An Orderly Account: Gospel of Luke – Page 6

Stephen: deacon and prophet, martyr and disciple

26 December is the day when the Western Church especially recognises Stephen, the person who lays claim to being the first Christian martyr. (The Eastern Church allocates 27 December for this purpose). In reflecting on Stephen, we find a richness in what Luke recounts in his second volume, the Acts of the Apostles. Here are seven things to note about Stephen.

Stephen represents the ministry of Deacon. He was one of the seven appointed in the Jerusalem church “to wait on tables” during “the daily distribution of food”. In this account, we find the Greek term diakonia (6:1,4) and its cognate verb (6:2). These terms have a general reference to waiting at table in ordinary hellenistic Greek usage (Luke 4:39; 10:40; 12:37; 17:8), but here take on the distinctive sense which they collect in Luke-Acts, by referring to a leadership role in the community (Luke 8:3; 22:26-27; Acts 1:17,25; 12:25; 19:22; 20:24; 21:19).
Stephen represents those gifted by the Spirit for ministry. As the first named of the seven, he is explicitly identified as being “a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit” (Acts 6:5). The phrase “filled with the Spirit” is applied to Peter (4:8), Stephen (6:3,5; 7:55), Saul (9:17; 13:9) and Barnabas (11:24). Earlier, in Luke’s Gospel, other individuals were identified as spirit-filled: John the baptiser (1:15), Zachariah (1:67), Simeon (2:25-26) and Jesus himself (4:1,14). The phrase “full of faith and the Holy Spirit” reinforces the role of the spirit-filled prophet within the messianic Jewish community. Indeed, all members of this community are typically “filled with the spirit” (4:31). They all had a ministry to exercise.
Stephen exemplifies grace, wisdom and power–qualities to be found amongst those in ministry and leadership. Stephen is described as being “full of grace” (6:8), a defining mark of the community noted at 2:47, 4:33, and of power, a divine gift (2:22) exhibited by the apostles (4:33). He is able to perform wonders and signs (6:8), a divinely-inspired capacity (2:19) exhibited by Jesus (2:22) and the apostles (2:43; 5:12). Luke notes again that Stephen speaks with “wisdom and spirit” (6:10), attributes already noted as divine in origin the spirit is a direct gift of God (2:17), as is faith, or believing (5:14); wisdom is given by God (7:10) and is linked with spirit (6:3,10) and other divine gifts (grace, 7:10; power, 7:22).
Stephen also represents those called to the Ministry of the Word. Acts 7 contains the longest speech of the book (and the only one spoken by Stephen). Stephen is portrayed as one powerful speaker. The speech serves to set the events that took place in Jerusalem (the accusations brought against Stephen, 6:9-15; and the stoning of Stephen, 7:51-60) within the broader framework of divine sovereignty (how God has been at work in Israel, 7:2-50). As is typical of speeches in Acts, Stephen makes God the subject of the speech (7:2); we see the same pattern in speeches by Peter (2:17; 3:13; 5:30) and Paul (13:17, 21; 17). The phrase used here, “the God of glory”, is drawn from scripture (Ps 29:3), and retells the story with this consistent perspective: what took place in the past was God working in and through human history. God is regularly the initiator of the actions reported (see verses 2,4,5,6,9,10,20,25,32,36,38,42,44,45,46).
Stephen represents the continuation of the prophetic tradition in the early church. The speech Luke places on the lips of Stephen rebuts the charges that have been laid against Stephen; it demonstrates that, far from speaking “blasphemous words against God” (6:11), Stephen has a fulsome understanding of God’s place in Israel’s history. At the end of his speech, Stephen takes up the charge that he spoke “against the holy place” (6:13). Luke has Stephen quote scripture (7:49-50, citing Isa 66:1-2) in order to show that his criticism of the temple (God’s “place of rest”, 7:49) arises from within Jewish tradition itself. There are numerous scriptural allusions and quotations in this speech by Stephen. He provides a detailed rehearsal of significant parts of Israel’s history, by focussing in turn on Abraham (7:2-8), Joseph (7:9-16) and Moses (7:17-44). Then, after making brief mention of Joshua (7:45a), David (7:45b-46) and Solomon (7:47), Stephen moves to the climactic claim of the speech (7:48-53). Now, lengthy recitals of key features of Israel’s history are already found in Hebrew Scripture (Deut 26; Josh 24; Neh 9; Pss 78; 105; 106; 135; 136; Ezek 20). The long recital of the earlier part of Israel’s history reinforces Stephen’s Jewish credentials. When he begins to speak critically of the temple, and of the Jerusalem authorities, it is clear that he does so from within the Jewish tradition. Stephen is not an outsider, but an insider, offering a prophetic critique. This is at the heart of the proclamation of the good news.
Stephen represents martyrs—those who bear witness to their faith, to the point of offering up their own lives. The Greek word martys actually derives from the word to bear witness; it is applied to Stephen at Acts 22:20, and this usage has come to define its central quality in later Christian thinking. Stephen stands for what he believes, to the point of death. The task of bearing witness is enabled by the gift of the spirit and given to all followers of Jesus (1:8), but Stephen is the first to reveal the extent to wich bearing witness requires total life commitment. The Greek word stephanos means “crown”, and much has been made of this in later Christian tradition (the crown of martyrdom, etc); but Luke avoids any such wordplay in his account of Stephen. In Luke’s description of the charges brought against Stephen in Jerusalem (Acts 6), there are echoes of the charged laid against Jesus, according to Synoptic traditions. Those in conflict with Stephen are Diaspora Jews who have returned to Jerusalem, where they worship in a synagogue (6:9). They conscript agitators to stir up the crowd (6:11-12). This is reminiscent of a detail in the trial of Jesus (Mark 15:11; Matt 27:20) which Luke omits, transferring it to Stephen’s trial. Similar agitation of the crowd will later be encountered by Paul (13:50; 14:19; 17:5,13); in Luke’s eyes, it is a typical characteristic of what was experienced by the early followers of Jesus. Likewise, the “false witnesses” who accuse Stephen of speaking against the temple (6:13) recall the false witnesses who charge Jesus with the claim that he would destroy the temple (Mark 14:55-58; Matt 26:59-61). This is another detail which Luke omits from his Gospel narrative and transfers to Stephen’s trial. The speech which Stephen delivers thus serves as the “defence speech” in his trial; a true witness to God, over against the charge of the false witnesses.
Stephen shows us what it means to follow Jesus. Luke consciously models Stephen’s death on the death scene of Jesus (7:54-60; cf. Luke 23:34, 44-46). He is once again described as “filled with the spirit” (7:55, evoking 6:3,5), and he experiences an epiphany in which he sees “the glory of God” (7:55). At this liminal moment, Stephen is already transported into the divine presence. The same happens for Jesus in Luke’s account of his crucifixion. In 7:56, when Stephen describes the heavens opening, he evokes the Lukan account of Jesus’ baptism (Luke 3:21), and his vision of the Son of Man is similar to the apocalyptic vision which Jesus paints at his trial (Luke 22:69). In both scenes, it is as if God intervenes into the events taking place. Stephen’s two cries “in a great voice” (7:57,60) are reminiscent of the death of Jesus (Luke 23:46), and his dying words, “receive my spirit” (7:59), are patterned on the final words of the Lukan Jesus (Luke 23:46, citing Ps 31:6). He is close to God at his death—as is the Lukan Jesus. Stephen’s last cry, a petition that the Lord overlook this sin (7:60), is similarly evocative of the words of the Lukan Jesus, offering forgiveness to those who crucified him (Luke 23:34). In life, and in death, Stephen faithfully follows Jesus.

