Joseph the Dreamer

Matthew 1:18-25
The Fourth Sunday in Advent

“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.” “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.” “The whole world needs a Christmas dream.” Have you ever noticed how often dreams and dreaming come up in Christmas songs? Dreams seem to come with the season, and this morning’s gospel lesson is no exception.

Joseph, who was engaged to Mary, has a dream in the passage in front of us this morning from the first chapter of the gospel according to Matthew. Joseph has three more dreams in next Sunday’s gospel lesson from the second chapter of Matthew. This Joseph who was engaged to Mary was apparently every bit the dreamer that his Old Testament namesake was.

In the world in which the New Testament was written, dreams were not interpreted psychologically as expressions of the wishes and desires of the subconscious mind. Dreams were not understood neurologically as a function of electrophysiological brain activity. In the world of the New Testament, dreams were taken spiritually, if you will, in that dreams were regarded as a means of receiving a message from God. And in the gospel of Matthew, Joseph was a dreamer.

In chapter 1, after Joseph discovered that Mary was pregnant with a child that could not possibly be his, Joseph had a dream. And in that dream an angel appeared to him and told him to marry Mary anyway, because the child she was carrying was God’s doing. When he woke, we are told, Joseph took that dream as a message from God, and he did as the angel in it told him.

The gospel of Matthew has no interest in Joseph’s dream apart from the message from God that it contains. In the ancient world, the medium was not yet thought of as the message, as the twentieth-century communication theorist Marshall McLuhan taught us to think.

But what would it take for a “righteous man,” as Joseph is described in Matthew 1:19, a good, law-of-Moses-abiding man with an outstanding pedigree—descended as he was according to the genealogy in Matthew 1:1-17 from Abraham and David and Solomon and the kings of Judah—what would it take for such a man to marry a woman who was carrying a child that could not possibly have been his? In first-century Palestine, it would been unimaginable for a good Jewish man such as Joseph to do such a thing.

Unless . . . unless something entirely disrupted his sense of righteousness and order. Unless something utterly interrupted his way of thinking. Unless something completely altered the state of his reason, a man such as Joseph would have removed himself from Mary’s situation and gone on with his righteous and pedigreed life and found himself a similarly righteous and pedigreed wife.

In this morning’s gospel lesson, the medium is the message, not the message alone. As dreams are often wont to do, Joseph’s dream disrupted righteousness and order, interrupted thinking, and altered reason. To marry Mary anyway is an idea that comes in from the outside of righteousness, remote from thinking, and beyond reason. What happens to Joseph in this morning’s gospel lesson is every bit as unexpected as the fact that Mary was unexpectedly expecting.

As we prepare to celebrate the birth of Christ in the world and in our lives, Joseph’s dream reminds us that rightly understood, Advent and Christmas are disruptive, interruptive and altering. One of the great Christian heresies of our time and place is the popular assumption that being a Christian, following Jesus, is a confirmation of our sense of righteousness and order, an endorsement of our way of thinking, an affirmation of our reason. Nothing could be farther from biblical truth.

Jesus the son of Joseph (as he was called in the gospel of John in 1:45 and 6:42) grew up to say, “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household. Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 10:34-39). Those are Jesus’ words, but he learned them from Joseph. Because when Joseph “followed his dream”—when Joseph abandoned righteousness and pedigree and thought and reason to marry Mary anyway—it would have cost him dearly in family and friends and social standing.

And that brings us to the content of the dream, the message. In this morning’s gospel lesson, the message is the message, not the medium alone. The message is of two parts: 1) marry Mary anyway 2) because the child she is carrying is God’s doing. The message is this: first, expect the unexpected; and second, it’s about what God is up to, not what you are up to.

Expect the unexpected. Have you ever known someone for a long time, only to discover something about them that you did not expect? When Bev and I married, we had known each other since we were both 10 years old. She thought she knew me. She really did. So you cannot imagine the surprise it was to her to discover that this otherwise free-spirited, undisciplined and sometimes off-the-wall guy would end squeeze the toothpaste tube carefully from the bottom instead of in the middle. And even worse than that, he wound up becoming a Baptist preacher! You think you know someone, and then it turns out that you don’t know them all that well after all. All of us have had that kind of experience at one time or another with one person or another and sometimes even with ourselves—or if we haven’t had it yet, we will.

(By the way, for those of you who keep up with such things, you might be interested to know that after last Sunday’s sermon, this week beside my sink in the double vanity in our master bathroom a brand new tube of toothpaste appeared. It didn’t have a sticky-note on it that read, “Shut up, already,” but it could have.)

Sometimes the unexpected comes to us for good and sometimes the unexpected comes to us for ill, as in a decline in our health or the death of a spouse or a child or the end of a marriage or the end of a job or the end of a business or the end of an entire sector of the economy. But either way, for good or for ill, we should not be surprised. We should expect the unexpected.

