December

A Long, Long Time
 
Love always wants to share itself.

And God is love.

So God always wants to share himself. God made planets and black holes and galaxy clusters, and bestowed himself upon every microscopic atom of this exhaustive creation he had caused to be. What a privilege, what a sharing.

Surely this would have been enough.
But the planets and asteroids could not know they were receiving God. They were unable to willingly love God in return for his presence. Their manner of reception was only a relishing of their rough, craggy existence, being exactly what they were (are) created to be.

So God made a new beginning. He thought up a miraculously intricate trail by which something called life could come about. He chose a diminutive blue planet circulating insignificantly around a very small star, within what would later—millions of years later—be called the Milky Way.

God caused life to eke its way out of the seas onto shore. And then into trees, amoebae, chimps, and more. It chose as its home the highest mountains, the coldest high specks of space, the hottest flaming deserts, and even the oceans’ depths. God loved this abundant "life" as a mother loves her children.

What a delight! God enwrapped them with love, a love in which they basked—but did not know it.

If you had taken one look at the dinosaurs and apes and fishes and birds, you would have seen that:

This miraculous creation would have been enough.
But still there was room. God’s overflow of love discovered more space for being received. God scooped out “openness” in various living creatures. These now could receive knowingly the affectionate love God was bestowing upon them, and could give love back to God!

As a result, the human race inched—slowly, cumbrously—into being. Don’t ask me the number of Cro-Magnon species that came about, or how hunting turned into farming and cooking, how weaving and building and fences and fire burst onto the scene. They did. And God took time to deepen out the spiritual hollow inside these newly fashioned humans in which they could, even in fear and distraction, actually receive God’s Glory—not passively like a rock does the sun, but actively and knowingly, welcoming unto themselves the great gratuity of God’s life, love and presence.

We are those human beings. Each of us is able to open in this way, each of us standing at the apex of such a long history of God's love for us.

Advent is the treasured time to ask quietly, humbly, how we can love in return.

Will we take time to treasure this opening deep within ourselves? Will we let it thrive? That would mean bringing patience to bear on our nervous, bothersome life, letting God’s presence be enough. It might mean living in a new way. It might mean celebrating at Mass in a new way, a way of patient listening and receiving instead of holding our watches ready so we can time the homily.

And that would be enough, would it not?
Maybe, but what if God’s tender love wanted to make its way out of the church and into the world? Wouldn’t that be quite a birth of the child Jesus? We would carry the love placed in our hearts out to the whole world.

Wouldn’t that be enough?

First Reading
Isaiah 40:1-5, 9-11

1. Left to human management, world history is a wasteland or at best a rough road. Is your road smooth all the time? What is the help in this reading that will smooth out the rough spots?

2. Do you think God has always been walking on the roads of world history? Does God walk with you when you are in “rugged country”? How does the shepherd image smooth out the ruggedness in your life?

Second Reading
2 Peter 3:8-14

1. “But he (the Lord) is patient with you,” Are you patient with others when a car cuts you off or you are blamed falsely? Is there a line between holy anger and patience? Are you patient with yourself?

2. “ … we await new heavens and a new earth.” What is your relationship with earth? Do you take the earth for granted, or do you treat it with reverence? Why?

Gospel
Mark 1:1-8

1. Compare the statement of John the Baptist, I am, as Isaiah prophesied: “a voice of one crying out in the desert: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths.” (John 1:23),with Pope Francis’ statement below:

My mission of being in the heart of the people ... is not an “extra” or just another moment in life. Instead, it is something I cannot uproot from my being without destroying my very self. I am a mission on this earth; that is the reason why I am here in this world. We have to regard ourselves as sealed, even branded, by this mission of bringing light, blessing, enlivening, raising up, healing and freeing. All around us we begin to see nurses with soul, teachers with soul, politicians with soul, people who have chosen deep down to be with others and for others.

Pope Francis, Evangelii Gaudium  273

2. How do you share John the Baptist’s mission to proclaim Christ’s coming into the world? Do you do this with words or by the way you live?  How is John’s message of repentance and judgment different from Jesus’?