(These reflections are adapted from sections of my commentary on Acts, published in 2003 in the Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible.)

The birthing

Not wise ones, not foreign, exotic and learned;
but shepherds unnamed, keeping watch in the fields;
impure and unclean, outsiders, at best;
some scorn them, and say
they are robbers.

Not great men, prestigious, important and powerful;
but common folk, forced to be on the move;
back to his home town, seeking their refuge,
a place of safety, where she
gives birth.

No gold for the king, nor frankincense pure,
no myrrh as a sign of suffering to come;
but the stench of the sheep, the dirt of the fields,
the news of the angels—of peace,
goodwill.

No grand cosmic vision of word and eternity,
but stable and manger, the rupture of waters
and shedding of blood; a birthing, a crying
piercing the air: now mother
and child.

Although long expected, so deeply yearned for,
it was not impressive, nor was it grand,
but coming in flesh in a backwater place
to an unknown family at night?
A surprise!

And where would this lead her?
And what fate awaits him?
In ways unforeseen, with a radical cry,
provoking, confronting, disturbing, evoking
the kingdom of God, upturning
the world.

John Squires, December 2020

The earliest Western Madonna and Child, from the Book of Kells, at the beginning of the Gospel of Matthew. c. 800

Striking storylines, creatively constructed—on the lack of an infancy narrative in Mark’s Gospel (for Christmas)

Every year, the “Christmas story” gets swamped by Luke’s story in his orderly account, of the angels, the shepherds, “no room at the inn” and “good news of great joy”. From Matthew’s account in his book of origins, the visit of the sojourning magi from the east, offering their splendid gifts to the newborn, gets a place in the story—but not the tragedy of the terrible massacre perpetrated by the vengeful ruler, Herod.

Every Christmas, the majestic, soaring words from the poetic prologue to John’s book of signs is read in worship, and sometimes preached on; “in the beginning was the Word … and the Word became flesh, and pitched his tent in amongst us”. What never gets a look in, at any point in the Advent or Christmas seasons, is how the other Gospel, that attributed to Mark, portrays the beginnings of Jesus.

“In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan” (Mark 1:9) is how Jesus is introduced. This is the adult Jesus, not the newborn infant. There is no mention of Bethlehem, nor the rampage of Herod; no reference to magi travelling from the east, bearing gifts, nor to a census ordered under Quirinius, necessitating short-term accommodation. There is no story of the infant Jesus at all—and most strikingly, no mention of Mary and Joseph.

Rather, in Mark’s narrative which reports the beginning of the good news about Jesus, the chosen one, Jesus distances himself from his family. “Who are my mother and my brothers?”, he asks, when confronted by scribes from Jerusalem and labelled as “out of his mind” by his own family (Mark 3:21, 33). People of his hometown (Nazareth) identify him, not as “son of Joseph”—only in John’s book of signs do his fellow-Jews identify him as “son of Joseph” (John 6:42). And it is up to Luke and Matthew, each in their own way, to link Jesus, as a newborn, to these parents.

In Mark’s account of the scene when the adult Jesus returns to his hometown, he is “the carpenter, the son of Mary” (6:3). This is the only time that the name of his mother appears in this earliest account of Jesus; and there is simply no mention, by name, or by relationship, of his putative father. (Some scribes later modified this verse (Mark 6:3) to refer to him as “son of the carpenter and of Mary”, to align Mark’s account with how Matthew later reports it at Matt 13:55.)

Other than this one reference, Mark makes no reference to Jesus’s parents. He is simply, and consistently identified as “the son of God” (Mark 1:1; 3:11; 5:7; 9:7; 15:39). On one occasion, he is addressed as “son of David” (10:47–48; although this description is the subject of debate at 12:35–37). More often, in this earliest of Gospels, using a term taken from Hebrew Scripture, Jesus refers to himself, or others refer to him, as “the son of humanity” (2:10, 28; 8:31, 38; 9:9, 12, 31; 10:33, 45; 13:26; 14:21, 41, 62; see Ezek 2:1, 8; 3:1, 4, 16; etc; and Dan 7:13). The origins and identity of Jesus, in Mark’s eyes, relate more to the larger picture—of his Jewish heritage, in his relationship to the divine, and with his role for all humanity—than to the immediacy of parental identification.

Mark knows nothing of what transpires in Luke’s orderly account, as “Joseph went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David; he went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child” (Luke 2:4–5).

He certainly knows nothing of the way that Luke has spliced the story of Jesus into the story of John the baptiser (related through their mothers, Luke 1:36) such that John is filled with “the spirit and power of Elijah” (Luke 1:17) to function as “the prophet of the Most High [who will] go before the Lord to prepare his ways” (Luke 1:76), whilst Jesus “will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David” (Luke 1:32), and then himself will be “filled with wisdom” (Luke 2:49) and, indeed, “filled with the Holy Spirit” (Luke 4:1, 14).

Mark also knows nothing of what is narrated in the Matthean book of origins, of the time when, after a visit from magi from the east, “Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt”, and then “Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel” (Matt 2:14, 21).

