Matthew 1:18-25

Now the birth of Jesus, the Messiah, took place in this way. When his mother, Mary, was engaged to Joseph, but before they were living together, she was found to be with child by the Holy Spirit. Being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, he planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, Son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. The child conceived in her womb is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

All of this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the prophet: “Look, the virgin will conceive and bear a Son and he will be called ‘Emmanuel’ which means ‘God is with us.’”

So Joseph did as he was commanded. He took Mary to be his wife, but he had no marital relations with her until after she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.

We all know names are a thing. I’ve gone by several over the years, depending upon my age, my station in life, and who it is that’s addressing me.

My parents have called me by my initials – M.R. – short for Mark Randall – for as long as I can remember. I realize “M.R.” isn’t a thing at all, really. BJ, TJ, AJ, CJ, sure. JD is a good one. But “M.R.” is strange. It’s not shorter than Mark. It saves no time. And it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, either.

In High School, I was “Little Havel,” because I have an older brother. In college, I was “Long Hair,” or just plain “Havel,” because 95% of my circle of friends were known exclusively by our last names. My wife calls me “Schmoops” or “Schmoop-Dog,” courtesy of a random Seinfeld episode from years ago. To most of you I’m “Pastor Mark,” or just plain “Pastor,” which I find endearing in a way that surprises me, still.

And my latest, favorite – which some of you may have read about in our daily, digital devotion this Advent – is courtesy of Clive Blackmon who calls me “Pastor Goofy.” I love it because he’s 2. And because his parents swear it has nothing to do with however in the world they talk about me at the Blackmon house, or when I’m not around.

Anyway, I suspect some of you are wondering – like Joseph must have, had he known about what had been “spoken by the prophet” – what was he supposed to name this baby, “Jesus” or “Emmanuel?”

“Jesus,” like the angel said, because he’s going to save his people from their sins?

Or should it be “Emmanuel,” like the prophet predicted, because ‘God is with us?’

So, real quick … a little Bible study.

It helps to know that “Jesus” is the linguistic, vernacular evolution of Yeshua … Joshua … the Old Testament hero … the successor to Moses … the guy who ultimately led the Israelites into the Promised Land. Joshua was Moses’ side-kick and protégé; the mighty military warrior; the brave and faithful leader of God’s chosen ones. And very early on in his story, from the Book of Joshua, he is promised – over and over and over again – that God would be a faithful presence, for him and with him, as he led God’s people to safety and security into that Promised Land.

Joshua 1:5 – “No one shall be able to stand against you all the days of your life. As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will not fail you or forsake you.”

Joshua 1:9 – “I hereby command you: Be strong and courageous; do not be frightened or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Joshua 1:17 – “Just as we obeyed Moses in all things, so we will obey you. Only may the Lord your God be with you, as he was with Moses!”

So, God’s promised presence with Joshua was an encouragement for him and a measure of validation for his calling as a leader of God’s people. So Matthew conflates and connects that prophecy from Isaiah about Immanuel – “God with us” – with the naming of Yeshua … Joshua … Jesus, which means something like “Yahweh helps” or “Yahweh saves,” because the story of Joshua is covered up with this notion and promise that God accomplishes that help – God does the work of salvation – by way of God’s ever-faithful presence for and with God’s people.

And the thing is, “Jesus” – as a name – wasn’t really all that special. It was a pretty common name actually, as you might imagine, once you know Joshua’s story. Lots of parents, apparently, had named their little boys after Joshua – this hero of their people.

So, what we’re supposed to notice as much as anything – what’s really special about this story of Jesus’ naming – is that Joseph named him at all. We know about the drama and back story of Mary becoming pregnant in the first place – while she and Joseph were planning to be married, but before they had sealed the deal. We know that Joseph would have, could have, should have – by some standards – punished and abandoned Mary for what was sure to bring judgment, shame, and skepticism upon them both.

So, Joseph’s act of naming this child was a bold, defiant, faithful, loving, brave act of adopting Jesus into his life, into his family – and into the family and line of David. It’s no mistake that Matthew reports the angel as having addressed Joseph so formally and completely: “Joseph, Son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife…” Names are a thing, after all, remember.

