality to Babylonian astrologers who turned up with strange gifts in hand?
No careful performance of the duties that took the family to Jerusalem at the appropriate moments in Jesus’ life?
I don’t think I’ll be asked to play a part in anybody’s Christmas play this year.
But I want to be Joseph … willing to do the honorable thing in the shadow of those who do memorable things … willing to be forgotten if only Jesus will be remembered … willing to fade away if Jesus will only come more and more to the center of a growing circle of those who worship him.
Do you wanna’ join me in being Joseph this year?
My fear about preaching a message like this is that it will sentimentalize Joseph and even Christmas itself, kind of like a gauzy focus on a Hallmark Christmas movie.
In reality, Christmas was and is an invasion of earth by the king of heaven and his armies. It’s not sentimental. It’s world-altering.
But in the midst of those events, Joseph was present and accounted for …. Quickly obedient … not needing the limelight.
So let us take up our small parts, brothers and sisters, as our Lord does great things around us in this season that is best titled ‘Emanuel’: God is with us.
God be with you … and with our ailing pastor, who will have us back in 1 Samuel next week at this time and back into a series titled ‘Let Earth Receive Her King’.
A Christian reading of the book called Isaiah should not occasion constant surprise. And yet it does.
Jesus is remembered quite famously as having told a Samaritan woman that ‘salvation is of the Jews’.
You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews (ε͗κ τῶν Ἰουδαίων).
John 4:22 (NRSV, emphasis and inserted Greek text added)
In context, the deep impression Jesus leaves upon this Samaritan woman’s neighbors belies the idea that non-Jews are excluded from the salvation in question. Yet the origins of this ’salvation’—humanly speaking—are hardly in doubt for the writer of the Fourth Gospel.
This assertion of a salvific sequence worth careful consideration is hardly an outlier. The New Testament’s most famous apostle, in the midst of one of his recurring wrestlings with the interrelationship of Jews and Gentiles in the economy of Jacob’s God, deploys a phrase that he will find useful more than once.
For I am not ashamed of the gospel; it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek (Ἰουδαίῳ τε πρῶτον καὶ Ἕλληνι).
Romans 1:16 (NRSV, emphasis and Greek text added)
Here the collective singular stands in twice for masses of people. Likely, this signals the apostle’s confidence that this is an ingrained way of things independent of human manipulation that plays itself out in individual cases over and over again.
It is all too easy to imagine that this soteriological sequencing somehow takes the place of a prior ingrained Jewish nationalism in early Christian proclamation, opening a door that had previously remained closed to non-Jews while assuring that the privilege of it not be understated. In fact, my students tell me all that the time that this is the way of things.
Yet this seems not to be the manner in which early Christian theologizers read their sources in the Hebrew Bible.
Rather, it seems that early Christian hermeneutics discovered this sequence—this anchoring of expansive salvation in Jewish particularity—in the massively influential book of Isaiah as well as in other Jewish texts. For example, Isaiah’s sixtieth chapter fixes its gaze and addresses its promise to the restored Zion that it imagines in some of the book’s most soaring and lyric poetry.
The turning of tables to Zion’s benefit is named late in the chapter:
The descendants of those who oppressed you shall come bending low to you, and all who despised you shall bow down at your feet; they shall call you the City of the LORD, the Zion of the Holy One of Israel.
Whereas you have been forsaken and hated, with no one passing through, I will make you majestic forever, a joy from age to age.
You shall suck the milk of nations, you shall suck the breasts of kings; and you shall know that I, the LORD, am your Savior and your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob.
Isaiah 60:14-16 (NRSV)
Yet this stirring reversal ought not be read as a transformation that occurs to the detriment of those nations that now nourish Zion.
Rather, the chapter’s opening verses address Zion lit up and glorified in a manner that attracts the peoples in the manner of secondary promise and sequenced blessing. The second-person singular addressee is most certainly the restored city.
Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples; but the LORD will arise upon you, and his glory will appear over you.
Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.
Isaiah 60:1-3 (NRSV)
Passages like this steward the sequence and anchor the illumination of ‘the nations’ in a way that might easily have inspired, informed, and even shaped the New Testament proclamation of a Jesus movement that by appearances surprised itself at every turn by the response of non-Jews, then turned its hand to the hard work of how such ’new folks’ ought to be integrated into a family that began as a branch of Judaism.