This author’s concern is both to locate Jesus firmly and schematically in his genealogy as “the chosen one, the son of David, the son of Abraham” (Matt 1:1–17), and to make as many parallels as possible with the story of Moses, the one whose life was imperilled by a powerful ruler (Exod 2:15; cf. Matt 2:13–14), who escaped the murderous rampage that occurred (Exod 1:22; cf. Matt 2:16), who fled into a foreign land (Exod 2:15; cf. Matt 2:14), and who then returned to where he had been born (Exod 4:20; cf. Matt 2:21). The regular reminder that “this took place to fulfil what the Lord has said through the prophets” (Matt 1:22; 2:4, 15, 17, 23) underlines this Mosaic typology.

In this regard, Mark is very much like Paul, the famous apostle who, some decades earlier, was able to refer to Jesus as “born of a woman, born under the law” (Gal 4:4)—that is, his Jewishness was important, but the name of that woman was not. And Paul refers to God’s Son as being “descended from David according to the flesh” (Rom 1:3)—that is, his Davidic ancestry was important, but even the name of his father, a descendant of David, was not. Mark and Paul both place their focus elsewhere, away from the baby, the manger, the magi, the star. The earlier witnesses to Jesus show no concern at all in this later accretions to the story, with which Luke and Matthew each introduce Jesus.

What would Mark (or Paul) think of the way we have appropriated these two later narratives, offered by their creators as myths, stories to convey deep truths through striking storylines which have been creatively constructed? What would he think of the ways that we have read them as historical reports, literally chronicling actual happenings? What would he think of the thoroughly unhistorical blurring together of the two stories, with shepherds and magi coming together at the crib at the same time?

Perhaps next year, when the lectionary focusses on the Gospel of Mark, we might let this Gospel govern the way that we approach the season of Christmas? Perhaps the focus might be, not on angels and magi, not on shepherds and tyrants, not on the trimmings and trappings of the commercialised season, not even on the incarnate presence of the eternal Word, but on the significance in daily, human, life, of this person, Jesus? Now that would be truly counter-cultural, truly alternative, truly faith-focussed amidst the razzamatazz of the times!

Christmas: not actual history, but powerful myth

As I have written in two earlier posts, the biblical accounts of the birth of Jesus are not actual history. They are stories told to indicate the special nature of Jesus. Which means, we shouldn’t read them as history (ἱστορία). The Christmas story isn’t history. The Christmas story is myth (μῦθος).

See

https://johntsquires.com/2022/12/21/why-the-christmas-story-is-not-history-1-the-nativity-scene/

and

https://johntsquires.com/2022/12/22/why-the-christmas-story-is-not-history-2-luke-1-2-and-matthew-1-2/

As myth, the story points to important truths. It orients us to the claim that God is involved in human history. It sets the foundations for hearing the narratives about Jesus as accounts which resonate with God’s intentions for humanity.

The stories told at Christmas are located in specific human situations, and point to specific human needs. Outsiders and outcasts are included in the story told by Luke. Shepherds, despised for their work and marginalised from society, appear front and centre in his story. Strangers travel from distant foreign lands in Matthew’s narrative, bearing gifts to pay homage to the infant Jesus.

Women, not men, play central roles in the opening chapters of Luke’s story. Elizabeth, cursed as barren, blossoms into pregnancy, and speaks where her husband is struck dumb. Mary, young and virginal, receives startling news from an angel; she holds her own stands up to the angel, commits to the task, and then sings powerful words of justice, signalling in advance the revolutionary message that will be spoken by the child whom she is bearing.

Both Luke and Matthew include the gritty reality of the refugee situation in their accounts. Luke has a pregnant Mary undertake an enforced journey with Joseph, from Nazareth to Bethlehem, the hometown of his family line, only to be forced to give birth in precarious circumstances. There is no historical evidence for the census that occasioned this journey, but the story provides a compelling vision of what refugees faced then, and still face today.

Matthew has Mary and Joseph, with Jesus now a two-year-old toddler, making an even longer forced trek, from Bethlehem into Egypt, because of the excessive reaction of the king of the time. There is also no historical evidence for the slaughter of all boys aged two and under in Bethlehem at that time, but the story in Matthew’s Gospel again highlights the tenuous situations faced by refugees, then as now.

Matthew’s Moses typology leads him to place the slaughter of the Innocents right at the heart of his narrative. He grounds the story of Jesus in the historical, political, and cultural life of the day, when a tyrant could exercise immense power, when the sensibilities we have about human life seem absent. It provides a dreadful realism to a story which, all too often in the developing Christian Tradition, became etherealised, spiritualised, and romanticised.

We need to remember the Christmas story as an important pointer to the counter-cultural, alternative-narrative impact of the person of Jesus. It is not history, but it offers a powerful myth. It grounds our faith in a revolutionary understanding of reality, and in actions that establish an alternative reality. The story is not to be domesticated and coated in syrup; its stark reality and honest grappling with life needs to be grasped and valued.

As we sing songs of this story, let us not reify the story (that is, turn the narrative into “a thing”, like history) … let us not collapse the story into a surface “real history”, but let us allow the story to speak in a deep way of who we are as humans, and of the reality of our lives today. That is how the story functions, as myth (μῦθος) — not in the sense of myth being “not true”, but rather, in the sense of myth plumbing the depths of human existence.

Myths are the stories we tell that convey deep-seated and fundamental insights about life. Whether they “actually happened” is not the point. More fundamental is that they help us to make sense of our lives. They draw us out of our comfort and preoccupations, and challenge us to see a different reality, to live a different life.

Bernard F. Batto (Professor Emeritus of Religious Studies at DePauw University, Indiana), writes: “In everyday usage today, myth carries a meaning of something untrue, a fable, a fiction, or an illusion. Anthropologists and historians of religion, however, use the term ‘myth’ with a quite different meaning. For them myth refers to a traditional story, usually associated with the time of origins, that has paradigmatic significance for the society in which the story is operative.”

So, this Christmas, let’s rejoice that we have this foundational and paradigmatic story which is not history (ἱστορία), but which functions as myth (μῦθος). And as myth, this story stirs our imaginings and challenges our presuppositions, giving us a different perspective on the realities of life in this world, indicating to us how God engages with us and interacts with our world.

https://johntsquires.com/2018/12/24/resonating-with-christmas-a-story-of-restless-travel-and-seeking-refuge/#

Why “the Christmas story” is not history (2): Luke 1-2 and Matthew 1-2

In a scene that is often called The Annunciation (Luke 1:26–38), an announcement that is made to Mary, informing her that she will bear a child. You can read more of my reflections on this scene at https://johntsquires.com/2020/12/14/advent-four-the-scriptural-resonances-in-the-annunciation-luke-1/

The Annunciation, by Chinese artist He Qi

It’s a scene, set in a Jewish context, in the region of Galilee, in a town named Nazareth. We are not sure exactly when this scene took place; the only clue is that it was “in the sixth month” (Luke 1:26) after a previous announcement, about the birth of another child, to her cousin, Elizabeth, and her husband Zechariah (Luke 1:5).

