Ironic Advent 2016 Meditation #24:
Sneaking Through the Cracks
A Homily based on the readings for the Fourth Sunday of Advent by Edwin Woodruff Tait
**Editor's Note
I asked my favorite preacher (who has no pulpit but often preaches to his daughters amidst the chickens) and a dear friend, Edwin Woodruff Tait, to provide a meditation based on the readings for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, my favorite Sunday of Advent.
Although I have a deep reverence for John the Baptist, as my readers would know, I think of the Fourth Sunday of Advent as "Mary Sunday," whatever it's officially or unofficially called by others. In the readings from Lectionary A (as this year), it might best be called "Joseph Sunday."
What Edwin does so wonderfully here, and I've heard him do it before, is pay close and smart attention to all the readings. I suggest that if you, like me, really did not have a homily on Sunday that was up to the level of these readings and this special day, you memorize this one. Or, at the least, chant it aloud. And now, Edwin--
Ben Camino asked me to say something about the readings for this
past Sunday, the Fourth Sunday in Advent. Given that I’m doing this for him,
I’m sure it’s supposed to be ironic. But if I write something solemn, that will
be in ironic contrast with Ben's normal tone. So that’s OK. [Ben Camino notes that is not a snarky tone but attention to the ironic nature of Advent itself which has made the Ironic Advent Meditation what it is, whatever that means]
God gave
Ahaz a sign, deep as hell and high as heaven. Deep as the hell wrought by the
Assyrian armies, and the Babylonians after them, and the Romans after them.
High as the heaven whose mercy we can never earn or anticipate, as the God who
is with us, crying in his mother’s arms.
*painting, "Joseph, I'm Pregnant" by Fr. Jim Hasse, S.J. (for Claver Jesuit Ministry, Cincinnati)
Fr. Tom (the priest at St. Mark’s Catholic Church in
Richmond), said in his homily Saturday evening that in this last week of Advent
we should be “open to the unexpected” alongside the normal disciplines of
prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. And that is, I think, a pretty good way to sum
up the Fourth Sunday.
The Old Testament and Gospel readings go naturally
together--even in the Revised Common Lectionary. (The Epistle is the beginning
of Romans--basically Paul saying “Jesus is great and I want to tell everybody
about Jesus.”) The Gospel tells the story of Joseph getting the message from an
angel that he shouldn’t send Mary packing. The Old Testament is Isaiah 7--the
prophecy that “a virgin will conceive and bear a son” which Matthew quotes in
the Gospel reading and applies to the birth of Jesus.
The context of the prophecy (well explicated by Bruce
Nettleton of First United Methodist Church--the other sermon I heard this
weekend) is that King Ahaz of Judah is facing invasion by two neighboring
kingdoms--the northern kingdom of Israel and the neighboring kingdom of Aram
(present-day Syria). Both of these kingdoms are larger and more powerful than
Judah.
Isaiah comes to the king and offers a sign of God’s protection: “Ask a
sign of the Lord your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven.” Ahaz
demurs piously: “I will not ask, and I will not put the Lord to the test.” God
is not amused: “Hear then, O
house of David! Is it too little for you to weary men, that you weary my God
also? Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Behold, the virgin shall
conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel. He shall eat curds
and honey when he knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good. For before
the boy knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good, the land whose two
kings you dread will be deserted. The Lord will bring upon you and upon your
people and upon your father's house such days as have not come since the day
that Ephraim departed from Judah—the king of Assyria!”
In other
words: don’t worry, Ahaz. These two bozos threatening you are nothing. The
really big bad empire is coming and will eat them for breakfast, and then come
after you for lunch.
God
promises deliverance. But who will deliver us from the deliverance?
Much
later in the book of Isaiah, in the reign of Ahaz’ son Hezekiah, the Assyrians
do come after Judah, and God does deliver Judah by sending an angel to smite
the Assyrian army. And then, a couple of chapters later, Hezekiah happily makes
friends with Babylon, a rising power
that promises to counterbalance the Assyrians. As Isaiah warns him, this is a
bad move, because just over a century later these same Babylonians will do what
the Assyrians failed to do--destroy Jerusalem and send the people of Judah into
exile.
And so it
goes--empire after empire, big fish eaten by bigger fish, monsters rising out
of the sea and devouring each other as Daniel would put it. . .
