Marvel (Advent Post)
Philippians 2:4 “Let each of you look out not only for his own interests, but also for the interests of others.”
In all of my years in church, I can’t name one boy who played Joseph. All of the Josephs blend together in my memory. I imagine the nativity castings went something like this:
I think so-and-so would make a good Joseph.
Who?
You know, the tall, quiet one.
Oh, perfect. He can stand there for a long time and not distract anyone.
Maybe that’s why I grew up viewing the real Joseph as a prop in the Christmas story, why even as an adult I tend to read right over him. Yet this year, something about Joseph caught my eye, and as I began to consider the weight of what God asked of him and the trust The Father showed in picking him, I was humbled. Most of what we know about Joseph is based solely on his actions; in fact, there’s only one instance where the Gospel writers give us a glimpse into Joseph’s feelings, and it’s bound up in a single word: “marvel” (Luke 2:33).
We know from the book of Matthew that Joseph was a just man and that instead of publicly shaming Mary for her pregnancy, which was within his rights, he planned to separate from her privately (1:19). We know that he thought about it, that it wasn’t a rash decision (1:20), and that he wasn’t so passionately in love with Mary that her perceived indiscretion didn’t matter. He was gracious, yet practical. A rule follower.
We also know from Scripture that every time the angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph, as soon as he woke up he did the very thing God asked. There was no wavering, no wait-and-see, no demanding a sign, just immediate obedience (Matthew 1:24; 2:14; 2:21; 2:22). After Jesus was born, we know from the book of Luke that every part of the law was followed (2:39), including circumcision on the eighth day (2:21) and a sacrifice in the temple (2:22-24).
If I had to guess, Joseph was not a man who marveled easily.
But in the temple, marvel is precisely what he did. I imagine that there was really no greater confirmation for Joseph, a righteous Jewish man, than to hear the blessings and fulfillment of prophecy poured out by Simeon (Luke 2:25-35). If Joseph was amazed by the wise men, we don’t hear of it. If he was moved by the unexpected visit of the shepherds, we aren’t privy to it. Yet, in the presence of one of Israel’s righteous men, conscientious Joseph was overcome with awe and wonder that this Spirit-filled stranger was speaking these things to them.
Simeon’s words came a mere 40 days into the life of Jesus. There were three dreams still to come, two moves, a middle-of-the-night flight from a vicious King, poverty, life in a foreign land, and no doubt a dose of innuendo about Joseph’s parentage when they returned to Nazareth.
God’s call for Joseph was neither linear, nor comfortable. It was rife with disruption.
I can relate, though not in magnitude. Like most parents of toddlers, I am in a season of disruption. Even small tasks—unloading the dishwasher, folding the laundry, going to the grocery store—are fraught with false starts and re-dos. Lately, though, when I begin to get antsy about all “I’m not accomplishing,” I’ve been reminded of my first year teaching. I was only a few weeks into the term, when a girl began interrupting my second block class with comments, derailing the whole room into fits of laughter.
I was annoyed.
To add insult to injury, she began coming early to chat, lingered after school, and started popping up during my prep period. I smiled and listened, but inwardly I was making a mental note of the six parents I needed to meet with, the 104 essays I still needed to grade, the two committee meetings I had yet to prep for, and the novel I had to finish reading by the end of the week.
Still she came, plopping down in the chair across from my desk, putting her feet up on the bookcase, and rolling her eyes that I had assigned Animal Farm.
Several weeks of these visits went by before I got one tiny glimpse of the havoc at home, and with it a mighty unraveling of how I saw my role. Without fail, every year I taught, God brought brokenhearted kids into my life. It is easy to see now—as I’ve watched many of them grow and heal and attend college and even get married—that they were not disruptions from the work at hand, but the calling itself. At the time? Well, that’s a different story.
As if to drive home the point, my toddler has disrupted me a dozen times since I’ve begun writing this final paragraph. I finally put the computer down, and we played trucks and ate string cheese together. God is at work, even when life feels unproductive. Maybe especially so.
Joseph was called to a life of trust. He was asked to relinquish his own plans and to make room for God. We are too. And while our disruptions may pale in comparison to Joseph’s, as we enter into Advent may we have eyes to see the people around us, ears to hear God shifting us away from our own plans, and hearts malleable enough to make room for the things not on our lists and the joy they bring. May we marvel at Jesus and the story He is writing through His people, all of us. Even the ordinary ones.
This weeks post is written by Claire Deering. Claire attends CCC and is a mother, writer, and former teacher. You can read more of her work at KINDRED.