The scene in Nazareth thus most likely occurred “in the days of King Herod of Judea” (Luke 1:5), which places it some years before the year in which we traditionally reckon that Jesus was born—the fictive “year zero”, or more accurately, the time when 1 BCE became 1 CE.

At that time Nazareth was but a tiny village, with no more than 50 residents. It was an insignificant, obscure place. Not the location that might have been presumed for this announcement about the imminent birth of the Messiah.

Now, King Herod died soon after an eclipse of the moon soon before a Passover, according to the Jewish historian Josephus; that was most likely in March/April of 4BCE, by our reckoning. So Mary was pregnant, and gave birth, some years before the mythical “year zero”.

Later, after the death of Herod, the region of Galilee came under the control of Herod Antipas, the son of Herod the Great and one of his wives, Malthace, from Samaria. Herod senior was the king who, according to Matthew, ordered the slaughter of all males born in Israel (Matt 2:16-18). Herod Antipas was, according to Mark, the ruler who, against his better judgement, ordered the beheading of John the baptiser (Mark 6:17-29). Herod Agrippa was another member of the family, a grandson of King Herod by another of his wives, Mariamne, who ruled as King of Judea from 41 to 44 CE.

Herod Antipas ruled as tetrarch of the region of Galilee and Perea from the time his father died (4 BCE by our reckoning—before the alleged birth of Jesus!) until sometime after 39 CE. He held power only by favour of the Romans, who were occupying the whole region. To keep in favour with his Roman overlords, Herod set in motion a number of major building projects.

One of those projects involved the creation of a whole new port city, to serve as the region’s capital. It was named Tiberius, in honour of the Emperor. Another building project was based in Sepphoris, a town about eight kilometres north of Nazareth. That probably meant that Nazareth, previously a tiny village of no more than 50 people, had grown to be a town of perhaps 2,000 people—a dormitory suburb for the grand building project underway in Sepphoris. That is most likely the context in which Jesus grew up.

According to Luke, it was in pre-building-boom Nazareth, in the northern region of Galilee, that an angel named Gabriel appeared to Mary, to inform her that she would bear a child (Luke 1:26). That is different from the story told in Matthew’s Gospel, where an unnamed angel delivers the same message, not to Mary, but to Joseph, to whom she was engaged (Matt 1:18). Who knew first? Joseph (according to Matthew)? Or Mary (according to Luke)?

The location of the announcement in Matthew’s account is not specified, but it is reasonable to assume from the flow of the narrative that this took place in the southern region of Judah, in Bethlehem (Matt 2:1, 6). Matthew, having located the family initially in the southern city from the beginning, has no need of the story of a census and a forced trip from Nazareth to Galilee (Luke 2:1-4). The family is already in Bethlehem, another small village, but in the south, in Judea.

Nor does Matthew feel the need to describe the place into which the new baby was born: in a manger, “because there was no place for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7). Indeed, even though Matthew declares that “the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way” (Matt 1:18), he then goes on to describe the announcement made to Joseph (1:18b-23), and the only detail about the actual birth that he offers is that Joseph “took her [Mary] as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son” (1:24-25). Too much information? Or not enough, maybe?

But Luke has a problem. He has located the announcement of the birth in Nazareth; yet the tradition is that Jesus was born, not in Galilee, but in Bethlehem (see John 7:41-42, and Matt 2:1). Matthew explains this birthplace in his typical style, as being a fulfilment of prophecy: he cites Micah 5:2 at Matt 2:5-6. That is just one of a number of elements in the story of the birth of Jesus that Matthew has crafted, which claim “fulfilment of prophecy” as their rationale (see Matt 1:22-23, 2:5-6, 2:15, 2:17-18, and 2:23).

Now, Luke needs to get the family from Nazareth, the place of the annunciation to Mary, to Bethlehem, the place of the birth of Jesus. So he calls on the census (Luke 2:1-2) as the means by which Joseph and Mary, heavily pregnant, had to travel. He even identifies the census as having taken place under Publius Sulpicius Quirinius, who was governor of the province of Roman Syria. Luke operates, not by the fulfilment of prophecies, but by noting the actions of Roman rulers.

Only problem is, Quirinius became governor in 6 CE, almost a decade after the announcement of the birth as Luke tells it (Luke 1:5, 26ff) and as Matthew reports it (Matt 2:1). And, to add insult to injury, other historical problems arise: this was just a local census, we know of no single census of the entire empire under Caesar Augustus, no Roman census ever required people to travel from their own homes to those of distant ancestors, and the census of Judea would not have affected Joseph and his family, as they were living in Galilee. So Luke’s account is problematic in terms of historical accuracy.

Not that Matthew is off the hook. In my view, it is highly unlikely that the events reported in Matthew 2 actually took place. (Other interpreters take a different view.) In particular, the slaughter of all male infants under two years, ordered by Herod, is problematic.

Why? Well, first of all, Matthew provides the only account of such an event in any piece of literature from that time. Surely an event with so many deaths would have been noted by other writers. Yes, it is true that Herod was a tyrannical ruler; but amongst the various accounts of his murderous deeds, there is nothing which correlates to the events reported in Matthew’s Gospel.

Second, the story is embedded in the opening section of the Gospel, which, as we have noticed, uses typical Jewish typology and scripture-fulfilment to present the story of Jesus as a re-enactment of the story of Moses. Just as Exodus tells of the slaughter of infants at the time of the birth of Moses, so Matthew replicates this with an account of the slaughter of infants at the time of the birth of Jesus. The later account simply fits the pattern of the earlier account. (And there is no evidence that the pogrom at the time of Moses took place, either.)

So both accounts of the birth of Jesus have problems if we want to read them as historical narratives. And one very peculiar aspect is that the wise men, supposedly coming to visit the young child, Jesus, during the time of Herod, made their trek from the east to Bethlehem a full decade before Joseph and the pregnant Mary made their trek from Galilee down south to Bethlehem, during the census!!

The biblical accounts of the birth of Jesus are not history. They are stories told to indicate the special nature of Jesus. Which means, we shouldn’t read them as history. The Christmas story isn’t history.