I used to love surprises. And then I became an academic administrator. When I became an administrator, a manager of policies and a controller of procedures, my love for surprises disappeared. My priorities became systematization, operationalization, procedurefication. I know those last two aren’t even words, but that’s the point. The message of Joseph’s dream—marry Mary anyway—reminds us that we cannot control the Holy Spirit; we cannot control the church which is the body of Christ; we cannot control God, no matter how hard we try and no matter how often or long we pray in the hope that we can.

So expect the unexpected, in life and with God, because it’s not about what you’re up to; it’s about what God is up to. In Joseph’s dream, it is as if God said, it’s not about you, Joseph. It’s about me. It’s not about your righteousness or pedigree or thinking or reason. It’s about my saving work in the world. “You are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). “‘They shall name him Emmanuel,’ which means, ‘God is with us’” (Matthew 1:23). It’s as if God said, “Get on board with me, Joseph.” The message of Joseph’s dream is the same to us, no matter how many times we have to hear it for it to sink into our thick skulls. It’s not about our righteousness or thinking or reason. It’s about God’s saving work in the world.

Sometimes I think that one of the reasons our culture has turned December into the most frenetic and distracted month of the year is so that we will not be tempted to listen to Joseph’s dream. Joseph’s dream reminds us that getting on board with God requires setting a lot of things aside, putting a lot things down, giving a lot of things up. As Jesus grew up to say, it requires us to put other people’s expectations aside to embrace the unexpected and to get on board with God.

Next Sunday morning, we’ll look at where that dream can take you. But for now it is enough to consider whether you will be taken at all by Joseph’s dream. Expect the unexpected. And it’s not about what you’re up to; it’s about what God is up to.


Photo by Tacit Requiem. Used by license under Creative Commons.

This material is Copyrighted © 2010 by Jeffrey S. Rogers. It may be copied or disseminated for non-commercial use, provided this notice is included. The author can be contacted at jeff.rogers@firstbaptistgreenville.com.

Mary the Revolutionary

Psalm 146:5-10
Luke 1:46-55
The Third Sunday in Advent 2010

Have you ever known someone for a long time, only to discover something about them that you did not expect? When Bev and I married, we had known each other since we were both 10 years old. I thought I knew her. I really did. So you cannot imagine the surprise it was to me to discover that this otherwise fastidious, careful and particular woman would actually squeeze the toothpaste tube indiscriminately in the middle instead of squeezing it systematically from the end like you’re supposed to. It was unseemly. It still is. There it is, every morning. This mangled toothpaste tube sitting on the bathroom counter reminding me that you think you know someone, and then it turns out that you don’t know them all that well after all.

I thought I knew Mary the mother of Jesus. After all, I’ve known her longer than I’ve known Bev. When I was still too young to know what the words were, much less what they meant, I crooned in a boy soprano, “’Round yon virgin mother and child.” Later, I would learn to sing, “Gentle Mary laid her child lowly in a manger.” Later still, I learned of Mary’s great submission to God. In response to a troubling message from an angel she said meekly, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). Mary would never squeeze the toothpaste tube in the middle!

So, perhaps you can imagine how surprised I was to discover that this otherwise virginal, gentle and submissive woman was a revolutionary. To be sure, the submissive, gentle and virginal woman is the Mary whom the church has championed down through the centuries. But the song that Mary sings in Luke 1, called in church tradition “The Magnificat,” after the first word in the Latin translation of her song, reveals a Mary who is every bit as subversive as she is submissive.
The gospel of Luke tells us that after Mary was told of her unexpected pregnancy, she left her home in Nazareth to travel south to the Judean hill country and the home of her older relative Elizabeth who was also unexpectedly expecting. Elizabeth greets Mary with a blessing on her and on the child she is carrying. And in response to Elizabeth’s blessing, Mary sings her song that is at least as subversive as it is submissive.

It begins with praise for God in verse 46 and rejoicing in verse 47. In verse 48, it moves to divine grace, Mary’s humility, and her blessedness in the eyes of others on account of God’s grace and her humility. Verses 49-50 return to focus on God: God’s mighty acts, God’s holiness, and God’s mercy. Verses 46-50 form a model prayer of praise. It should come as no surprise that the mother of the one who taught us to pray a model prayer would herself pray a model prayer in Luke 1:46-50.

We know that when it comes to faith formation, children are are not merely “passive recipients of parental influences,” as researchers at Bucknell University have pointed out. But a mother’s religious influence is not to be underestimated in any aspect of childrearing and child wellbeing. In a study titled the “Relationship Between Maternal Church Attendance and Adolescent Mental Health and Social Functioning,” psychologists Stuart Varon and Anne Riley found these results:
Youths whose mothers attended religious services at least once a week had greater overall satisfaction with their lives, more involvement with their families, and better skills in solving health-related problems and felt greater support from friends compared with youths whose mothers had lower levels of participation in religious services. Maternal attendance at religious services had a strong association with the youths’ outcome in overall satisfaction with health and perceived social support from friends.” The effects of a mother’s religious influence are not to be underestimated.