Willpower Alone Is Not Enough

John Shea once wrote a haunting poem about John the Baptist. The poem begins with the Baptist in prison, hearing the dancing above his head and knowing that this is soon to culminate in his being beheaded. Strangely, he’s not too upset. Herod is about to give Herodias’ daughter half his Kingdom and John feels that he might as well die in the bargain, given that he’s only half a man. Why does he feel only half a man? Because, as the poem puts it, he’s only a half-prophet who can only do a half-job. Thus thinks the Baptist:

I can denounce a king, but I cannot enthrone one.

I can strip an idol of its power, but I cannot reveal the true God.

I can wash the soul in sand, but I cannot dress it in white.

I can devour the word of the Lord like wild honey, but I cannot lace his sandal.

I can condemn sin, but I cannot bear it away.

Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.
John the Baptist is aware of both his strength and his impotency. He can point out what’s wrong and what should be done, but after that, he’s helpless, with nothing to offer in terms of the strength needed to correct the wrong.

In essence, that’s what we bring to any situation when we criticize something. We are able, often with brilliance and clarity, to show what’s wrong. That contribution, like John the Baptist’s, is not to be undervalued. The gospels tell us that, next to Jesus, there isn’t anyone more important than John the Baptist. But, like John, criticism too is only a half-job, a half-prophecy: It can denounce a king, by showing what’s wrong, and it can wash the soul in sand, by blasting off layers of accumulated rust and dirt, but ultimately it can’t empower us to correct anything. Something else is needed. What?

Anyone who has ever tried to overcome an addiction can answer that question. A clear head, a clear vision of what’s to be done, and a solid resolution to leave a bad habit behind is only a half-job, a first step, an important one, but only an initial one. The tough part is still ahead: Where to find and how to sustain the strength needed to actually change our behaviour and give up a bad habit? Anyone who has ever given up an addiction will tell you that, in the end, they didn’t do it by willpower, or at least certainly not by willpower alone. Grace and community were needed and they were what ultimately provided what willpower alone could not.

At one point in the gospels, Jesus tells his disciples that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven. The disciples are stunned and Peter responds by saying: If that is the case than it is impossible! Jesus appreciates that response and adds: It is impossible for humans, but not for God. Anybody who is in recovery from an addiction knows exactly what Jesus means by that. They’ve experienced it: They know that is impossible for them to give up the object of their addiction—and yet they are giving it up, not by their own willpower, but by some higher power, grace.

The gospels speak of this as a baptism and they speaks of two kinds of baptisms: the baptism of John and the baptism of Jesus, adding that John’s baptism is only a preparation for Jesus’ baptism. What’s John’s baptism? It’s a baptism of repentance, a realization of what we are doing wrong and a clear resolution to correct our bad behavior. What’s Jesus’ baptism? It’s an entry into grace and community in such a way that it empowers us internally to do what is impossible for us to do by our willpower alone.

But how does this work? Is grace a kind of magic? No. It’s not magic. All psychic, emotional, and spiritual energy is, by definition, beyond a simple phenomenological understanding. Simply put, that means that we can’t lay out its inner plumbing. There’s a mystery to all energy. But what we can lay out empirically is its effect: spiritual energy works. Grace works. This has been proven inside the experience of thousands of people (many of them atheists) who have been able to find an energy inside them that clearly does not come from them and yet empowers them beyond their willpower alone. Ask any addict in recovery about this.

Sadly, many of us, who are solid believers, still haven’t grasped the lesson. We’re still trying to live out our lives by John’s baptism alone, that is, by own willpower. That makes us wonderful critics but leaves us mostly powerless to actually change our own lives. What we are looking for, and desperately need, is a deeper immersion into the baptism of Jesus, that is, into community and grace.

The Things That Hinder Us

We are getting closer and closer to the “day of the Lord,” a term which the authors of the Christian Scriptures carried over from the Hebrew Scriptures.

The author of the second letter of Peter describes it this way: “What we await are new heavens and a new earth where, according to his promise, the justice of God will reside.”

It is the day of God’s salvation when “Kindness and truth shall meet; justice and peace shall kiss. Truth shall spring out of the earth, and justice shall look down from heaven.”

