JOSEPH'S CAROL

When the Matthew Christmas story comes around in the rotation--as it did last Sunday--I see it as an opportunity, in my sermon, to give Joseph his due. However, my country church was cancelled last Sunday because of 24 degrees below zero (not counting wind chill). So I'll preach it here, and offer it as my blog Christmas card.

Scripture: Romans 1:1—7, Matthew 1:18—25

The full text of the carols cited in this sermon are printed at the end.

"St. Joseph the Worker and Christ" (I love this image, but was Joseph really an "old man?") Matthew's nativity account is, we might say, Joseph's story, in the same way that the more familiar Christmas gospel in Luke is Mary's story. It’s good to be reminded of Joseph’s part in Jesus’ life, because he often seems to disappear into the background. (Some scholars speculate that perhaps Joseph died at an early age, and thus gets little mention in the unfolding story of Jesus' life.) I was standing near a manger scene recently, and I overheard one person say to another, “Is that Joseph... or is it one of the shepherds?” Joseph perhaps could be excused for saying, in the words of the comedian, “I don’t get no respect.” Yet--alongside of our devotional admiration for Mary--it is completely appropriate for us to give Joseph his proper place in Jesus' family. Both Matthew, in his genealogy of Jesus, and St. Paul, in the companion reading from Romans (see above), emphasize that Jesus is descended from David through Joseph’s line. It is Joseph who adopts Jesus as his own. (As an adoptive father, I'm here to attest that that bond of love is exactly the same as the bond of biology.) It is through Joseph that Jesus gets his identity as the son of the carpenter. It is Joseph who names the boy "Jesus," and who is told by the angel of another name: "Emmanuel." In the way that we give affectionate nicknames to our little ones, I like to think that, when Jesus was a child, perhaps Joseph used his angel-given name--Emmanuel--and called him occasionally and lovingly by a nickname, "Manny." Little Manny--Little Emmanuel. "See, little Manny, here's how daddy smooths a piece of wood...." In Matthew's story, we see a man who is kind, brave, and faithful both to God and to his fiancée – even when she appears to be in a very difficult situation. So Joseph doesn’t deserve to be the man in the shadows that our traditions have cast him as: confused for a shepherd, or (and why is this?) often thought of as on old man.

Mary was most likely fifteen or sixteen years old, a common marriage age for a young woman of that time and place; Joseph was perhaps twenty, certainly not much older than that. But in one of our ancient carols, the “Cherry Tree Carol,” we sing

When Joseph was an old man, an old man was he,

He married Virgin Mary, the Queen of Galillee….

Now, there is one part of this old carol that I like--a verse that I find very true-to-life. When Mary asks Joseph to pick some cherries from the tree for her, he replies, “Let the father of your baby pick cherries for thee!”

In that brief line we see Joseph – no less faithful or loving – giving in to just a moment of exasperation. This is quite a miraculous idea, after all--the story of how Mary came to be with child. So perhaps it is understandable that Joseph should express just a bit of wide-eyed skepticism: “Let the father of your baby pick cherries for thee.”

We have the same human interplay between Mary and Joseph – put a little more tenderly – in another carol. Here the scene is on the road to Bethlehem. Night, darkness, walking along together. First, Joseph speaks:

Mary, the night is dark, you’re getting weary;

I thought we’d reach Bethlehem long before now.

I know a little inn – the keeper’s a friend of mine –

he’ll find a bed for you somewhere, somehow.

... Mary, of course I will stay with you always,

though your “angel’s message” I don’t understand.

Now, while we’re looking for light in the darkness,

I’ll hold the candle and you hold my hand.

Then Mary speaks, with just a bit of affectionate chiding, and with gratitude to this good man:

Joseph, the message is our little baby,

and you are the angel who guides us tonight

over this rocky road, under this starry sky –

Look at that one that is shining so bright!

Joseph, what keeps you so true to your promise,

when this isn’t anything like you had planned?

Could it be love? Do you feel love around us?

You hold the candle and I’ll hold your hand.