See also

Why the Christmas story is not history (1): the “nativity scene” and the Gospels

and https://johntsquires.com/2018/12/19/what-can-we-know-about-the-birth-of-jesus/

Why the Christmas story is not history (1): the “nativity scene” and the Gospels

Every Christmas, we are surrounded by images of the much-loved nativity scene: the infant Jesus, in a cradle, with his mother Mary sitting and his father Joseph standing nearby, surrounded by animals (cows, most often), with a group of shepherds (perhaps with their sheep) to one side, whilst on the other side three colourfully-dressed men stand with presents in hand: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

We see this image everywhere. But it is not an accurate portrayal of what was happening at the time when Jesus was born. For one thing, it is not a photograph of an actual event. Far from it. It is not even based on a written report from the first century, telling that this was what happened.

The traditional scene that we see today did not come into being until it was invented by the medieval friar, Francis of Assisi. Before that, it did not exist. And no Gospel account actually tells of cows mooing beside the newborn child, or of the newborn infant making no crying sounds, or of the sheep baaing alongside the cows, that we see in the traditional nativity scene.

Francis is the most popular Catholic saint in the world. He is the one who preached to the birds; blessed fish that had been caught, releasing them back into the water; and communicated with wolves, brokering an agreement between one famous ferocious wolf and the citizens of a town that were terrified of it. There is no surprise, then, that Francis used real animals when he created the very first, live, Christmas nativity scene. As a result of all these stories, Francis is the patron saint of animals and the environment. And he is the inventor of the familiar nativity scene.

Actually, this scene is a compilation of two quite discrete stories, told decades later, offering very different perspectives on the event, providing two somewhat different emphases in the story of the birth of this child. The nativity scene merges and blends the story found in the orderly account constructed by Luke, and the book of origins compiled by Matthew. Wise men and shepherds sit on each side of the family group, at the same time, in the same place, in this traditional scene. But not in our biblical accounts.

In the opening chapters of Matthew, we encounter the pregnant Mary, the newborn infant Jesus, his father Joseph, a bright star in the sky, visitors from the east, the tyrannical rule of Herod, and slaughtered infant boys. In this story, Matthew is working hard to place Jesus alongside the great prophet of Israel, Moses. The early years of Jesus unfold in striking parallel to the early years of Moses. The parallel patterns are striking.

Luke tells a more irenic version of the story than what is found in Matthew’s Gospel. The story told by Luke (usually represented through idyllic pastoral scenes and sweetly-singing angels), actually tells of a widespread movement of the population that meant a pregnant Mary, accompanied by Joseph, had to travel afar and find lodging in a crowded town just as the most inconvenient time.

There are historical problems with this story: identifying the census as an actual historical event, and locating it accurately in time, both present challenges; the fact that Herod, ruling in Matthew’s account, died in 4BCE, but Quirinius, who ordered the census noted in Luke’s account, began as Governor in 6 CE. However, the combined story has entered the popular mindset as a real event and provides a clear and compelling picture of the holy family as refugees, because of decisions made by political authorities, whether Herod or Quirinius.

We overlook, perhaps, that the shepherds who came in from the fields to pay homage to the newborn child would have been despised for carrying out a lowly and unworthy occupation. They were outcasts, considered impure and unclean, placed outside the circle of holiness within which good Jews were expected to live. In the Mishnah, a third century work which collects and discusses traditional Jewish laws, shepherds are classified amongst those who practice “the craft of robbers”. These are not highly valued guests!

Even though this is not an historical story, it is important for theological reasons. It is part of the foundational myth of the Christian faith. The writer of Matthew’s Gospel wants to make strong correlations between Jesus and Moses, not only in the mythological account found in the opening chapters, but also throughout the following chapters of the Gospel. The writer of Luke’s Gospel hints at his key themes in the opening chapter, and the develops a strong political and economic message throughout his Gospel: God reached out to the poor and powerless, and harshly judges the wealthy and powerful.

As myth, the tradition points to important truths. Matthew’s account of “the Slaughter of the Innocents”, for instance, although generated by his Moses typology, still grounds the story of Jesus in the historical, political, and cultural life of the day, when tyrants exercised immense power. Even though we recognise Matthew is not reporting an actual historical event, his narrative provides a dreadful realism to a story which, all too often in the developing Christian Tradition, became etherealised, spiritualised, and romanticised.

By the same token, Luke’s recounting of the visit of the outcast shepherds to the infant child and his family indicates that those on the edge were welcomed by Jesus throughout his ministry. He grounds the message of the Gospel in the heart of the needs of the people of his day.

So even as we recognise that the Christmas story is not history, we can appreciate the insights that it offers us as a mythological narrative. It is worth celebrating: not as an actual historical event, in the way it is traditionally portrayed, but as the foundation of the faith that we hold: in Jesus, God has come to be with us.

You can read a more detailed discussion of my views on this story at https://johntsquires.com/2018/12/19/what-can-we-know-about-the-birth-of-jesus/

God, who midwifes life, who mothers her children (Luke 2, Matthew 2; Christmas Year A)

This week, the daily Bible study resource With Love to the World (which I edit) is currently using readings from the Womens’ Lectionary for the Whole Church, devised by Prof. Wilda Gafney, of the USA, alongside readings from the Revised Common Lectionary. A number of the readings (including the familiar Gospel from Luke 2) refer to childbirth. The cover image, by Australian artist the Rev. Dr Geraldine Wheeler, depicts the newborn child and his young mother, wonderfully contextualised for the Australian location.

Associate Professor Monica Jyotsna Melanchthon, the Academic Dean of Pilgrim Theological College in the University of Divinity, writes about Isaiah 26:16–19, that “The prophet Isaiah, familiar with the pain and the agony of a woman in labor, uses this uniquely female experience as metaphor to describe the suffering and distress of the people, here personified as the pregnant woman, ready to give birth. The labor of pregnant woman Judah is futile (vv.17–18) … But pregnant Judah is assured by God who midwifes life, that this time of pain will cease … the dead will rise and the slain will be restored to life. Relationships between humanity and nature, and between nations, ruptured and shredded by enmity and war, will be healed and transformed.”