We await the day of the Lord, but it is to be an active waiting. John the Baptist echoes the prophet’s message: “In the desert prepare the way of the Lord!”

“Make straight in the wasteland a highway for our God!” The reading from Peter speaks of our “looking for the coming of the day of God” and of our “trying to hasten it!”

We stand, as it were, in a desert, an empty wasteland of broken lives and discarded people.

The challenge of Advent is to clear a straight path for God: to end injustices, to stop wars and the preparations for wars, to put discrimination behind us, or in the words of the opening prayer, to “remove the things that hinder us from receiving Christ with joy.”

The promise of Advent is that “the Lord will come to save all nations.”

Because we believe in the dignity of the person, we must embrace every chance to help and to liberate, to heal the wounded world as Jesus taught us. Our hands must be the strong but gentle hands of Christ, reaching out in mercy and justice, touching individual persons, but also touching the social conditions that hinder the wholeness which is God’s desire for humanity.U.S. Bishops, Health and Health Care (1981) 13

Focusing the Gospel

Key words and phrases: way of the Lord, John the Baptist appeared in the desert, he will baptize you the Holy Spirit

To the point: In the gospel we are admonished to prepare the "way of the Lord." What is this "way of the Lord"? It is a life of "holiness and devotion" (second reading), a life of "repentance" and "forgiveness" (gospel), and a life of hearing the "glad tidings" of God's salvation and announcing this "good news" (first reading) to the world. This is the way John the Baptist lived; this is the way of life into which Christ baptizes us with the Holy Spirit.

Connecting the Gospel ...

... to the first reading: The "way of the Lord" announced by Isaiah and John will only be fully realized when Christ's second coming ushers in a "new heavens and a new earth" (Second Reading). What we do now—how we prepare for the coming of the Lord and live every day—is hastening what is to come.

... to experience: Regularly we hear news reports about people who do extraordinary things: a firefighter saves a child from a burning building, a parent goes without food to feed the child, or a missionary gives her life for the poor of a third world country. John the Baptist was surely an extraordinary man—from his miraculous birth through his desert living to his being precursor of the Messiah. Most of us are not so extraordinary or different, but nonetheless, we are called to announce the coming of the Lord through our manner of faithful living.

Wastelands of Discontent
 
"Comfort, give comfort to my people."
A few years ago, Forbes magazine, that font of capitalist wisdom, entitled its seventy-fifth anniversary issue “Why We Feel so Bad When We Have It so Good.” It sported articles by some of the media luminaries of our time: Peggy Noonan, writer for Ronald Reagan, George Bush, and Dan Rather; the brilliant novelist John Updike, who reminded us of lawyers’ gorgeous fees, “like a black hole at the center of the business world, sucking dollars into it,” and the greed of corporate heads “who with giant salaries and rigged deals looted their companies as shamelessly as Third World dictators looted their impoverished countries”; the Nobel laureate Saul Bellow, writing of the disillusionment that comes from our cultural fascination with affluence; and the historian Gertrude Himmelfarb, warning us of the weary discontent haunting a nation surprised to discover that “economic and material goods are no compensation for social and moral ills.”

In so many ways we are a disconsolate people, members of a “joyless” economy whose models of fashion and rock stare with sullen eyes and false rage. We turn on ourselves in violence. Witness the geometric rises in homicide and suicide rates, the murder of our unborn by the millions and the moral disenfranchisement of our young.

Our very lives seem so externalized, so bereft of intrinsic value, that the technology of ending them has become alluring. The prospect of a Dr. Kevorkian to extinguish the pain or a Derek Humphry to ease our “final exit” is a deadly theme of half-serious jokes.

We may be an attractive people, Peggy Noonan mused, but we are somehow terribly sad. We have been formed as a people to expect happiness endlessly, but the search has caused only more misery. She links this to a deep cultural belief that this world is the only existence there is, our only chance to be happy, and “If that is what you believe, then you are not disappointed when the world does not give you a good measure of its riches, you are despairing.”

It is the despair of exile—from one’s homeland and one’s self—that is addressed in Second Isaiah’s “Book of Consolation.” And if the prophet’s is a living word, it speaks not only to a people over twenty-five centuries ago. It confronts us. This is what it means to appropriate holy scripture as our own: not a disembodied historical text, but a message that penetrates our own reality.