The great Christmas truth of incarnation – that God has come to us as a person – takes place in the heart of a family: Mother, baby, and father. We do not diminish our devotion to Jesus as Son of God when we acknowledge, as the Bible does, that Joseph is Jesus’ dad.

In his poem "Joseph's Lullaby," Ronald Klug offers a meditation on what Joseph might have been thinking there in the stable as Mary sleeps, exhausted, and he gently rocks the manger box that he has transformed into a cradle for his son, little Emmanuel. Little Manny. His little Jesus.

Sleep now, little one.
I will watch while you and your mother sleep.
I wish I could do more.
This straw is not good enough for you.
Back in Nazareth I'll make a proper bed for you
of seasoned wood, smooth, strong, well-pegged,
A bed fit for a carpenter's son.
Just wait till we get back to Nazareth.
I'll teach you everything I know.
You'll learn to choose the cedarwood, eucalyptus and fir.
You'll learn to use the drawshave, ax and saw.
Your arms will grow strong, your hands rough--like these.
You will bear the pungent smell of new wood
and wear shavings and sawdust in your hair.
You'll be a man whose life centers on hammer and nails and wood.
But for now, sleep, little Jesus, sleep.

“Joseph’s Lullaby,” by Ronald Klug, 
from “Poetry for the Soul,”
Moorings Publishers, Nashville, 1995

_______________________________________________________

Carols

MARY, THE NIGHT IS DARK

Joseph

Mary, the night is dark, you’re getting weary;
I thought we’d find Bethlehem long before now.
I know a little inn – the keeper’s a friend of mine –
He’ll find a bed for you somewhere, somehow.
Mary, of course I will stay with you always,
Though your “angel’s message” I don’t understand.
Now, while we’re looking for light in the darkness,
I’ll hold the candle and you hold my hand.

Mary   
Joseph, the message is our little baby,
And you are the angel that guides us tonight
Over this rocky road, under this starry sky –
Look at that one that is shining so bright!
Joseph, what keeps you so true to your promise,
When this isn’t anything like you had planned?
Could it be love? Do you feel love around us?
You hold the candle and I’ll hold your hand.

Shepherd boy & father
Father, I’m frightened; the whole sky was glowing!
The nighttime was brighter than sunshine at noon.
The sound of a thousand wings – something was happening,
And now it’s so dark – just that star and the moon.
Father, you fell to your knees in that brightness.
“Yes, till the angel’s song told me to stand!
Now let us go find that Bethlehem stable;
I’ll hold the candle and you hold my hand.”

People 
Dear baby Jesus, we follow the shepherds –
Follow a star to the place where you sleep.
Mary and Joseph rest; you sleep in gentleness –
A little light shining in shadows so deep.
Jesus, you’ve been the light from the beginning –
And, in these days when night covers the land,
You are the Word that we hear in the darkness:
“I’ll hold the candle and you hold my hand.”

Richard Jorgensen © 2002

THE CHERRY TREE CAROL 
a traditional English carol, very old

When Joseph was an old man,

An old man was he,

He married Virgin Mary

The Queen of Galilee.

Joseph and Mary walked

Through an orchard good,

There were cherries and berries,

As red as any blood.

Then Mary spoke to Joseph

So meek and so mild:

"Joseph, gather me some cherries,

For I am with child."

Then Joseph grew in anger,

In anger grew he,

"Let the father of thy baby

Gather cherries for thee!

Then Jesus spoke a few words,

A few words spoke he:

"Let my mother have some cherries,

Bow low down, cherry tree."

The cherry tree bowed low down,

Bowed low down to the ground,

And Mary gathered cherries

While Joseph stood around.

Then Joseph took Mary

All on his right knee,

"My Lord, what have I done?

Have mercy on me."

As Joseph was a-walking

He heard an angel sing,

"Tonight shall be the birth time

Of Christ our Heav'nly King."

"He neither shall be born

In house nor in hall,

Nor in the place of Paradise,

But in an ox's stall."

"He neither shall be clothed

In purple nor in cloth,

But in the bare white linen

That useth babies all."

