In our home the advent wreath has played a large part this year. Each evening, as we dine, we light the candles as a reminder of the themes they represent.
As we light the first purple candle it speaks of hope. This advent each person will be hoping for different things depending on personal circumstances. Hope is what strenghens each of us on our individual journeys.
Peace fills our hearts and minds as the second purple candle is lit. Peace in all its many varied aspects. This advent I hope each of you will find peace as you prepare to celebrate the birth of the Christ child.
Joy is at the heart of our advent journey. As we light the pink candle it reminds us that even in a solemn season of waiting and preparation, joy often breaks into our lives unexpectedly. Joy turns darkness to light as we are captured by an intensity of well-being and happiness that can only be described of as pure joy. It may only be a moment in time, a fleeting happening, yet the memory is precious. Joy came, and because of it, life is a little richer.
Then this morning, for the first time, we lit the fourth purple candle reminding us of love which completes the message of hope, peace and joy. As the candle shines out, the lectionary invites us to read the beginning of the Christmas story. It is a story of love.
It is worth noting that the tone of the season changes this week. The waiting becomes more focused, more intimate. The wide, cosmic promises of the prophets narrow into a story of ordinary human life.
A young woman.
A man who loves her.
A child not yet born.
This week’s gospel (Matthew 1: 18-25) is often called Joseph’s story, but it is also, unmistakably, Mary’s.
Too often in the Christmas story Mary’s role is softened into being only about obedience, as though she simply accepts what happens to her. But the tradition remembers something far stronger: agency. Mary does not drift into this story. She chooses to say yes, not because the path will be safe or easy, but because it is life-bearing. She consents with her body, her reputation, her future. She becomes a participant in divine becoming. G*d’s presence enters the world through flesh, blood and womb. Mary’s body becomes holy ground where life takes root. Mary is not a vessel acted upon, but a collaborator with creation itself.
Joseph, too, acts with courage, but his courage is relational. He chooses not to expose Mary to shame. He chooses protection over righteousness-as-rule-keeping. Even before any angel speaks, Joseph has already aligned himself with mercy.
When the dream comes with the words “Do not be afraid” Joseph consents to stand beside Mary, not above her. He chooses accompaniment.
Together, Mary and Joseph model a shared faithfulness:
Mary consents to bear life.
Joseph consents to shelter it.
Neither controls the outcome. Both trust the unfolding.
Furthermore, Joseph is told the child is named Immanuel which means G*d-with-us.
Not G*d hovering above creation.
Not G*d rescuing us from the earth.
But G*d rooted among us.
The Christ child grows quietly, hidden, nourished by a woman’s body. G*d enters the world the way all life does, slowly, vulnerably, dependent on love.
As we stand on the edge of the celebration of the birth of the Christ child, I am struck by how little certainty anyone has in this story.
Mary does not know how the world will respond.
Joseph does not know how the future will unfold.
The child has not yet drawn breath.
And yet, life goes on.
Perhaps this is Advent’s deepest wisdom:
that love is found not in control, but in consent;
not in certainty, but in trust;
not in escape from the earth, but in belonging to it.
This story of love is so important that it restarts time for all humanity. Hope, peace and joy are redefined. Everything changes because of this one story.