Certainly this encounter is appropriate for a community of faith bearing the very name of the Word made flesh and inhabiting countries whose national spirits were once influenced by the God of Moses and the prophets as well as the Father of Jesus.

We let voices cry out in our own wastelands: Isaiah calling us to prepare a way for the Lord, the writer of 2 Peter asking us to come to repentance, John the Baptizer proclaiming “a baptism which led to the forgiveness of sins.”

The happy paradox of it all is that repentance itself is the beginning of hope. The moment we recognize our insufficiency and failure, we can own up to our exiled condition, from which we long to return. Sin’s acknowledgment is the birth of renewal.

Even more, as men and women of faith, we affirm that the longing born of repentance will not go unanswered by a God who would have us “fear not,” who would shepherd us, carry us, gather us into loving arms. God wants none of us to perish, no good of us to be lost. As the spirituality of Alcoholics Anonymous reveals, the admission of our unmanageable exile invites us to hope for “one more powerful yet to come.”

Thus we cannot save ourselves. We know we are not the Messiah. But in the promise that has been given, in the covenant that has been offered, we can find our voice and speak once again the truth that the great ones before us like Isaiah and the Baptizer have given to our ancestors.

It was Lee Atwater, maker of presidents, inventor of “kicking butt” and Willie Horton campaigns, hobnobber with rock stars, who—finally brought low by the ravages of brain cancer—spoke most forcefully to a people that had given itself over to the illusions of power, wealth, and prestige.

In “Lee Atwater’s Last Campaign” (Life, February 1991), he revealed his anguish, not over his own fate but over the fate of our age—our moral decay, our exile from love, our loss of compassion and friendship. He seemed to search for voices that would be raised in hope despite our own wilderness. “I don’t know who will lead us through the ’90s, but they must be made to speak to this spiritual vacuum at the heart of American society, this tumor of the soul.”

Who will do this, if not those who know their own vulnerability and sinfulness? Who, if not those who have hope in the providence of God and the possibility of reform in the human heart? Who, if not us?

Preparing the Way
 
Unlike Matthew and Luke, Mark reports no genealogy for Jesus, yet he accomplishes the same thing they do: establishing Jesus’ honorable status and authority.

Son of God
The word commonly translated “gospel” in Mk 1:1 (“the beginning of the gospel of Jesus the Messiah”) is more fittingly translated “proclamation.”

Ancient Mediterranean people were familiar with proclamations. They were generally made on behalf of or about rulers (e.g., announcing the birth of a new ruler, reporting a recent military victory by the ruler). Mediterranean people would immediately wonder: who is this Jesus, and by what right does he make proclamations?

If this person is simply Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee (Mk 1:9), he would have little claim to honor. Recall Nathanael’s incredulous question: “Can anything honorable come out of Nazareth?” (Jn 1:46). A village artisan has no authority to make proclamations.

Mark has a ready answer: Jesus is Son of God. This statement announces Jesus’ status, the basis of his acquired honor by reason of which he can speak and act on behalf of God.

The Second Vatican Council’s Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation (no. 12) urges all who interpret the Bible to “investigate what the sacred writer intended to express and actually expressed.” Mark actually expressed the phrase “Son of God.” What did he intend to express?

In Hebrew and other Semitic languages, the phrase “son of so-and-so” means “having the qualities of so-and-so.” The phrase “son of man” means having the qualities of a man or person, hence in a word it means “human.”

The ancients understood thunder as the voice of God (see Ps 29:3-9), hence “sons of thunder” describes “those who echo the voice of God” (see Mk 3:17).

A son of God is one who has “the quality or qualities of God,” hence one who is divine or divine-like. This is more than sufficient justification for Jesus’ behavior as a proclaimer.

Mark
And who is this person who presumes to narrate the story of this extraordinary Jesus? What do we know about him? The gospel does not identify its author, but tradition (since Papias) has suggested a certain “Mark,” companion of Peter in Rome (1 Pet 5:13). The belief is that Peter or his recollections stand behind this gospel no matter who “Mark” really is.