"He neither shall be rocked

In silver nor in gold,

But in a wooden manger

That rests upon the mold."

As Joseph was a-walking

And an angel did sing,

And Mary's child at midnight

Was born to be our King.

Then be ye glad ye people

This night of all the year,

And light ye up your candles

For his star it shineth clear.

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

Christina Rosetti

(revised with a verse for Joseph)

In the bleak midwinter,

frosty wind made moan,   
earth stood hard as iron,
water like a stone;
snow had fallen, snow on snow,
snow on snow,
in the bleak midwinter,
long ago.

Joseph found a shelter,

made a bed of straw,

laid down Mary gently,

knelt by her in awe

that he’d be the father

of this baby boy –

Emmanuel, God with us,

and the whole world’s joy!

What can I give him,

poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb;
if I were a wise man,
I would do my part;
yet what I can I give him
give my heart.

SOME ROUGH LINES AT CHRISTMAS, II

Rough lines, indeed. For the last few years I've challenged myself to write a Christmas sermon in verse (or is that doggerel?). I offer this as my blog Christmas Card, with thanks for your reading. God bless us every one!

Love came down at Christmas... ~Christina Rossetti

What saves Christmas for us from being just

sentiment is that crude barn, and the dust,

and those shepherds – why shepherds? There are no

princes or holy men in Luke’s tale, so

although we have beautified the small scene

and placed our nativity under the green

boughs of our lovely, well-shaped Christmas tree,

the gospel each season calls us to see

a baby, new-born, in a chilly old shed,

away in a manger – no crib for his bed.

Homeless, with rags his first baby clothes;

bleak midwinter, indeed! and nobody knows

where they are. Of course, in history’s view

they’re nowhere. That is to say, lost in the new

geopolitical empire of Rome --

refugees, wandering, looking for home.

Nobody knows – and who cares where they are?

Who wants to find them? Who’d look very far

for this young mother, this father, this son?

Like most homeless folks they are out there alone.

Nobody knows, that is, except the creator of

the universe. This family, held in love

by one another, is held, too in the heart

of God. Though lost in the night – he knows where they are.

But tonight that’s reversed, and God is the one

who in the arms of his mother is held as a son;

who sleeps in a strawbox, with animals round;

the high king of heaven thus here is found

among us: the word became flesh. Please know

that God so loved the world, and this love will show

most deeply if God in the heaven stoops down

to the lowest repute he can own.

It’s not how I’d do it – or you? It would be

more impressive if the whole world would see

a flash of great power, an army of might.

Not an impoverished family in cover of night.

But God, in the end, is not power or might;

he’ll not use the weapons of terror or fright.

In the end, God is love, and that’s all he will be:

A cosmos of love in this baby we see.

In that barn, on that night, in that backwater place,

Love came down at Christmas to show us the face

of God in the strange but familiar guise

of... one of us – in a small baby’s eyes.

And the news is not shouted from a castle’s high gable,

but shepherds are sent from pasture to stable.

Shepherds! And when this poor baby is grown

it’s still to the poorest he’ll make himself known.

The wrong kind of people, society will

think it’s an outrage, but Jesus will still

love and forgive both the low and the high;

he’ll forgive from the cross where they take him to die.

And Mary, who pondered by a small wooden manger,

will ponder again as she sees the sad danger

that her son has grown into, she’ll weep at the loss

of this wonderful boy on a crude wooden cross.

And we’ve beautified that, too -- made crosses of gold.

It’s as though we don’t quite get the story we’re told:

That the creator of everything came down to die,

to take our death upon him, the king standing by --

the King, who thinks that his troubles are gone

with the rabble that followed this rebellious one.

But rebellion does not even begin to describe

what will be unleashed when the stone’s set aside

from a rocky carved tomb on the side of a hill,

and we see that it wasn’t a man they would kill,

but they tried to kill love, and it wouldn’t stay down;

love arose, the same love that early was shown

on that night when the star broke the darkness so deep,

in that place where, exhausted, a young mother did sleep.

