Last week, we began the season of Advent in Mark’s
wilderness. It was a stark scene. No large crowds
gathered. No lights hung in trees. Indeed, no trees.
Only a few simple words that capture the good news
of Christmas: You are my child. I love you.
This Sunday, we come to Matthew’s Christmas
celebration. And this week, the whole family is there,
and I mean the whole family. It’s a reunion of Joseph’s
folks, beginning with Father Abraham and Mother
Sarah. Abraham is Joseph’s great great great (x40)
grandfather, after all. King David is there over in the
corner by himself, and that’s an important part for
Matthew. Joseph was part of a royal line—descendent
of the house of Israel’s greatest king, David. In fact,
the whole family tree features a who’s who of Old
Testament figures, all leading up to Joseph and then
to that baby—that baby in the center of the party.
Except. Here’s the awkward moment at the family
reunion. Joseph’s kid…well, he’s not Joseph’s kid. At
least not in the usual sense.
Perhaps you remember the opening line of Leo
Tolstoy’s classic novel Anna Karenina. The book
begins with this sentence: “Happy families are all
alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own
way.” Though Tolstoy lived and wrote in the late
nineteenth century, his description is appropriate
for any era of human history. Families—your family,
my family, Joseph’s family—families are complicated,
conflicted, often downright uncomfortable.
Scott Black Johnston is the pastor of Fifth Avenue
Presbyterian Church in New York City. His
congregation sits five blocks north of Rockefeller
Center, where each year, as you know, they light a
massive Christmas Tree. Crowds of people from all
around the world come to see it. Scott reports that
according to the chief gardener at Rockefeller Center,
the search for that particular tree takes all year and
covers the entire United States, scouts sent out to
all fifty states in search of the perfect tree. The final
ninety-foot-tall candidate is chosen for its ideal shape,
its perfect color, its breathtaking majesty. In the chief
gardener’s words: “This tree can have no bad sides.”
Well, if like us you’ve scoured the available choices in
a parking lot or a tree farm, you know just how difficult
that task must be. The Saturday after Thanksgiving,
our family drove out to Piney Acres Farm in Fortville,
Indiana. We were in search of the perfect Christmas
tree. Ideal shape. Perfect color. Breathtaking majesty.
We began our search with great hope, high spirits,
lots of energy. An hour later, we had narrowed our
search, but consensus was elusive. Each of our boys
had a favorite, and they stood next to their favorite
tree arguing the merits of their selection. Neither was
willing to budge. Ultimately, it was only the prospect
of hot chocolate that led to compromise.
Here’s the truth: every tree has a bad side. Or several.
At our house, we have a strategy for that. I bet you
do as well. We put the tree in the corner. We turn it
just right to conceal all those blemishes. We hide the
imperfections under carefully hung ornaments and
Christmas lights.
This is not Matthew’s approach. The family tree
at the center of his Christmas story is not without
fault or imperfection, and Matthew puts the whole
thing on full display. I spared you the begats that
begin this chapter, but there are seventeen verses
of them. Yes, great figures of the Old Testament, but
also spies, traitors, homeless foreigners. There are
several outsiders and newcomers. There are stories
of struggle and survival and sin. David was the father
of Solomon by the wife of Uriah. Now look, Matthew,
did we really need to include that particular scandal?
The one nobody would ever mention at the Christmas
party—nobody except Matthew. The great King David
was not a portrait of piety, certainly not perfection.
Why does Matthew insist on putting the bad side of
the tree right out front?
Several years ago, in another city, I was preparing to
conduct a memorial service for the grandmother of a
church member. In our meeting to plan the service, I
had been warned by members of the family that the
woman had a daughter, and that her daughter had
been estranged from the family, from her siblings, for
many, many years. Poor decisions and harsh words
had characterized her relationship, and her siblings
weren’t even sure she would come to the service. If
she did, they were sure she would sit in the back of
the sanctuary. I think it fair to say they were afraid of
what might happen if she did come. Just before the
service, as the family gathered in my office, one of the
ushers quietly knocked on my office door and then
pried it open. A woman walked into the office, and I
immediately knew that she was the estranged sister.
I knew it because of the rising tension I could feel in
the room. She just stood there in the doorway. She
looked at her family, and then she looked at the floor.
The silence was overwhelming. And I was just about
to make a bumbling remark about the weather, but
something held my tongue. We stood in silence until
finally the eldest brother walked over. Still no words,
but he wrapped his arms around his sister’s shoulders.