On the familiar Gospel,count of the birth of Jesus, Luke 2:1–20, Prof. Melanchthon writes, “Mary was one of the ‘anawim’, a young, lower class working Jewish woman betrothed to Joseph, a local carpenter, living in occupied territory. She becomes an active agent, cooperating with God to become the bearer of God’s child. The invisible God is made present and available in the visible, the finite, the historical, the concrete, the tangible, and the fleshly. The baby is born and laid in a feeding trough. The first people, divinely notified of this birth, are not princes and powers, but another marginal category of people—shepherds, symbols of subalternity (referring to lower social classes and other social groups who are displaced to the margins of a society) … Their initial fear turned into amazement, joy and praise and they spread the good news.”

Later in the week, Prof. Melanchthon reflects on the alternative account of the early years of Jesus, Matt 2:13–23, noting that “Rachel the mother figure, weeping and inconsolable, draws us to the figure of Mother God; Rachel’s tears and lament stirs the inner parts (the womb) of the Divine which trembles (yearns) for the child. The human mother refuses consolation; the Jeremiah text quoted here assures that the divine mother changes grief into consolation.” She notes also that, “In the context of male tyranny and power politics, Joseph paves the way for a different or new understanding of masculinity, which is kenotic (self-emptying). He gives up his own power for a positive and mutually transformative masculinity, reminiscent of fathers who risk their lives for their children.”

This week of readings forms part of a full 13 weeks of commentaries by female writers on scripture passages that are fitting for the season. You can read more about this whole issue at https://johntsquires.com/2022/10/20/womens-voices-speaking-with-love-to-the-world-this-christmas/

With Love to the World can accessed immediately on phones and iPads via an App, for a subscription of $24.49 per year (go to the App Store or Google Play). Printed issues are available (after 9 January) at just $24 for a year’s subscription (see http://www.withlovetotheworld.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/Ordering-and-paying-for-Website-7.vii_.2020.pdf).

*Mother and Child with Australian Native Flowers,*
gouache stencil painting on black paper,
by the Revd Dr Geraldine Wheeler

Excerpts from With Love to the World are copyright and are reproduced here with the permission of the publisher.

For more on the Christmas readings in the Revised Common Lectionary, see https://johntsquires.com/2022/12/18/three-options-for-christmas-celebrations-the-nativity-of-the-lord/

Voices of the Exiles (Isa 52; Christmas)

Voices from the edge, or beyond—exiles from their own community—are important for us to hear, to recall us to the core of what we believe and what we know is right and good for all. Scripture offers consistent testimony about the importance of valuing the voices of exiles. It is a word for the church today, not to dismiss those who think, act, speak, behave differently. It is a word for the church today, not to force out those who do not conform to assumed norms. The value of each and every person underlies the motif of “exile” that appears in scripture.

Every year, at Christmas time, as we remember the story of Jesus, we can feel the moments when he might be classed as being “in exile”, even amongst his own people. Luke reports that he was born to parents who were forced to be on the move, uncomfortably displaced (albeit temporarily) from their home town of Nazareth at the critical moment of his birth (Luke 2:4–6). He was born in a manger, as no room was available in the kataluma, the guest chamber in what we might presume to have been a house of Joseph’s relatives (Luke 2:7).

He was born to parents facing potential disgrace—it is said that they were betrothed, but not yet formally married (Matt 1:18), and the putative father was preparing to “dismiss quietly” the mother of Jesus (Matt 1:19). In Matthew’s account, Jesus was born into a situation of some danger, as King Herod so feared that “the child who has been born king of the Jews” (Matt 2:2) that he arranged for a savage pogrom, having “all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under” put to death (Matt 2:16).

In the Matthean version of the origins of Jesus, the family became refugees, fleeing Israel for the safety of (ironically) Egypt (Matt 2:13–15). When it was safe, they would return, not to their home town of Bethlehem in Judea (as Matthew has it), but to the less-known village of Nazareth in Galilee (Matt 2:19–23).

The moments of exile in this story—disturbed, displaced, under threat, in fear of life—resonate strongly with the experience of millions of people in the contemporary world. Perhaps these elements in the story also resonate with people of faith, who have found themselves “in exile” from their community of faith, for various reasons?

Deep in the experience of physical and cultural exile that the people of Israel had been immersed some six centuries before Jesus, Joseph, and Mary were themselves thrust into exile, a prophetic voice declared that good news still held firm, despite the unfamiliar surroundings and the uncomfortable, even disturbing, dislocation which that experience brought.

“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace”, this prophet-in-exile proclaims, praising the one “who brings good news, who announces salvation, who says to Zion, ‘Your God reigns’” (Isa 52:7). Looking back with longing on his ruined homeland, he exhorts “the ruins of Jerusalem” to “break forth together into singing … for the Lord has comforted his people, he has redeemed Jerusalem” (Isa 52:9).

It’s only a few verses later that the prophet begins a song that expresses the depths of despair in exile, and yet looks beyond that immediate experience to a time of restoration and joyous salvation—a song that we know as the fourth “Servant Song” (Isa 52:13–53:12). That’s the song that Christians interpret as applying to Jesus: “my servant shall prosper; he shall be exalted and lifted up, and shall be very high … he was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity … he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases … out of his anguish he shall see light; he shall find satisfaction through his knowledge … the righteous one, my servant, shall make many righteous, and he shall bear their iniquities”.

Read through the lens of the story of Jesus, this song describes him, the servant, chosen by God for this task. Read in the context of exile, and identifying the servant with Israel (see Isa 41:8, 9; 44:21; 49:3), the song points to a redemption that must mean return to the land and restoration of the city. It is, in the end, a song of hope for the exiles.

The prophet has a strong and clear faith, which may not have sounded so clearly to those holding him captive in exile; he can see that “all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God” (Isa 52:10). This stands as a word of hope that would echo through the later pages of history, in songs sung by the people (Ps 22:27; 65:5–8; 67:7; 98:3), in the advice given by the sage (Prov 30:4), in the prayer offered by Tobit (Tob 13:11), and on into the story of the one born in exile, chosen by God to be “light of the world” (Matt 5:14; John 8:12; 9:5) such that the good news that he brings will be known “to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8; 13:47).

The value of holding firmly to this faith, despite the oppositions and sufferings of the time of exile, is what the prophet offers to his people. It is a living-out in advance of what Jesus teaches and models in his own life. In keeping with this motif of “exile” in the Christmas story, here is a poem written by a self-styled exile, my friend and colleague Janet Dawson, which I share with you today (with the permission of Janet).

A Prayer for the Exiles

Holy One, have mercy on your exiles,

those of us who no longer fit

within the traditional teachings of the church.

Those whose voice falters in the songs,

who cannot say “Amen”,

who desperately think of something else during the sermon.