From a cultural perspective, that would be beside the point. Whatever his identity, this author presents an honorable personal status as strong as Jesus’ status. In the second verse, the evangelist demonstrates ability to quote Scripture creatively. While citing explicitly only Isaiah, he has also included Malachi, demonstrating not only familiarity with the sacred traditions but creative ability to reshape them. Such skill was immediately recognized, highly regarded, and admired.

John the Baptizer
The third honorable figure to appear in this prologue is dressed like Elijah (Is 40:6; see 1 Kgs 1:8), preaches reform, and announces the advent of the Messiah. Yet for all his boldness, the Baptizer displays the appropriate and expected cultural humility. He describes the coming one as “more powerful than me” and declares himself “not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals” (Is 40:7). An honorable person never presumes to usurp the honor of another.

As a preacher, John is a smashing success. He addresses head on the day-to-day concerns of his predominantly peasant audience. The theme of John’s preaching was “remission of debts” (translated “forgiveness of sins”). Jesus echoed this in the Lord’s Prayer: “forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors” (Mt 6:12; Lk 11:4).

Peasants from the Judean countryside were deeply in debt.

That honorable preachers like John and Jesus would proclaim remission of debts is good news. Advent is an opportune time for all Christians to address the burning issues of life courageously.

In series B the Gospel readings are taken from the Gospel of Mark, supplemented by the Gospel of John. This is necessary because Mark’s Gospel, being the shortest, requires supplementing. Also, in the three-year cycle, John is otherwise read only on certain occasions (especially Lent and Eastertide) in series A and C.

Let us first remind ourselves of the structure of the Advent season. The theme of future eschatology—the Christian hope for the final consummation of history—dominates the concluding Sundays of the year and reaches its climax on the first Sunday of Advent.

On the following three Sundays, other themes preparatory to the celebration of Christmas and the first coming of the Messiah gradually take over. Thus, each succeeding liturgical season dovetails into its predecessor.

 
Reading I: Isaiah 40:1-5, 9-11

This is the best known of the prophecies of Second Isaiah. Indeed, it is one of the best known passages of the Old Testament, if for no other reason than its use by Handel in the three opening numbers of The Messiah.

Of course, the unknown prophet of the exile was not consciously thinking of the Christ-event. He had in view the restoration of Israel from the Babylonian exile around 538 B.C.E. Cyrus of Persia had won his preliminary victories and the power of Babylon was waning.

The prophet himself, then, is the voice crying in the wilderness. He, according to the reading of the NRSV margin (anticipated by the English text of The Messiah and certainly to be preferred) is the bearer of good tidings:

Get you up to a high mountain,
    O herald of good tidings to Zion;
lift up your voice with strength,
    O herald of good tidings to Jerusalem.
(NRSV margin)

“Good tidings”—in the Hebrew original this is a verb that later gave us the noun “gospel” in its New Testament sense. The good tidings here is the good news of the impending divine intervention in history bringing about the return from exile.
The prophet envisages this return as a second exodus, in which miracles similar to those of the first exodus will be repeated:

Every valley shall be lifted up,
    and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level,
    and the rough places a plain.

One might call Second Isaiah the father of typology. Henceforth the exodus event becomes the type of expected eschatological event and is taken up into the New Testament as the type of the Christ event itself. It was in this latter sense that this prophecy was applied in the text of The Messiah, and it is in the same sense that we read it today.

Typology is based upon the conviction, not that history repeats itself, but that God’s mighty acts in history follow a consistent pattern because God is true to God’s self and God’s purpose.

The eschatological event is defined as the revealing of God’s glory, a thought that will have profound significance in New Testament theology (see, for example, Jn 1:14). “Glory” becomes a word of salvation history; it is an event, the event of the active, saving presence of YHWH. YHWH “comes with might.”

If the expected event becomes, in Christian interpretation, the Christ event, so too, according to the New Testament, the prophet of the exile foreshadows John the Baptist. He is the “voice” (Jn 1:23, to be read next week) that cries: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord” (see today’s gospel). His preparatory work that will make a highway for the advent of the Messiah will be his preaching of repentance.
 