And where
does the virgin fit in? Who is she? Why is her giving birth important? Nobody,
until the coming of Jesus, seems to have thought that the prophecy referred to
a miraculous conception. (The Hebrew word “almah” is sometimes, in fact,
translated as “young woman”--it’s not even the standard word for “virgin.”) In
the original context, the birth of the child appears to be mostly a timer--by
the time the child is old enough to know good from evil, the Assyrians will
have come down like a wolf on the fold and done their wolfy thing to Israel and
Syria.
And
yet--why is the child called “God with us?” Is God’s presence shown in this
endless parade of murderous empires? Is the best we can hope for that one
empire will knock another off our backs and we will somehow manage to survive
cowering in the ruins? Is the “unexpected” to which we open ourselves the
unexpected rise of a new power? Is Trump our best deliverer from Clinton (or,
depending on your politics, the other way round)?
Seven
hundred years later, a just man found out that his fiancee was pregnant. Some
of the modern translations (NIV, NAB) say that he didn’t want to expose her to
shame even though he was righteous.
In other words, his observance of the Law made him want to get rid of her, but
something else--basic human compassion--made him want to do it without shaming
her.
Raymond Brown endorses this view in his book The Birth of the Messiah. Still, it seems to me that the grammar of
the Greek better fits the King James rendering (also adopted by the NRSV, and
mentioned as an option by the NIV): “being a just man, and unwilling. . . “ That is to say, Joseph’s righteousness was
precisely the thing that made him compassionate even toward someone he thought
had committed a great evil. Perhaps it’s both--perhaps Joseph’s “righteousness”
pulled him in both directions.
Some
commentators point out that Joseph’s “merciful” solution wasn’t all that
merciful--a young woman found to be pregnant with no male protector faced a
fairly grim future. I’ve recently run into an interpretation put forward by
some Catholics to the effect that Joseph knew that a miracle had happened and
was too reverent to think that he was worthy to marry the woman who was bearing
the Son of God. (The angel, after all, says “don’t be afraid to take Mary as
your wife.”)
I think this is pious nonsense, and it seems to imply that if
Joseph had believed Mary to be pregnant via sexual intercourse, he would have
handed her over for stoning.
Abandoning
Mary quietly rather than openly shaming her and trying to get her stoned for
adultery--this choice opens Joseph to the unexpected message of an angel,
telling him that God is at work. Instead of playing the dominance game, Joseph
acts justly, insofar as he is able to discern justice. And that’s enough to
make him an instrument of God’s saving purposes.
In the novel The Apostle by Scholem Asch, Rabbi Gamaliel tells his fanatical disciple Saul, who wants to persecute the Christians, that God uses both good and evil people to accomplish his purposes, but we can choose what kind of instruments we want to be. The Assyrians were God’s instruments, according to Isaiah--the rod of God’s anger.
In the novel The Apostle by Scholem Asch, Rabbi Gamaliel tells his fanatical disciple Saul, who wants to persecute the Christians, that God uses both good and evil people to accomplish his purposes, but we can choose what kind of instruments we want to be. The Assyrians were God’s instruments, according to Isaiah--the rod of God’s anger.
But God’s wrath--the just order by which our pride and violence punishes the
pride and violence of others, and theirs punishes ours--does not, in itself,
bring salvation. God’s mercy--God’s unexpected and unmerited mercy, sneaking
through the cracks of our world like the floods of spring--chooses as its
instruments those who choose, in however small and imperfect a way, to show
mercy.
In order
to become God’s agents in working true deliverance--the kind we don’t need to
be delivered from--we have to stop thinking primarily in terms of geopolitics
and strategy and even utilitarian schemes for making the world better. We must
resolve simply to act justly and mercifully. And God will do the rest.
As Ulmo
tells Tuor in Tolkien’s Unfinished Tales:
“But behold! In the armour of Fate there is ever a rift, and in the walls of
Doom a breach, until the fullmaking, which ye call the End. So shall it be
while I endure, a secret voice that gainsayeth, and a light where darkness was
decreed. . . . The last hope is left, the hope that they have not looked for
and have not prepared.”
*painting, "Joseph, I'm Pregnant" by Fr. Jim Hasse, S.J. (for Claver Jesuit Ministry, Cincinnati)
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