Now, the truth is, we know nothing about Mary’s attendance at religious services. But Luke 1 portrays her as so familiar with the worship tradition of prayer in the psalms of her Jewish faith that in a time of great joy—and great stress—she prayed a model prayer just like Hannah’s prayer in 1 Samuel 2 and in the Psalms, and her son grew up to pray a model prayer in Luke 11. Mary’s model prayer in verse 46-50 is hardly revolutionary, is it?

But look where Mary’s song goes in verses 51-53: “God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. God has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; God has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” This Mary is a revolutionary. This Mary is subversive. This Mary would squeeze the toothpaste in the middle of the tube!

Is it any wonder that Mary’s son would grow up to say, “Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled” (Luke 6:21), and “Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry” (Luke 6:25)? Should anyone be surprised that Mary’s son would grow up to say, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God” (Luke 6:20), and “woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your reward” (Luke 6:24)?

Mary the mother of Jesus was no Joan of Arc or Harriet Tubman or Gloria Steinem or Mary Daly, but she is no less revolutionary than they. The lullaby that Mary sang her baby in utero was the Magnificat—and not just the first four verses that could easily be mistaken for a first-century praise chorus. The lullaby that Mary sang her baby included verses 51-53: “God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. God has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; God has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”

And when she did, she planted the seeds of the longest lasting and most frequently recurring revolution in the history of humankind. Again and again through the centuries, Mary’s song and Mary’s son’s words and life and death and resurrection have fueled aspirations and acts of justice for the oppressed, food for the hungry, freedom for those who are imprisoned, sight for the blind, the raising up of those who are bowed down, protection for strangers, and safekeeping for widows and orphans.

Down through the centuries, the church that carries Jesus’ name has often sided with the powerful and the proud; it has often sided with the rich and the wicked. But even when it does, you see, it carries with it the seeds of its own destruction in Mary’s song and Jesus’ words and life and death and resurrection. There is a model for us all and for Christ’s church in Mary the revolutionary.

Jesus spoke of the kingdom of God as being but a tiny “mustard seed that someone took and sowed in the garden; it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches” (Luke 13:19). That’s a quiet revolution that is planted and nurtured entirely without the fanfare, pomp and circumstance of the powerful and the proud. Jesus spoke of the kingdom of God as being as imperceptible as the “yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened” (Luke 13:21). That’s a revolution in the making that no one even notices until it has already happened.

Many years ago, my parents took my two younger brothers and me to Williamsburg, Virginia. Before we wandered that reconstructed treasure, we watched a video that introduced the town, its history, and the beginnings of the American revolution. The video concluded with a stirring clip in which young men and old took up arms and marched away to resist the British. When it was over and the lights came back on in the little theater, my youngest brother, who was probably six years old at the time, turned to my mother and said enthusiastically, “Mother, where do we get the guns?” That’s the kind of revolution we’re all looking for. “Where do we get the guns?”

Whether the guns are literal or metaphorical, we are always susceptible to the devilish temptation to turn the kingdom of God into a kingdom of men and women by force and by power. Even in the church, we always want a revolution we can be proud of instead of humble in. We want a revolution that is big and powerful, not small and imperceptible, that grows unnoticed in a garden, that leavens a loaf without anyone even noticing.

And when we do, we reveal that our mission is not really for the oppressed or the hungry or the imprisoned or the blind or the bowed down or the strangers or the widows or the orphans at all, but it is for ourselves. We make the mistake of only singing Mary’s praise chorus—“the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is God’s name”—without moving on to sing and to live the rest of her revolutionary lullaby. The revolutionary lullaby is how the kingdom comes, how God’s will is done on earth as it is in heaven.

In the earliest decades of the church, that revolutionary lullaby was lived out in an uncommon common meal in which Jews and Gentiles, men and women, rich and poor, Asians and Europeans and Africans all sat down together to eat and to drink in communion with God and in communion with one another. That’s the uncommon common meal we share this morning because Mary’s song is our song and Mary’s revolution is our revolution, small and unnoticed, imperceptible even, until someone looks around and says, “Look, there are Asians and Europeans and Africans and rich and poor and men and women and Jews and Gentiles all eating and drinking together in communion with God and in communion with one another in the kingdom of God, in heavenly peace, in peace on earth, goodwill toward all!”

It all goes back to Mary the revolutionary. Let’s eat and drink to the kingdom of God.


Photo by sarah.mckenzie11, used by license of Creative Commons.

This material is Copyrighted © 2010 by Jeffrey S. Rogers. It may be copied or disseminated for non-commercial use, provided this notice is included. The author can be contacted at jeff.rogers@firstbaptistgreenville.com.