Responsorial Psalm 85:9-10, 11-12, 13-14*

No one knows for certain when this lament was composed or what concrete siutation it had in view. It is not unlikely, however, that the psalm was more or less contemporaneous with Second Isaiah. Like the Old Testament reading, the lament looks forward to the intervention of YHWH in history.

It picks up many of the themes of Second Isaiah: “salvation is at hand,” “that glory may dwell in our land.” The second stanza is a veritable compendium of theological terms for the eschatological event: “steadfast love,” “faithfulness,” “righteousness,” “peace.” The third stanza also speaks of the coming of YHWH as being heralded in advance:

Righteousness will go before him,
    and make its footsteps a way,

reminding us how the exilic prophet described his mission and how this terminology is taken up in the New Testament and applied to the Baptist.
 
Reading II: 2 Peter 3:8-14

The Second Letter of Peter is commonly thought nowadays to be not only a pseudonymous work but also the latest document in the New Testament, written perhaps after 125 C.E. The unknown author appeals to the authority of Peter and to certain Petrine traditions in order to convey to his church a message that, he is convinced, is precisely what Peter would have said had he still been alive.

The author is faced with false teachers, perhaps of a Gnostic character, who have no place for belief in the second coming of Christ. As in 1 Corinthians, these Gnostics emphasize the “already” at the expense of the “not yet.” They dismiss the church’s traditional teaching about the Second Coming by pointing scornfully to its failure to occur, despite constant teaching that it was just around the corner.

In answer, the author appeals to Psalm 90: “For a thousand years in your sight are like yesterday when it is past, or like a watch in the night.” God’s time scheme is different from ours. But the author still seeks to retain the existential vitality of the parousia hope.

The dominical parable of the thief in the night is cited to show that Christians must always expect the Day of the Lord to come at any moment. This gives a motivation for holiness and godliness of living (2 Pet 3:11). It is therefore not true to say, as some have said, that this letter, like other early catholic writings in the New Testament, has relegated the parousia to the last chapter of dogmatics and deprived it of significance for the Christian life here and now.

The following points in this pericope seem to still speak to contemporary Christianity:

1. Christians must always live as though the end were to come at any moment. Watchfulness is a part of Christian living.
2. Rightly understood, the imminent hope in Christianity is a motivation for the pursuit of holiness and godliness of life.
3. However much we demythologize the New Testament pictures of the end, the hope of a new heaven and a new earth as the final goal of history is something that can never be surrendered. 

Gospel: Mark 1:1-8

Following the established pattern of Advent, John the Baptist occupies the forefront of our attention on the second and third Sundays. He marks the inauguration of the Christ event, and therefore the inauguration of the gospel.

It is unclear whether Mark means “gospel of Jesus Christ” to be taken subjectively (the gospel preached by Jesus, the Good News of the kingdom, as in Mk 1:14) or objectively (the gospel about Jesus).

The subjective sense makes good history, for it is an incontestable fact that Jesus’ mission grew out of the Baptist’s. In some sense the one was a continuation of the other, in others a breakaway. John’s accent was on judgment, Jesus’ on salvation. This difference is expressed in the parable of the children in the market place (Mt 11:16-19).

Mark 1:3 picks up the Deutero-Isaian prophecy of today’s first reading and prefaces it (Mk 1:2) with a prophecy of Malachi 3:1, which he alters significantly. “My face” becomes “your face,” so that it is addressed to Christ. Both techniques—the combination of two widely separated texts and the alteration of a text—are now familiar to us from the Dead Sea Scrolls.

As reported by Mark, John’s preaching consists of two aspects: first, the preaching of repentance and baptism and the forgiveness of sins; second, the announcement of the coming of the mightier One who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.

In recent years there has been something of a “quest for the historical Baptist” for reasons similar to those that motivated the “quest for the historical Jesus.” Both historical figures have been subject to reinterpretation in the light of post-Easter Christian faith.

There can be no doubt that the “historical Baptist” did baptize; this is attested not only by the New Testament but also by the Jewish historian Josephus. The latter gives a non-sacramental interpretation to it; he regards it merely as a sign of conversion from sin to righteousness that had already taken place. This we may suspect, however, as an attempt to debiblicize the Baptist for the benefit of Josephus’ pagan readers.

