by Max Lucado
With the phrase “a just man,” Matthew recognizes the status of Joseph. Nazareth viewed him as we might view an elder, deacon, or Bible class teacher. Joseph likely took pride in his standing, but Mary’s announcement jeopardized it. I’m pregnant.
Now what? His fiancée is blemished, tainted . . . He is righteous, godly. On one hand, he has the law. On the other, he has his love. The law says, stone her. Love says, forgive her. Joseph is caught in the middle.
Then comes the angel. Mary’s growing belly gives no cause for concern but reason to rejoice. “She carries the Son of God in her womb,” the angel announces. But who would believe it?
A bead of sweat forms beneath Joseph’s beard. He faces a dilemma. Make up a lie and preserve his place in the community or tell the truth and kiss his reputation good-bye. He makes his decision. “Joseph . . . took to him his wife, and did not know her till she had brought forth her firstborn Son” (Matt. 1:24–25 NKJV).
Joseph swapped his Torah studies for a pregnant fiancée and an illegitimate son and made the big decision of discipleship. He placed God’s plan ahead of his own.
Which makes me think about knotholes and snapshots and “I wonders.” You’ll find them in every chapter of the Bible about every person. But nothing stirs so many questions as does the birth of Christ. Characters appear and disappear before we can ask them anything. The innkeeper too busy to welcome God—did he ever learn who he turned away? The shepherds—did they ever hum the song the angels sang? The wise men who followed the star—what was it like to worship a toddler? And Joseph, especially Joseph. I’ve got questions for Joseph.
Did you and Jesus arm wrestle? Did he ever let you win?
Did you ever look up from your prayers and see Jesus listening?
How do you say “Jesus” in Egyptian?
What ever happened to the wise men?
What ever happened to you?
We don’t know what happened to Joseph. His role in Act I is so crucial that we expect to see him the rest of the drama—but with the exception of a short scene with twelve-year-old Jesus in Jerusalem, he never reappears. The rest of his life is left to speculation, and we are left with our questions.
But of all my questions, my first would be about Bethlehem. I’d like to know about the night in the stable. I can picture Joseph there. Moonlit pastures. Stars twinkle above. Bethlehem sparkles in the distance. There he is, pacing outside the stable.
What was he thinking while Jesus was being born? What was on his mind while Mary was giving birth? He’d done all he could do—heated the water, prepared a place for Mary to lie. He’d made Mary as comfortable as she could be in a barn, and then he stepped out. She’d asked to be alone, and Joseph has never felt more so.
In that eternity between his wife’s dismissal and Jesus’s arrival, what was he thinking? He walked into the night and looked into the stars. Did he pray?
For some reason, I don’t see him silent; I see Joseph animated, pacing. Head shaking one minute, fist shaking the next. This isn’t what he had in mind. I wonder what he said . . .
This isn’t the way I planned it, God. Not at all. My child being born in a stable? This isn’t the way I thought it would be. A cave with sheep and donkeys, hay and straw? My wife giving birth with only the stars to hear her pain?
This isn’t at all what I imagined. No, I imagined family. I imagined grandmothers. I imagined neighbors clustered outside the door and friends standing at my side. I imagined the house erupting with the first cry of the infant. Slaps on the back. Loud laughter. Jubilation.
That’s how I thought it would be.
The midwife would hand me my child, and all the people would applaud. Mary would rest and we would celebrate. All of Nazareth would celebrate.
But now. Now look. Nazareth is five days’ journey away. And here we are in a . . . in a sheep pasture. Who will celebrate with us? The sheep? The shepherds? The stars?
This doesn’t seem right. What kind of husband am I? I provide no midwife to aid my wife. No bed to rest her back. Her pillow is a blanket from my donkey. My house for her is a shed of hay and straw.
The smell is bad, the animals are loud. Why, I even smell like a shepherd myself.
Did I miss something? Did I, God?
When you sent the angel and spoke of the son being born—this isn’t what I pictured. I envisioned Jerusalem, the temple, the priests, and the people gathered to watch. A pageant perhaps. A parade. A banquet at least. I mean, this is the Messiah!
Or, if not born in Jerusalem, how about Nazareth? Wouldn’t Nazareth have been better? At least there I have my house and my business. Out here, what do I have? A weary mule, a stack of firewood, and a pot of warm water. This is not the way I wanted it to be! This is not the way I wanted my son.
Oh my, I did it again. I did it again, didn’t I, Father? I don’t mean to do that; it’s just that I forget. He’s not my son . . . He’s yours.
The child is yours. The plan is yours. The idea is yours. And forgive me for asking but . . . is this how God enters the world? The coming of the angel, I’ve accepted. The questions people asked about the pregnancy, I can tolerate. The trip to Bethlehem, fine. But why a birth in a stable, God?
Any minute now Mary will give birth. Not to a child, but to the Messiah. Not to an infant, but to God. That’s what the angel said. That’s what Mary believes. And, God, my God, that’s what I want to believe. But surely you can understand; it’s not easy. It seems so . . . so . . . so . . . bizarre.