Difficult times would come in that process which scholars often identify as ’the parting of the ways’. Yet it is both sobering and fascinating to observe the way in which early preachers and evangelists of the Jesus movement found themselves reading the Jewish Scriptures in a way that seems coherent even to (some) modern historians of the Way.
The stewards of those new wineskins that early Jewish followers of Jesus found necessary for the preservation of new wine did not, it turns out, imagine that everything had become something other than it had been. The vigor of their newfound regard for the risen Jesus led them back to old books like the one they called ‘Isaiah’, there to find the same sequencing of salvation, the very anchoring of light in YHWH’s disclosure to Israel itself that infused the teaching of their Lord and the writing of their apostles.
The notion that ‘salvation is from the Jews’ would be tested and often discarded in ensuing centuries, up to and including our own. Yet it seems difficult to this Christian reader of Isaiah to imagine that this sequence, this anchoring of ‘Jesus faith’ in Jewish experience can be discarded without inventing a new religion that is or will eventually become cast adrift from its moorings.
From the moment YHWH’s servant is introduced in 42.1, there is a hint that the servant’s career will be an arduous one. Indeed, the presentation formula at 42.1 says as much with its first breath:
הן עבדי אתמך־בו Here is my servant, whom I uphold…
Isaiah 42:1 (NRSV)
YHWH’s pledge to uphold (תמך) all but requires that we imagine resistance to the servant’s work, the potential weakness of the servant himself, or both.
Not surprisingly, then, the passages that follow abound in promises by YHWH to supply all that the servant will require in order that he should persevere to the conclusion of his assigned agenda.
Chapter forty-four continues this sequence of promises, holding tight to the communal or collective identity of the curiously named ‘servant’ while painting with new color the circumstances of his adventure.
But now hear, O Jacob my servant, Israel whom I have chosen!
Thus says the LORD who made you, who formed you in the womb and will help you: Do not fear, O Jacob my servant, Jeshurun whom I have chosen.
For I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground; I will pour my spirit upon your descendants, and my blessing on your offspring.
They shall spring up like a green tamarisk, like willows by flowing streams. This one will say, ‘I am the LORD’S,’ another will be called by the name of Jacob, yet another will write on the hand, ‘The LORD’S,’ and adopt the name of Israel.
Isaiah 44:1-5 (NRSV)
The chapter’s opening oracle, quoted just above, provides essential elements for a comprehensive understanding of the servant figure in the book called Isaiah. Characteristically, it does so incrementally and in a dialect of rich and complex metaphor.
First, we find further assurance in a classic summons to overcome fear—‘Do not fear, O Jacob my servant…!’—that an evident danger ought not to be given more weight than it is due in the context of YHWH’s presence and provision. This continues the tone of reassurance that has accompanied the servant discourse from its beginning.
Additionally, we find overlapping imagery regarding the provision of water in a desert, on the one hand, and descendants/offspring, on the other. These are introduced sequentially, then blended a moment later when the aforementioned descendants/offspring spring up like tamarisk and willows in consequence of YHWH’s irrigation of the desert.
This interplay of images is further enriched by the realization that YHWH’s spirit and the water he provides appear to be two ways of speaking about the same thing.
Finally, the text drops plant imagery as quickly has it had introduced it in order to return to the matter of people. When it does so, we learn that the servant Jacob/Israel’s suddenly appearing children are in fact the offspring of other nations who now—remarkably—adopt the name of Israel.
The overall impact of this oracle’s supplementation of preceding servant discourse is extraordinary. The reference of YHWH’s spirit seems certain to echo that saturating spirit that comes to rest upon the Jesse-king of chapter 11, perhaps linking the collective Jacob/Israel servant with that quite individual, regal figure. And the servant’s YHWH-provisioned return—if this is the movement we are meant to imagine—somehow creates a more complex Jacob/Israel in the very act of its potentially wearying desert crossing.
The children are descended from their parents, yet they are from a different people. YHWH, supporting and sustaining his servant, will see to it. The task is hard, yet the outcome assured. The servant is vulnerable, yet strangely enriched by daughters and sons it did not bear in Babylon nor bring from that soon-to-be-forgotten place. Yet here they are, calling themselves by YHWH-names, more sons and daughters than new-found cousins.