Now, I’ve talked often about how much credit I like to give Mary for Jesus’ worldview … about his concern for the poor … about his call to do justice … about his passion for railing against the rich, the mighty, the oppressors of the world and the powers that be. I love, in these days of Christmas, to imagine Mary teaching and singing the words of her Magnificat as a quiet, holy, strange, rebellious lullaby to her little boy – while she carried him in her belly; in the manger on the night of his birth; and every time he wouldn’t sleep or needed to nurse; and all throughout his childhood, too.

I imagine she sang something like that song she first sung upon learning of her pregnancy; that song about God’s mercy being for those who fear him; about a God who scatters the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; about a God who brings down the powerful from their thrones; who lifts up the lowly; who fills the hungry with good things and who sends the rich away empty.

It’s no wonder Jesus grew up with a clear picture of what it looked like to do justice, to love his neighbor, to care for the poor, to forgive his enemies, to walk humbly with God, to flip some tables every once in a while, and all the rest.

But this morning, we get a glimpse of – and a reminder that – Jesus learned some of that from Joseph, too. And it begins with this seemingly simple act of naming. Because naming a child was the father’s responsibility in Jesus’ day, and by doing that, Joseph was claiming Jesus as his. And it was no small thing – it was a bold, defiant, humble, loving, faithful act to welcome this Jesus into his family – the family and House of David.

Joseph could have “dismissed her quietly,” remember. Or he could have had Mary cast out or killed, even, for claiming to be pregnant with the Holy Spirit’s baby; because who would believe that?! But what Joseph shows us – and what Jesus surely realized in time – was that his Dad chose righteousness and faithfulness and loving-kindness and grace over the law and over public opinion and over and above his own self-interest, his own self-preservation, his own pride, ego, and well-being.

And to put it plainly, we need more Josephs in the world, these days. We need men – like Joseph and his little boy – who listen to and who believe women. We need men who stand up for and protect women and girls – like Joseph and his son did – when men in power would sooner doubt, disgrace, and demean them. We need men – like Joseph and Jesus – who don’t just go along to get along. We need men – like Joseph and Jesus – who break the rules – and maybe even the laws, on occasion – when they are unjust, unfair, and unkind. We need men – like Joseph and Jesus – who look for ways to sacrifice, to be generous, to be unapologetically vulnerable to God’s claim on their lives and to trust the difference they can make in the world, when they do.

And we can – and we are called to do this – men, women, and everyone in between – no matter the names by which we are known in the world. We can – and we are called to do this – because of the name we share as baptized children of God, bound by love for one another and bound by love for the sake of the world, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

Matthew 3:1-12

In those days, John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea proclaiming, “Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near. This is the one about whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, ‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord, and make his paths straight.’” Now, John wore clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist and his food was locusts and wild honey.

Then the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all along the region of the Jordan, to be baptized by John in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.

But when John saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming to him for baptism, he said to them, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee the wrath to come? Bear fruit worthy of repentance and do not pretend to say about yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor.’ For I tell you, from these stones, God could raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees and every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.

“I baptize with fire, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me. I’m not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hands to clear the threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

Well, last week Pastor Cogan gave us the Grinch who stole Christmas – and terrorized some small children by bursting into their homes and stealing Christmas gifts, right before their eyes and right out from under their Christmas trees. So, not to be outdone, I give you John the Baptist, with his camel’s hair and leather, his locusts and wild honey, those axes, threshing floors, winnowing forks, and unquenchable fire. Merry Christmas.

But seriously, if you heard Pastor Cogan last week and took advantage of his homework assignment – to make an Advent List of things you’d like for God to remove from your life in preparation for the coming of Christmas and beyond – then I hope the words of John the Baptist aren’t as scary as some have made them out to be over the years. I mean that it’s deeply faithful and profoundly meaningful to see John the Baptist as less of a Grinch and more of a harbinger of hope. It can be life-changing to see that the trees being chopped and the threshing floor being cleared and the chaff being burned don’t have to represent people, for crying out loud, which is what too many have believed for too long in this world.