He was a tall man, and he leaned down and kissed her
on the top of her head. And as he did, he motioned for
the rest of the family to join the circle. And they did,
tearfully. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a clearer picture of
the power of forgiveness than the one I witnessed as
four siblings walked, arms locked with each other, out
of my office to honor their mother’s life.
Here is what Matthew wants you to know about
Christmas. God is in the middle of the mess we make
and the chaos that characterizes our lives.
God is in the middle of the mess. Which brings us
back to Joseph there at the family reunion. We meet
him at a moment of crisis. The weight of the world
is on his shoulders. His fiancée is pregnant. The
baby is not his. He wants to do the right thing. He is
contemplating, as the gospel puts it, “dismissing Mary
quietly.” He is hoping that the scandal won’t pursue
him for the rest of his life. That’s his best plan, the only
one that comes to mind. A quiet goodbye. Perhaps
another shot at a happy family. That is, until Joseph
receives an unlikely visitor. Like his Old Testament
ancestor of the same name, he receives shocking
news from a sacred source. In the dream, the angel
encourages Joseph to proceed with the wedding, to
accept the baby on the way, to give that child a name.
The angel asks Joseph to adopt Jesus.
Matthew records what comes next as if it was the
most natural response in the world, the most likely
series of events. Joseph wakes up from his dream.
He does what the angel says. He takes Mary as his
wife. She gives birth to a son, and Joseph names him
Jesus. Now, there are a few gaps in this story that I
would love to have filled. For starters, what did they
tell grandma?
These details fade against the significance of what
has just happened. Joseph courageously accepts
his God-given call. He musters the faith to believe
the promise that has presided over his family since
Father Abraham and Mother Sarah first heard the
voice of God say, “You have been adopted. You have
been adopted, included, welcomed.” Matthew wants
us to know that Christmas was possible because an
ordinary man believed that God was with him in the
middle of the mess, and that God would expand his
family in astounding ways.
In fact, from this moment on, the movement of
the Spirit keeps growing the family of God. In the
very next chapter, we have this group of Gentiles,
foreigners, star-seekers, who follow their maps and
their hearts to this holy child. And the family tree adds
another branch. The circle grows a little wider.
Matthew’s Christmas story teaches us that there is
something far more beautiful than the perfect tree. It
is a family defined by love.
If you’ve been around here a while, chances are
you’ve heard me say that baptism is my favorite part
of congregational ministry. That’s true no matter
the circumstances, but back in October we got to
experience an extra special occasion when Crosby, a
ten-year-old whose family has multiple generations in
our congregation, was baptized here on our chancel.
Crosby had made the decision himself. He wanted
to be baptized, and that day he was dressed up and
beaming with pride. After the service, I asked Crosby
to stand at the door with me and greet you as you left
the sanctuary. One of our senior members walked out
and shook Crosby’s hand, and I was standing close
enough that I could overhear the young man say these
words: “Thank you for letting me be a part of this
church.” And so, the family tree grew another branch.
Obedient Joseph gives his adopted son the name
the angel commanded—Jesus. In this family, names
matter, and this one means, “God saves.” It’s the
promise Joseph receives and accepts. This child
embodies the salvation God intends for all people. But
Matthew gives us a second name for the child, and it’s
a good one, too. Drawn from the prophet Isaiah.
Emmanuel. God is with us. With all of us. With us
in the mess. With us in the chaos. With us in the
complexity and the confusion that characterize our
families. With us in the crisis. With us when life is not
easy and the answers are not obvious.
Listen. When your family gathers this Christmas,
there will be unresolved conflict. There will be
unacknowledged pain. When your family gathers
this Christmas, there will be empty seats at the
table. There will be stories left untold because of the
discomfort they may bring. When your family gathers
for Christmas this year, someone will hold memories
of harsh words spoken in the past, of love withheld.
And the Christmas message in the Gospel of Matthew
is this: stop trying to hide that tree in the corner or
paint over its imperfections, and prepare yourself to
be amazed by the expansive love of God. Prepare to
be blessed by the new members of God’s family who
will join you on the journey. Prepare yourself to be a
part of the Spirit’s surprising embrace.
Afterall, Joseph had a plan. It was practical and
sensible. Try to make the best of a difficult situation.
Try to be kind and gracious. Joseph had a plan, and
then the message came. “No, you are a part of my
plan.” Emmanuel. God is with you in the middle of
the mess. So make room in your heart. God is on the
move. Amen.