I’m unaccustomed to such strangeness, God. I’m a carpenter. I make things fit. I square off the edges. I follow the plumb line. I measure twice before I cut once. Surprises are not the friend of a builder. I like to know the plan. I like to see the plan before I begin.
But this time I’m not the builder, am I? This time I’m a tool. A hammer in your grip. A nail between your fingers. A chisel in your hands. This project is yours, not mine.
I guess it’s foolish of me to question you. Forgive my struggling. Trust doesn’t come easy to me, God. But you never said it would be easy, did you?
One final thing, Father. The angel you sent? Any chance you could send another? If not an angel, maybe a person? I don’t know anyone around here and some company would be nice. Maybe the innkeeper or a traveler? Even a shepherd would do.
I wonder. Did Joseph ever pray such a prayer?
Cure for the Common Life and He Still Moves Stones
Love goes the distance . . . and Christ traveled from limitless eternity to be confined by time in order to become one of us. He didn’t have to. He could have given up. At any step along the way he could have called it quits.
When he saw the size of the womb, he could have stopped.
When he saw how tiny his hand would be, how soft his voice would be, how hungry his tummy would be, he could have stopped. At the first whiff of the stinky stable, at the first gust of cold air. The first time he scraped his knee or blew his nose or tasted burnt bagels, he could have turned and walked out.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t, because he is love.
A Love Worth Giving
NO ROOM
IN THE INN
The noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the village. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets. Vendors were positioning themselves on the corners of the most heavily traveled avenues. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of the street gods and the complaints of donkeys pulling carts.
The owner of the inn had awakened earlier than most in the town. After all, the inn was full, all the beds taken. Every available mat or blanket had been put to use. Soon all the customers would be stirring, and there would be a lot of work to do.
One’s imagination is kindled thinking about the conversation of the innkeeper and his family at the breakfast table. Did anyone mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone ask about their welfare? Did anyone comment on
the pregnancy of the girl on the donkey? Perhaps. Perhaps someone raised the subject. But, at best, it was raised, not discussed. There was nothing that novel about them. They were, possibly, one of several families turned away that night.
Besides, who had time to talk about them when there was so much excitement in the air? Augustus did the economy of Bethlehem a favor when he decreed that a census should be taken. Who could remember when such commerce had hit the village?
No, it was doubtful that anyone mentioned the couple’s arrival or wondered about the condition of the girl. They were too busy. The day was upon them. The day’s bread had to be made. The morning’s chores had to be done. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had occurred.
God had entered the world as a baby.
God Came Near
He’s been to Bethlehem, wearing barn rags and hearing sheep crunch. Suckling milk and shivering against the cold. All of divinity content to cocoon itself in an eight-pound body and to sleep on a cow’s supper. Millions who face the chill of empty pockets or the fears of sudden change turn to Christ. Why?
Because he’s been there.
3:16: Numbers of Hope
JACOB’S GIFT
FROM THE DESK OF MAX LUCADO
Suppose you could give Jesus a gift this Christmas. My, what an opportunity. You’d hold nothing back. Spare no expense. Withhold no effort. Wouldn’t you give him your finest offering? What if you had the chance to carry a gift to the throne of Christ?
You do.
When you love his children, you love him. “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me” (Mt. 25:40 NIV). Would you like to give Jesus a Christmas gift? Then love one of his needy children.
This was the discovery of the main character in the next story. May it be your discovery too.
Rabbi Simeon brushed sawdust off his hands. “I have a special announcement.” All but one apprentice in the shop stopped to listen.
“Jacob,” the rabbi instructed, “our work is finished for the day.” Jacob didn’t respond.
Jacob only heard the swish–swish of the saw. The other boys in the shop began to snicker.
Rabbi Simeon let out a deep sigh and shook his head, but down deep he was pleased. He knew what it was like to get lost in the world of woodworking. But it was time to go home.
“Jacob!” the rabbi called again.
The sawing stopped. “I’m sorry, Rabbi,” Jacob said softly.
Rabbi Simeon smiled. “It’s all right. Put away your tools and hang up your apron.”
Jacob hung up his apron as the other boys continued to snicker. Finally the rabbi spoke, and all eyes turned to him.
“My nephew from Nazareth should be here in a few days. He is a master carpenter who will help me select one of you for a special task. The one who builds the best project will work with me on the new synagogue.”
I just have to be chosen, Jacob determined. I want to use my hands to help build God’s house.
The rabbi was speaking. “I’ll be away for the next three days, but you may all use the workshop to finish your projects.” As the others began to leave, the rabbi asked Jacob to stay.
Jacob waited till everyone had left and then approached the carpenter. “I’m sorry, Rabbi,” he apologized. “I’ll do better next time.”
The rabbi motioned for Jacob to sit on one of the stools. “Jacob, you’ve done nothing wrong. I need to tell you something.” The rabbi smiled and continued. “God has given you the gift of woodworking. What is difficult for many is easy for you. Surely, you’ve noticed.”
Jacob nodded. He had wondered why other boys struggled to make things that seemed so simple to him.
“God gives gifts, Jacob. You have a special gift. Have you ever wondered why God gave you the gift of woodworking?”