Those who think the greatest heresy of all

is to say that You require suffering and death

in order to forgive.

Those who have given up on going to church at all.

Have mercy on us, Holy God,

those exiles who cling to faith

and yearn for a bigger, wider story,

a bigger, wider community.

A story that embraces the vast expanses of time and space,

and the enormous complexity of the cosmos.

A community in which everything and everyone is connected

and embraced.

Holy God, as we approach the Feast of Incarnation,

be born again in us, your exiles,

Tell your story in words that we can understand.

Create from us a new community.

Amen

Three options for Christmas celebrations (The Nativity of The Lord)

Earlier this year, I downloaded a new calendar into my online calendar app. It is a calendar that identifies each Sunday in the church’s liturgical year (First Sunday in Advent, Second Sunday in Epiphany, Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, and so on), as well as other significant days (Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, Ascension Day, and others).

It also provides the four readings that the Revised Common Lectionary provides for each Sunday, as well as for those additional liturgical days. It is a useful resource to have on hand! The calendar identifies each Sunday with a light blue band across the name, and sits alongside other calendars (with other colour-codings) that identify Public Holidays, Birthdays, Work commitments, and other specialised matters.

But look what it has done for December 24, which we all know is Christmas Eve: it has provided no less than three entries for the one day!

Why are there three different sets of readings for the “Nativity of the Lord” (aka Christmas)? I hunted through some church web sites, and found that it is because of developments way back before the so-called Middle Ages … back in the days when Christianity was still developing and evolving and finding its place in society.

What follows is asked on what I found at https://www.catholicculture.org/culture/library/view.cfm?recnum=7399 … I am assuming that this is accurate!

The simple explanation is that three different services of worship relating to “the nativity of the Lord” developed over time within Rome, and, rather than one replacing another, each was added, each having its own focus and also being held at a different location.

Catholic Culture says that “the first Mass originally was connected with the vigil service at the chapel of the manger in the church of St. Mary Major in Rome”; it was a small service at midnight which Pope Sixtus III began in 440CE. This has continued as the first service, Proper I in the Revised Common Lectionary.

The second Mass, we are advised, was “the public and official celebration of the feast, held on Christmas Day at the church of St. Peter, where immense crowds attended the pope’s Mass and received Communion”. That continues to this day, when the Pope appears on a balcony overlooking the packed square outside St Peter’s.

Catholic Culture advises, however, that “under Pope Gregory VII (1085) the place of this Mass was changed from St. Peter’s to St. Mary Major, because that church was nearer to the Lateran Palace (where the popes lived). It forms Proper III in the Revised Common Lectionary.

The third service to develop is actually the “middle service”, or Proper II in the Revised Common Lectionary. Catholic Culture explains: “In the fifth century, the popes started the custom of visiting at dawn, between these two services, the palace church of the Byzantine governor. There they conducted a service in honor of Saint Anastasia, a highly venerated martyr whose body had been transferred from Constantinople about 465 and rested in this church which bore her name.”

This was a popular service, because Saint Anastasia was widely venerated in the Roman Empire; in later centuries, as the empire dissolved and Anastasia receded in significance, this middle service was still retained, and another Mass of the Nativity was held. This became the second of the three Masses on Christmas Day.

The Roman Missal has shaped the liturgy for each of these services to highlight different elements of the Christmas story. Thus, “the first Mass honors the eternal generation of the Son from the Father, the second celebrates His incarnation and birth into the world, the third His birth, through love and grace, in the hearts of men [sic.]”.

The Gospel passage set for each Mass—reflected in the Gospel passages proposed by the Revised Common Lectionary—has led to the popular name for each service. Proper I offers Luke 2:1–14, which tells of the birth of Jesus and the angelic announcement to the shepherds in the fields; thus, people came to call the first Mass Angels’ Mass. Proper II proposes Luke 2:8–20, when the shepherds visit the newborn child and his parents; accordingly, it became known as the Shepherds’ Mass.

Proper III takes us to the majestic prologue to John’s Gospel, John 1:1–14, which tells in beautiful poetry of the coming of The Word, who takes on human flesh to live amongst us; this then characterises this service as the Mass of the Divine Word.

The three readings from the Epistles contain excerpts with short credal-like affirmations: “the manifestation of the glory of our great God and Saviour” (Titus 2:11–14), “when the goodness and lovingkindness of God our Saviour appeared” (Titus 3:4–7), and the statement that “in these last days [God] has spoken to us by a Son”, whose nature is explicated by a string of Hebrew Scripture citations (Heb 1:1–12). Each of these fits well for Christmas celebrations.

Likewise, the three Hebrew Scripture passages themselves orient us towards God’s actions within human history. For Proper I, First Isaiah speaks about the child to be born, to be named “Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:2–7). For Proper II, Third Isaiah declares, “the Lord has proclaimed to the ends of the earth, ‘see, your salvation comes’” (Isaiah 62:6–12). And for Proper III, Second Isaiah rejoices in “the messenger who brings good news, who announces salvation”, through whom “all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God” (Isaiah 52:7–10).

Each prophetic passage, seen through the eyes of Christian faith, reflects the divine intention, made clear through Jesus, to offer salvation to every person on earth—prefiguring the good news of Jesus out of the different contexts of pre-exiling Israel (Isa 9), the hard years of Exile (Isa 52), and the time of rebuilding after that exile experience (Isa 62).

Finally, the psalms selected for these three services (Psalms 96, 97, and 98) contribute strongly to the joyful ethos of the Christmas celebrations, with the injunction to “sing to the Lord a new song” (96:1, 98:1) and “worship the Lord in the splendour of holiness” (96:9), singing praises (98:4–6) and rejoicing (96:11–12; 97:8, 12; 98:8), celebrating that “the Lord is king” (97:1) and “exalted overall gods” (97:9) and rejoicing that “the Lord, he is coming, coming to judge the earth … with righteousness, and with truth” (96:13; 97:2; 98:9). These are notes that are entirely appropriate and fitting for the joyful celebrations of Christmas!

Mary and her Magnificat (Luke 1; Advent 3A)

A sermon preached by the Rev. Elizabeth Raine at Tuggeranong Uniting Church on Sunday 11 December, the third Sunday in the season of Advent.

Which images most readily come to mind, for you, when you think of Mary, the mother of Jesus?

The words most Christians use when asked to describe Mary are words like: humble, obedient, meek, mild, submissive, virgin. Mary is frequently depicted as a most faithful and obedient role model, indeed Mary is set forth as an impossible role model as both virgin and mother.