We don’t have to fear the Lord who’s on the way, in those ways, any longer. Instead, we are invited to look forward to and prepare for God’s coming in Jesus by getting ready for this unquenchable fire of God’s grace as a good and holy thing, instead, that means to lovingly burn away the chaff of our lives – to rid us of the bad stuff like our pride… the sinful stuff like our selfishness… the faith-stealing stuff of our fear, the light-dimming stuff of vengeance and war and more.

John calls us to be rid of it all by way of a good bath, or a thorough pruning, or maybe by setting it out like so much trash at the curb on garbage day.

And while this is all good news – and not nearly as terrible or as scary as many have made John the Baptist’s words out to be – it may not always come easy; there’s some tough love in what John offers up today, too. And it has to do with this call to repentance.

And, my favorite story about repentance is one from my own childhood.

When I was a kid – about seven or eight years old – I was sledding in the winter with my neighbors and very best friends – on a hill not far from where we lived. Our sledding hill was great. It was in the yard of some members of our church, and complete with a creek of running water at the bottom. The creek was small, but deep enough apparently, that it didn’t always freeze in the winter.

Anyway, during an afternoon of sledding and snowmen and snow ball fights, I got into a real, actual fight with one of my best friends, who was and is more like a second big brother to me. (I told this story at his wedding, at which I presided, just a couple of weeks ago, which is why it came to mind again this week.) Anyway, there was yelling and screaming and pushing and pulling and, even though he was 3 years older than me – and bigger and stronger in every way – I somehow managed to push him into the icy water of that creek at the bottom of the hill.

As surprised as I was by whatever strength, good luck, and gravity had worked in my favor, I was just as instantly ashamed and scared and consumed with guilt over what I had done to my friend. I felt bad for whatever fluke had allowed me to win the fight. I felt terrible that my friend was cold and wet and embarrassed by it all. And I was worried, too, about what would happen to both of us once our parents found out. So, in all of my shame and guilt and fear and regret – and with all the wisdom of my seven or eight years – I shouted out my apologies as I did my own wintry version of the Nestea plunge right next to him in the icy water of that creek.

And, even if my repentance was cold and wet and unhelpful in so many ways, it was heartfelt. It was honest. And it came from a real and deep desire to make things right again between my friend and me. I would have undone my transgression altogether if I could have, but that wasn’t possible. So, all I could do was apologize and begin a long, soggy, very cold, frozen walk home.

And I think the tough love of John the Baptist was – and is – an invitation to this kind of repentance. Not that we have to jump into the cold, unforgiving waters of our sinfulness – or that that would accomplish anything more than my Nestea plunge was able to accomplish.

But that we would recognize the fullness of our sins in the light of God’s willingness to do that for us – and more: to jump into the world, I mean … to enter into the cold, frozen waters of our transgressions, I mean … to climb onto the cross and out of the tomb for our sake, I mean. And that once we recognize the fullness of that kind of sacrifice and love, we’ll resolve to do better and different in response to God’s grace.

So, what does that mean for you in these days leading up to Christmas? What does it mean for Christians, waiting on the birth of Jesus, to “bear fruit worthy of repentance?” After all, we’re just as flawed, broken, scared, insecure, imperfect, and hard-hearted as those Pharisees and Sadducees who showed up at the Jordan to be baptized by John. And while repentance is one of the most faithfully Christian things we can practice, it’s not something that comes easy for most of us.

I think to “bear fruit worthy of repentance” means we give ourselves over to grace; we let our guard down; we open our hearts up; we let the cracks of our brokenness show; and we let those cracks be filled with all God has to offer as a loving fix. Repentance is about letting ourselves be vulnerable to the love of God, so that we might be changed by the good news that comes in Jesus.

When we buy that… When we let that Truth into our heads and into our hearts… When we allow that reality to shape and influence our actions and our behavior… that’s when true, deep, faithful repentance will happen. Repentance will come because we will be changed and we will change the ways we live in this world.

Then, I believe, the chaff of our lives – our greed, our pride, our selfishness, and all the rest – will fall away and we’ll be happy and blessed to watch it burn in the unquenchable fire of God’s amazing grace and be drowned by the waters of God’s unrelenting love, until we’re able to share more of the same love, mercy, and forgiveness in Jesus’ name.

Amen

Joseph, Jesus, and What’s in a Name

Sledding Repentance