“So I can learn to be a good carpenter?”
“Well.” The rabbi chuckled. “Not exactly. God gave you this gift to share with others. Let’s say you gave a present to one of my daughters. How do you think that would make me feel?”
“Happy?”
“Of course. Even though you gave the gift to my child, I would feel like you had given it to me. God is like that too. So when we give a gift to one of God’s children, it’s like giving a gift to Him.”
“Now, run home and tell your father that I hope he has an inn full of guests next week.”
“We’re expecting a lot of business, son,” Jacob’s father reminded him that evening.
“I will work on my project in the mornings,” Jacob promised, “and help you in the evenings.”
The next three mornings Jacob worked hard to complete his project. He was building a new kind of animal feed trough with wheels.
On the night before Rabbi Simeon returned, Jacob went to the workshop after helping his father at the inn. Jacob looked at his project. I must finish tonight, he thought. So much work still to do. But I’m so tired. Maybe if I close my eyes for a few minutes . . .
The next moment, a beam of starlight slipped through a crack and fell across Jacob’s napping eyes. “What!” he shouted, startled by the sudden light. Had he slept through the night? Then he looked out and saw a gleaming, shimmering light in the night.
Jacob rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he walked outside and toward the star that seemed to dance in the sky over the stable behind his father’s inn.
As he got closer, he heard a strange sound. He looked through a hole in the stable wall.
A baby was in a tiny nest of straw on the ground! Beside the baby knelt his mother and a man. The baby must be uncomfortable on the ground, Jacob thought.
Jacob raced back to the workshop. He stood beside his feed trough. Tomorrow the rabbi would select the best project.
But tonight there’s a new baby without a place to sleep . . .
“Good morning, boys,” said Rabbi Simeon.
Jacob approached the rabbi. “Uh, sir . . . I need to tell you something.”
“Later, Jacob. We need to get everything ready. Where is your project?”
“Uh . . . something happened. A big star—”
“Uncle Simeon!” said a man at the door.
“Joseph!” Simeon shouted. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
Jacob’s eyes widened. This was the man he had seen with the baby in the stable the night before.
“Jacob, this is my nephew from Nazareth.”
“We’ve already met,” said Joseph. “In fact, Jacob gave my newborn son his very first gift.”
“Your son?” the rabbi inquired. “Where is he?’
“Come, and I’ll show you.”
Joseph led the rabbi and Jacob past the inn toward a shelter. “The stable?” Simeon asked. “You kept your baby in a—”
Joseph smiled. “Shh, Uncle. They’re asleep.”
When the rabbi looked inside, he saw a beautiful newborn baby.
“His name is Jesus,” Joseph whispered. “And his cradle is fit for a king.”
Joseph’s kindness made Jacob’s cheeks turn red.
“Tell me, Jacob,” said the rabbi, “why did you decide to give your feed trough away?”
“I remembered what you said. ‘When you give a gift to one of God’s children, you give a gift to God.’”
The rabbi’s voice was soft. “And so you have, my son. So you have.”
Joseph. The quiet father of Jesus. Rather than make a name for himself, he made a home for Christ. And because he did, a great reward came his way. “He called His name Jesus” (Matt. 1:25 NKJV).
Queue up the millions who have spoken the name of Jesus, and look at the person selected to stand at the front of the line. Joseph. Of all the saints, sinners, prodigals, and preachers who have spoken the name, Joseph, a blue-collar, small-town construction worker said it first. He cradled the wrinkle-faced prince of heaven, and with an audience of angels and pigs, whispered, “Jesus . . . You’ll be called Jesus.”
Seems right, don’t you think? Joseph gave u
p his name. So Jesus let Joseph say his.
Cure for the Common Life
AN ANGEL’S
STORY
FROM THE DESK OF MAX LUCADO
“There has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord” (Lk. 2:11 NASB). The Greek word used in this verse is Kyrios. It signifies one who rightfully holds a position of authority. Jesus was born with this title. He has lawful right to rule over every star, sphere, galaxy, and gulf. He is lord of legislators, liberators, lightbearers, and laborers. He bears the signet of the highest office and wears the insignia of:
“Lord of all” (Acts 10:36 NIV).
“Lord of both the dead and the living” (Rom. 14:9 NIV).
“Head over every . . . authority” (Col. 2:10 NIV).
For Christmas, God gave you the perfect gift. A Lord to lead you. Congress doesn’t run the world; the Lord Jesus does. The economy doesn’t determine your future; the Lord Jesus does. Cancer doesn’t control your destiny, death doesn’t have the last word, the faceless hand of fate isn’t directing history. The Lord Jesus is.
You have a Lord to lead you.
Another Greek word for Lord is “despotes,” from which we draw the unfavorable English word “despot.” A despot is a pretender and usurper. Satan fits this qualification. Had he had his way, Jesus the Lord would have never entered Mary’s womb.
Several years ago, stirred by an article by David Lambert, I envisioned the Christmas conflict between the true Lord and his challenger. While we can only imagine if such a war occurred, we don’t have to imagine who would win it.