She has been used by the church over the years to emphasise feminine obedience to male leaders of the church, to fathers, to husbands and indeed, to men generally. Mary was particularly useful in the early church centuries as a way ofinsisting that women should be submissive.

The church tradition of Mary of the pale faced, blue veiled, blue eyed portraits tame her fierceness, and domesticate her passion. Are these the characteristics that really portray someone obedient to the will of God? Or do we see something different emerging from the portrait of Mary and the Magnificat?

Consider the context of this song: Mary’s pregnancy dispenses with theneed for a man. In a patriarchal world, this must have been considered profoundly unsettling news, even if God is named as responsible. From the start of her story, Mary simply isn’t going to be following the acceptedsocial norms. From the beginning, the character of Mary in Luke’s gospelis dangerously full of the Spirit and impregnated with the impossible.

Consider the content of this song: Mary prophesises the overturning of the entire social order, proclaiming that the lowly will be lifted up, the powerfulwill be brought down from their thrones, the rich turned away empty while the hungry are filled. Mary, this teenage mother, has just stepped into an unprecedented and dangerous arena. She has established herself as seditious in her intent, for any talk of a new Davidic line would have been considered treasonable in the then Roman-occupied Palestine.

Consider the tradition of this song:

Firstly, Mary stands in the tradition of the courageous and somewhat unusual women we find in Matthew’s genealogy, all who survived hardship, oppression or violence.

Tamar, when denied a marriage under the Levirate law, tried to make the best of a bad situation by getting herself pregnant by her father in law, who then threatened to burn her.

Rahab, the prostitute, who helped Israel at great risk to ensure their victory and her escape from Jericho.

Naomi, who used Ruth to preserve her own life and security by telling her to, ‘Sleep at Boaz’s feet’, i.e. have sex with him, thereby risking Ruth to exposure and shame and possible violence.

Bathsheba, the unhappy victim of David’s voyeurism, has her husband murdered by David, who she is then forced to marry. She also loses her baby.

Secondly, Mary has just established herself as a radical prophet, and stands firmly in the prophetic tradition of her culture known for its uncompromising fierceness. She echoes the scriptures which speak of God acting to uphold the people of Israel: Moses and Miriam’s song (Exodus 15), Hannah’s song (Samuel 2), and many of the psalms. It would appear that Mary’s early education was not focused on just keeping a proper Jewish home, but rather on radical study of scripture. Mary sings her own anthem of revolution, and in doing so, sings the whole world upside down.

How then does this, and should this, relate to us?

Mary’s words still have great resonance in our time, when dictatorships are again realities, when countries compete in new ways as grapple withthe coronavirus pandemic and the war in Ukraine, when the rich are being given permission by their leaders to tramp, literally and metaphorically, on the poor; when we ignore the safety of others by refusing to wear a maskand when national economic plans are put in place, rather than globalones to combat poverty, disease and climate change.

How many among us in these difficult times, times where fear and anxiety stalk our streets and our computers, ipads and smart phones, where racism, sexism and various types of assault are increasing in number, are moved to concentrate our attention on the abandoned and oppressed? Are we really become more selfish and mean-spirited and inwardlyfocused? If we are, then the Magnificat is the wake up call. It calls us toaffirm the hidden ones of the earth, propelling us all to emerge from ourfour walls and walk in solidarity and love with those in the shadows. It is an invitation to rediscover the kind of people God favours and who God is constantly inviting to the heavenly banquets.

Unless we do something, the meek will not inherit the world we have created, which clearly belongs to the powerful. In our consumerist society, people can even shop around churches now, and choose their own tailor-made religious beliefs. We rationalize our own sins away. We prefer to be self-made men and women, rather than surrendering ourselves and our will and our lives to God.

Mary’s obedience to God isn’t about individualism or herself, and the blessing that she asks for isn’t the kind of blessing most of us might ask for when we pray. She has said ‘yes’ to God without knowing what God will do. She is potentially submitting to humiliation, physical pain, dislocation, terror, and loss. She is prepared to lose herself to become the bearer of the one who brings salvation and justice.

Mary’s submission to God isn’t passive, and it is not without doubt. Shehas chosen a perilous path – that of someone who dares, who questions the status quo, who is prepared to step out and take risks. To do the will of God means to live dangerously, to put community before individual, to choose justice rather than what is easy and comfortable.

Furthermore, there is a risk in accepting the blessing of God. Mary just states she will be called blessed, but this blessing presumably is not one she would choose. The blessing Mary receives will be agonizing, as it means seeing her child tortured and killed on the cross. Could we bear such a blessing as this?

Whatever our answers might be to these questions, like Mary, we should not be passive in this process of obedience to God’s will. We need to work and to pray and to dream and to prophesy and to act as bravely and intelligently and faithfully as she did. And we must also be prepared to risk and step into the unknown, and like Mary, say yes to God’s plan withoutnecessarily knowing what will happen next.

Spill the Beans recounts how “this song of Mary has upset and annoyed governments, who have refused to let it be spoken, and people of faith who would rather surrender to the Victorian romance of Christmas, interrupts all of that with the core theme of incarnation.”

It annoys governments because it is a powerful message of liberation, of freedom, of equality. It is a powerful message because it is a message of hope and hope is powerful when it disrupts the ways of the rich and the mighty. It is a different vision of how the world might be organized. It confronts those who have relied on oppression and injustice.

And Mary’s song also points to the very heart of Christianity, the passion of Jesus. It is the closest we get in Advent to the darkest, most frightening, most transcendent moment found in all of the Gospels – the moment on the cross, when Jesus surrenders his will, his hope, his very life, and puts everything in God’s hands. Like his mother Mary, Jesus’ actions did notcome from passive obedience but are a passionate surrender to the will of God.

And so, God interrupts Mary’s life with this promise of a mixed blessing, and in doing so, challenges a nation, the powerful, the politicians and the theologians. Even today, these words should still challenge the church, the Christmas season and the entire world with a reminder of what is possible.

Mary, blessed, revolutionary, and believer in the impossible, wild and liberated, and committed to the cause: Inspire us with your courage and wisdom and faith, that we may also say yes to life in the face of death; that we too may give birth to a miracle.

https://johntsquires.com/2021/12/07/magnificat-the-god-of-mary-luke-1-is-the-god-of-hannah-1-sam-2-advent-4c/

https://johntsquires.com/2022/12/09/more-on-mary-from-the-protoevangelium-of-james/

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