But did John also speak of the stronger One who was to come after him? Josephus says nothing of this, but it is generally agreed that he did, although he was not consciously predicting the coming of Jesus.

The stronger One whom the Baptist expected was either YHWH himself or a very different kind of Messiah from what Jesus turned out to be—a Messiah whose accent, like John’s own, would be on judgment rather than on salvation (see “fire” in Mt 3:11/Lk 3:16).

In that case, “Holy Spirit” will be a Christian reinterpretation of “fire” from the perspective of Pentecost, but a wholly legitimate one.

Commentary by Origen
 
Prepare a way for the Lord.

Let us examine the scriptural texts foretelling the coming of Christ. One such prophecy begins with a reference to John the Baptist: “The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight.” What follows, however, applies directly to our Lord and Savior, since it is by Jesus rather than by John that “every valley has been filled in.”

You have only to recall the kind of people you were before you put your faith in the Lord to see yourselves as deep valleys, as pits plunging precipitously into the lowest depths. But now that the Lord Jesus has come and has sent the Holy Spirit in his name, all your valleys have been filled in with good works and the Holy Spirit’s fruits.

Love no longer tolerates the presence of valleys in your lives; if peace, patience, and goodness find a home in you, not only will each of you cease to be a valley but you will actually begin to be a mountain of God.

Among the pagans we daily see this prophetic filling of every valley realized, just as among the people of Israel, now deprived of their former privileged status, we see the overthrowing of every mountain and hill. But “because of their offense, salvation has come to the pagans, to stir Israel to emulation.”

If you prefer you can visualize these fallen mountains and hills as the hostile powers that formerly raised themselves up in opposition to the human race. Such an interpretation is legitimate because, in order to fill in the kind of valleys we have been speaking of, the enemy powers—the mountains and hills—must be laid low.

Now let us turn to that part of the prophecy which also concerns the coming of Christ and see whether this too has been fulfilled. The text continues: “Every crooked way shall be straightened.” Each one of us was once crooked; if we are no longer so, it is entirely due to the grace of Christ. Through his coming to our souls all our crooked ways have been straightened out.

If Christ did not come to your soul, of what use would his historical coming in the flesh be to you? Let us pray that each day we may experience his coming and be able to say: “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”

Jesus my Lord has come, then. He has smoothed out your rough places and changed your disorderly ways into level paths, making in you an even unimpeded road, a road that is absolutely clear, so that God the Father may walk in you and Christ the Lord make his dwelling in you and say: “My Father and I will come and make our home in them.”

(Homily on Luke’s Gospel 22, 1-4: SC 67, 300-02)

 

Origen (183-253), one of the greatest thinkers of ancient times, became head of the catechetical school of Alexandria at the age of eighteen. In 230 he was ordained priest by the bishop of Caesarea. His life was entirely devoted to the study of Scripture and he was also a great master of the spiritual life. His book On First Principles was the first great theological synthesis. Many of his works are extant only in Latin as a result of his posthumous condemnation for heterodox teaching. Nevertheless, in intention he was always a loyal son of the Church.

Holy Darkness
 
Darkness terrifies us, consumes us. Sometimes. But the right kind of darkness can give us peace. A night of good sleep, for instance. Or a “lovely soft day,” as the Irish call those shady, rainy, drizzling days that make Ireland green.

My experience of such a dark day was in Hawaii, no less, a place where light abounds. A brother Jesuit and I agreed to climb all the way up the side of one of Maui’s volcanic mountains—with a guide and with friends, I am happy to say—and then climb down into the crater itself.

Fine, but no one had mentioned the great dark cave at the other end of the crater floor. It was a “lava tube,” formed when a huge molten stream began to cool and harden on the outside while the inside continued to flow out, which left a tube. We were ushered into this tube/cave, following trustingly. After a few curves and reverses, there was no morsel of natural light left in the cave, only one electric bulb, our salvation. We settled down on various rocks by its light.

