A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent
December 21, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR
Readings: Isaiah 7:10-16; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25; Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18
It was the tale of two Josephs. It was not the best of times; some would say it was the worst of times. For each of these Josephs, a difficult calling was issued, a difficult service required, a difficulty that tested righteousness, a difficulty that sapped their strength. No, it was not the best of times; some would say it was the worst of times. But perhaps there was light, just a flicker of hope.
One of the Josephs sat in my office. He had dropped by; that was not unusual. But today he had something else, something deeper, on his mind. He told me about his family, and especially about his younger brother. It had been years for them, he said, years since they had been connected. Oh sure, they would be around one another for the occasional family gathering, usually a funeral. But otherwise they were out of each other’s lives. There was good reason. His younger brother had messed up bad. As Joseph told me his story, I thought about the youngest son in the Parable of the Prodigal Son–you remember that one? Addiction led to isolation which led to criminality which led to further addiction which led to family separation which eventually led to jail time which led to… You get the picture. After his younger brother had hurt their father–he had hurt him to the point that Joseph blamed his younger brother for their father’s early death–after his younger brother had hurt his father, Joseph was done. At least that’s how it looked to the outside world. But Joseph harbored a prayer, a secret prayer. At every Eucharist he would breathe the name of his brother. At bedtime every night, he would say his brother’s name. For what he was praying, he was honestly not sure. But he prayed. And he dreamed. And he hoped. Year after year after year. Every Christmas, an empty chair. And the darkness of the situation weighed on his soul. It was not the best of times; some would say it was the worst of times.
There is something in our modern-day Joseph’s story that reminds me of St. Joseph, the guardian of our Lord. We read about him in our gospel reading today. Truth be told, the gospels are light on details about Joseph. Scholars believe Joseph must have died while Jesus was growing up; we don’t have any accounts of him once Jesus is an adult. That wouldn’t be surprising. Men typically married later; life expectancy was shorter. Joseph would have taught Jesus his trade–a tekton, more likely a stonemason than a carpenter, perhaps involved in the building of the great cities around Nazareth.
But today’s reading from Matthew–Matthew gives us the details on Joseph–today’s reading from Matthew gives us one additional important detail. Joseph is a righteous man. That’s what Matthew calls him. And righteousness for Matthew and the community to which Matthew is writing has a specific meaning. It means that Joseph is obedient to the commandments of God. It does not mean that he is perfect, but it does mean that he takes his faith seriously. It does mean that he seeks to live in virtue, in accordance with the teachings of the law and the prophets. It means that he sees himself as part of that story, that story of God’s redemption, that began long ago when Abraham looked to the heavens and tried to count the stars.
It also means that Joseph is a man of prayer. And as a man of prayer in Second Temple Judaism, he prayed for the Messiah. He prayed for salvation. He prayed for a redeemer. He prayed, as our first hymn prayed, O Come, O Come Emmanuel. As an observant Jew of the time, he prayed the Amidah, the prayer of 18 blessings. He would pray it with his feet together, standing, quietly to himself, three times a day. The prayer has changed throughout the centuries, but part of it may have sounded something like this:
Speedily cause the offspring of thy servant David to flourish, and let his glory be exalted by thy help, for we hope for thy deliverance all day. Blessed art thou, O Lord, who causest salvation to flourish.
Joseph is a righteous man. A faithful man. He prayed for God’s Messiah–come, O come Emmanuel. A prayer shaped by everyday oppressive existence from Roman imperial forces, by the need for a real-life rescuer in a time of hunger and despair, by the hope that God will show up, not just in shimmering tears and warmed hearts, but in action, mighty to save. And the Messiah does come. An angel visits Joseph and tells him the news: Mary will bear the Son of God. Joseph will be part of this coming. Joseph has been dreaming and praying for this day, and now that it is here, in a way so unexpected, unbelievable, and miraculous, Joseph’s life is turned upside down.
I think we can downplay the impact the Incarnation has on the lives of Mary and Joseph. In order for the Son of God to be born, they must take on shame and rebuke and whispers in the marketplace and the shaking of heads in the synagogue and rumors in the street and resentment in the family. In order for the Messiah to be born, they must give up their dreams of a quiet life, of a common life. In order for the Messiah to be born, Joseph, this righteous man, must empty himself, say yes to God, accept the difficulty, and allow his prayers to be enfleshed. The Messiah is coming, Joseph. Salvation is coming. And God requires much of you: much worry, much suffering, much rebuke. Let us not romanticize it all and ignore Mary and Joseph’s pain: it was not the best of times; some would say it was the worst of times. But Joseph, this is what you have been praying for.
We pray for God’s salvation, and when it comes, we sometimes find ourselves disappointed. For God’s work requires much of us. God’s salvific work requires that we surrender ourselves, that we give up some things, that we bear some burdens. And we discover that when we were praying for a Messiah, for salvation, for Emmanuel at last–when we were praying those prayers, maybe we were just praying for an easier life. But instead we get a cross to carry into the darkness. A difficult calling is issued, a difficult service required, a difficulty that tests righteousness, a difficulty that saps our strength. It may not be the best of times; maybe it feels like the worst of times. But there is light, if we look. There is a flicker of hope, a spark of salvation, an ember of grace being born in the darkness. Messiah has come, and there is healing in his wings.
Our modern-day Joseph sat in my office. There were tears. After years of silent prayers, of mumbled hope, of secret dreams of reconciliation–after all these years, there was a text message from his younger brother. He had hit rock bottom, and he was reaching out at last. But Joseph didn’t know what to do. He had prayed for this day, but he expected it to be easier, or at least different. He had expected to be more like the father in the parable of the Prodigal Son, gladly embracing his brother. But that’s not what he felt. Forgiveness was needed; fault had to be acknowledged; mercy had to be offered; pride had to be swallowed; there was much risk. And it didn’t feel good at all–not how we imagine answered prayer to feel. It was more like a cross. Maybe a little like birth pangs. As Joseph wept in my office, though, I saw something small. I heard it in his voice. I heard it barely. It was a careful hope–maybe this could be it. It was the smallest spark–maybe reconciliation that could last had come. There was the faintest ember–maybe forgiveness would be possible, and maybe God’s grace would be enough to get him through.
Joseph, people of God: Pick up your cross, and rejoice! Walk bravely into the darkness, and rejoice! Your prayer has been answered: Emmanuel has come to you, and he is present and mighty to save.
Storied Grace 