Where the wrong kind of people gave birth to a boy

who was God the creator. And all the world’s joy!

DADDY, IS THERE REALLY A SANTA CLAUS?

From the time that our kids were little, I determined that I didn't want to mislead them about Santa Claus. Now I also want to be truthful with our grandkids. But I don't want to play the role of the Grinch! So my answer, when the direct question comes, is "There was a real man named St. Nicholas who lived many years ago. He was kind to children and poor people, and over many years his name changed to Santa Claus. Our Santa Claus is a fun way that we remember St. Nicholas at Christmas."

Here's one way to tell the story:



HOW SAINT NICHOLAS BECAME SANTA CLAUS

Saint Nicholas, the legends say,

became our Santa in this way:

while passing by a widow's door

his heart was moved to help the poor.

Her humble hut brought to his mind

the  little shed Joseph did find

on Christmas Eve so long ago,

when Christ was born to Mary. So

he went to church and knelt in prayer

to ask a way that he could care

for widows and for chidren, too;

and as he stood, he spied his shoe!

His shoe?! An idea came to mind:   

"I know just the place to find

a way to do what I will do!

The answer's here inside my shoe!"

He took a stocking(!) from the shelf,

and – all in secret, by himself –

he poured a few gold coins inside,

and said, "I’ll take a Christmas ride!”

No--no reindeer – no, not yet.

Don't rush the story – don't forget

that we're still at the early part.

He rode off in a donkey cart!

They trotted up the village road

and found the widow's small abode.

"Shh, you stay here," said good St. Nick,

"While I go play my little trick."

He tossed the sock as he passed by,

but then his aim went far too high!

(The old saints eyes were old, you see.)

He threw it down the chim-n-ey!

(And ever since, on Christmas Eve,

like all good children, we believe

St. Nicholas with his sock of gold

will find all Christmas chimneys cold!)

The widow thought she heard a sound

and toward her hearth she turned around,

and there upon the ashes cold

she found a stocking full of gold!

In her happiness she knew

exactly what she had to do:

A feast for the whole neighborhood!

(The good saint's deed was doing good!)

And Nicholas kept giving more,

kept finding ways to help the poor.

Stockings, sacks. And sometimes toys

were in his bag for girls and boys.

All this started way down south;

but soon – by song and word-of-mouth –

the story told on desert sands

had found its way to winter lands.

So way up north, in ice and snow,

the donkey – well, he had to go;

he's grazing in the southern sun.

It's reindeer now for St. Nick's run!

And stockings? It's not hard to see

that they're still near the chim-n-ey;

but not down in the fireplace –

the mantle's a much nicer place.

And lips like cherries? Twinkling eyes?

Reindeer flying through the skies?

All that about "The Night Before...?"

The credit goes to Clement Moore.*

But what about old Santa's name?

you said St. Nicholas became

the Santa that we know today.

Has Nick's name changed along the way?

That's easy. Say it two times, fast:

Saint Nicholas, San-ti-calas;

now, two times more, don't stop to pause:

San-ti-calus – Hey! "Santa Claus!"

Some things change, some stay the same.

And Santa Claus by any name

is still the spirit of St. Nick,

still chuckling at his little trick.

And we, with stockings lined up straight

on Christmas Eve can hardly wait.

We go to bed, we wake to see

what Santa brings for you and me.

But there's a lesson we learn, too,

when Santa visits me and you.

It's from a story, long and old:

The widow shared good St. Nick's gold.

Saint Nicholas, the legends say,
became our Santa in this way:

While passing by a widow's door

his heart was moved to help the poor.

                                                                                                    
 © Richard Jorgensen

This  story is based (very loosely!) on legends that grew up around the historical

figure of Nicholas, a bishop who lived in Turkey in the fourth century. Nicholas

was renowned for his good deeds, and was later declared to be “Saint Nicholas.”

*Most of our images and traditions about Santa Claus today come from

the delightful poem, “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” (“’Twas the Night Before

Christmas”) written by The Rev. Clement Moore for his children on Christmas

Eve, 1822.