Is. 7:10-14; Rom. 1:1-7; Mt. 1:18-24
To feel the full tension of today’s readings we must travel back to the world in which the prophet Isaiah spoke. The political climate of Judah during King Ahaz’s reign was one of suffocating fear. Two powerful nations—Israel (the northern kingdom)
and Syria—were pressuring Judah to join their coalition against the expanding superpower of Assyria. If Judah resisted, she risked invasion; if she joined, she risked annihilation. Ahaz, terrified and faithless, was ready to make disastrous political alliances instead of trusting in God. It was in the middle of this political panic that God sent Isaiah to offer a sign: “The virgin shall conceive and bear a son.” At first glance, it sounds almost absurd—when kings are sharpening swords, God offers a pregnancy; when the nations roar like storms, God places hope in a woman’s womb. But God’s ways are not ours. His message was simple: “The future is in My hands. The promise of new life is stronger than fear.” Even today, we often ask God for solutions, and He gives us a story—new life quietly beginning somewhere we did not expect.The world of Mary and Joseph is not much brighter. The Jews lived under Roman occupation, waiting anxiously for a Messiah. Their prophets had promised freedom, restoration, and peace—but instead they saw the Roman eagle stamped on their coins, soldiers marching their streets, and heavy taxes crushing their lives. Their hope was stretched thin; their prayers sometimes bounced back off the heavens. The surrounding nations were equally desperate. Philosophers spoke of virtue but found corruption everywhere; poets wrote about golden ages that never arrived; kings flaunted power while common people suffered. Into this despairing world, Paul begins his Letter to the Romans by declaring something unbelievable: “The Gospel of God… concerning His Son.” Paul announces that God has acted, God has entered history, God has fulfilled His promises—not with a political revolution, but by sending His Son into the world through a humble Jewish woman in a forgotten corner of Galilee.
Today’s Gospel, however, pulls us into the heart of the story—not from Mary’s perspective, but from Joseph’s. “The birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way.” Matthew begins almost like a storyteller who wants us to lean forward and listen, because what happens next will change everything. Joseph discovers that Mary, his betrothed, is pregnant, and not by him. Betrothal in those times was legally binding, almost equivalent to marriage, and any breach of fidelity was treated as adultery. According to the law, Joseph had every right to expose Mary publicly, to protect his own honor, and let society take its course. A woman accused of adultery could face severe humiliation, even execution.
Yet Joseph, “being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace,” decides to dismiss her quietly. Joseph’s righteousness is not the self-righteousness of those who delight in pointing out the sins of others, nor the legalistic righteousness that clings to the letter of the law without compassion. Joseph’s righteousness is the righteousness of the heart—a heart that refuses to harm even when it is permissible, a heart that protects even when it feels betrayed, a heart that upholds justice while choosing mercy.
In the Old Testament we find similar acts of mercy. Think of Boaz in the Book of Ruth. He sees Ruth, a foreign widow, vulnerable and easily taken advantage of. Yet instead of exploiting the situation, Boaz protects her, honors her, and blesses her. Or think of Judah in the story of Tamar. When Tamar reveals the evidence of his wrongdoing, Judah could have denied everything, shamed her, or manipulated the truth. Instead, he admits, “She is more righteous than I.” Rare is the heart that chooses honesty over reputation.
But Scripture also gives us painful contrasts. When Joseph’s brothers were jealous of him, instead of protecting him, they plotted to kill him and then sold him into slavery. They even dipped his coat in blood and deceived their father, breaking his heart. Or consider King Saul, who, consumed by insecurity, spent much of his life trying to destroy David, falsely accusing him and twisting stories for his own benefit. History outside the Bible is full of such examples—powerful leaders who ruined the lives and reputations of innocent people simply because they felt threatened.
Joseph stands out because he chooses the opposite path. He chooses mercy over suspicion, compassion over pride, tenderness over vengeance. He does not rush to post a public accusation; he does not gather witnesses to validate his outrage; he does not allow the villagers to gossip endlessly. Even before the Angel appears, Joseph already demonstrates the mercy of God. And perhaps that is why he becomes the earthly father of Jesus—because he already resembles the Heavenly Father.
Just when Joseph reaches his quiet internal decision, God interrupts him through a dream. Dreams are often the language of God in the Scriptures, whispering into the hearts of those who are silent enough to hear. The Angel tells him: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.” DO NOT BE AFRAID. Those words ring across Scripture like a divine refrain. Abraham heard them when asked to walk into the unknown; Moses heard them standing before Pharaoh; Jeremiah heard them when appointed a prophet; Mary heard them when the Angel greeted her; now Joseph hears them as he stands at the crossroads of fear and faith.
At this point, we may smile at a small anecdote: A teacher once asked her Sunday school class, “What would you do if an Angel appeared to you?” One little boy raised his hand and said, “I’d give him my homework so he could take it back to God and explain why it’s so hard.” The class burst into laughter, but the teacher later realized the child had touched on something profound: sometimes God’s messengers come to take our hardest things—not to remove them, but to transform them.
Joseph’s hardest thing was not Mary’s pregnancy; it was the fear of embracing a future he could not understand. But the Angel gives him clarity: “You shall name Him Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins.” Joseph is given a mission: to name the child, to protect Him, to guide Him, to raise Him into the man who will save the world.
In the ancient world, names carried meaning, identity, destiny. “Jesus”—Yeshua—means “The Lord saves.” His mission is written into His name long before His first breath. And the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled—not just in a political crisis of old, but in the spiritual crisis of all humanity: “The virgin shall conceive.” God's sign is not found in palaces, but in purity; not in armies, but in obedience; not in noise, but in silence.
But what does Joseph’s story mean for us today? We live in a world where the opposite of Joseph’s righteousness has become frighteningly common. It is easy—almost fashionable—to expose others. Social media has become a marketplace of shaming, where reputations are destroyed with reckless words. Society often repeats the behavior of Joseph’s brothers more than the behavior of Joseph himself. Instead of protecting one another, people now record each other’s mistakes, exaggerate faults, circulate rumors, and build entertainment out of scandals. The modern world has invented sophisticated ways of tarnishing character: online slander, manipulated photos, selective truths, anonymous accusations, and instantaneous broadcasts of private failures.
One writer once joked, “There used to be a time when people cried over spilled milk. Now they take a picture, edit it, make a meme of it, and send it to a million strangers.” The joke makes us laugh, but beneath it is a painful truth: we live in a culture that delights in exposing rather than healing.
Advent, however, calls us to a different path—the path of Joseph. Preparing for Christmas means making room in our hearts for the Christ who comes, and we cannot prepare room for Him if those hearts are filled with resentment, hostility, or the desire to expose others. Joseph teaches us that holiness begins in the quiet decisions of the heart: to protect rather than accuse, to understand rather than condemn, to listen rather than judge.
An old poem says:
“Kindness is a language the deaf can hear
and the blind can see.”
Joseph spoke this language fluently. And if we wish to welcome Christ meaningfully this Christmas, we must speak it too.
So, what practical steps can we take in these final days of Advent?
First, we can choose silence over gossip. Every time we speak about others behind their backs—especially in a way that harms them—we behave unlike Joseph. A spiritual writer once said, “When you repeat someone’s sin without their permission, you steal their dignity.” Joseph refused to rob Mary of her dignity, and so must we.
Second, we can choose forgiveness over suspicion. Many families gather at Christmas carrying old wounds, grudges, and misunderstandings. Joseph teaches us that sometimes a relationship can be saved not by demanding explanations, but by offering mercy.
Third, we can choose compassion over judgment. We all know people who have made mistakes, but Advent is a time to remember that every person is on a journey, and many carry hidden struggles. When Joseph did not understand Mary’s situation, he still chose compassion. And God later revealed to him the truth. If we choose compassion first, God often grants us deeper understanding later.
Fourth, we can choose prayer over fear. Joseph could have acted impulsively, but he allowed God to speak into his fear. When we pray, God realigns our hearts with His plan, even when His plan looks utterly mysterious.
Fifth, we can choose responsibility over escape. Joseph could have walked away easily, but he accepted the responsibility God gave him. In a world that often encourages people to abandon commitments—marriages, families, promises, and duties—Joseph teaches us that God is found in faithful perseverance.
As we approach Christmas, the question placed before us is “Are you willing to live like Joseph so Christ can be born in your heart?” Can we protect others’ dignity? Can we nurture mercy in our thoughts? Can we say yes to God even when we do not understand His ways?
The world into which Jesus was born was politically tense, spiritually exhausted, and morally confused. In many ways, our world resembles that same landscape. Yet God chose that world—and chooses our world—to be the place where He enters. And He begins not with power, but with purity; not with kings, but with a carpenter; not with thunder, but with trust.
As we stand on the edge of Christmas, may Joseph’s example guide us. Let us welcome the Christ Child not only with hymns and decorations, but with hearts clothed in mercy. Let us refrain from exposing others’ faults. Let us lift one another rather than tear each other down. Let us be ready for the unexpected ways God might enter our lives.
For into a world of fear, God sends a child.
Into a world of suspicion, God sends a Savior.
Into a world of judgment, God sends mercy.
Into a world of darkness, God sends Emmanuel—God with us.
May we, like Joseph, rise from our dreams and do as the Lord commands, so that Christ may truly be born—not only in Bethlehem, but in us.
Satish