Then the guide clicked off the bulb. Yes. He had warned us ahead of time, very kindly and all, but the words “put out the light” did not sound comforting to my ears.*

Deep, unrelieved darkness settled around us and around everything else. Eyes open, eyes closed, it was all the same. No light, no shadow, no least glow. Obviously we felt trapped and afraid, lost in a strange place, our eyes put out.

But the result was just the opposite. Against all reason, we felt great: great rest, great peace.

“I’ll turn the light back on now,” the guide whispered after several minutes, but we halted him. “No, no, leave it off. Give us more time.” We sat, unseeing, united, consoled by the warmth and depth of absolute night.
When the tiny little bulb did finally return, our own eyesight surprised us. Seeing was like a memory that had slipped away. The dark had formed a resting place, it seems, in which our souls re-charged, our eyes recovered their innocence. Without notice, maybe our daylight world had become too ordinary, too usual, too much just a tool to be used. But now it seemed miraculous, a gift given by God—even if it came through an insignificant incandescent bulb.

In Sunday’s Gospel, the people hunger for light like this. “Are you the light?” they shout to John the Baptist. Will you “bring glad tidings to the poor, healing to the brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives and release the prisoners” (First Reading)?

I am only pointing you toward the light, the Baptist said. He will be here soon. Hold on to my arm.

Have you found an arm to hold onto? What is your experience of darkness? Is it the opposite of quiet. Maybe terror is its name. Know, however unrelieved your night may be, that there is still, always, the promise of light. When you have been deprived for a long, long time, even one speck of light will change everything.

A tiny child might provide it on Christmas Eve!

Those words are what Othello said just before he blew out the candle and killed the sleeping Ophelia.

First Reading
Isaiah 61:1-2a, 10-11

1. Sinful as we sometimes are, Pope Francis says our main purpose as Church is to “live and bear witness to Jesus ... ‘bring glad tidings to the poor ... set at liberty those who are oppressed. ... ’” Discuss how you might do that in crisis areas like Ferguson, MO, a suburb of St. Louis, and in the Sudan where there is little clean water.

The Church, believe me, despite all the delays, infidelities, mistakes and sins which it may have committed and can still commit in those who compose it, has no other meaning and purpose than to live and bear witness to Jesus:  He who was sent from Abba “to bring glad tidings to the poor, ... to proclaim release to the captives and sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord” (Lk 4:18-19).
-Rorate Caeli, Pope Francis’ reply to Eugenio Scalfari atheist, co-founder, and former editor of Italy’s most popular newspaper, La Repubblica, in which it was published, Aug.12, 2013

2. Isaiah is the first to tell us “to bring glad tidings. ... ” Jesus quotes Isaiah next (Lk 4:18-19) and Pope Francis repeats it again. How important is that message to you? Should the fact that we have “mistakes and infidelities” under our belts hinder us? How could those mistakes help us help others? 

Second Reading
1 Thessalonians 5:16-24

1. How can you ensure actively that the Spirit has opportunities to work in you? How can anyone “rejoice always” when they are suffering? Do you know people who seem to do that? Do you find that all things work together for you if you love God? Could that be a response to Paul’s “pray without ceasing”?

2. What is the relationship between the Holy Spirit working in the depths of your spirit and God’s peace that is applied to your body, soul and spirit?

Gospel
John 1:6-8, 19-28

1. In the First Reading The Lord sends Isaiah with a message. In the Gospel God sends John to testify to the light of Christ. Does God send you? How can you testify to the light in some way?

2. John begins his Gospel, as shown in this reading, by announcing who John the Baptist was, and who and who he was not. Can you specify each of these?

Fear Not, You Are Inadequate!

Some twenty years ago, while on a retreat, an elderly nun was assigned to me as director. She proved to be a woman of rare maturity, providing the guidance that I needed at the time. Being young and intense, I too easily made a cosmic drama and tragedy out of every ordinary desolation or setback and she challenged me with a wisdom, an earthiness, and a sense of humour that continually helped deflate my pompousness.

At one stage of the retreat, sensing my Hamlet type propensities, she gave me a little proverb: Fear not, you are inadequate!

Through the years, that little adage has come back to me, off and on, mostly at times when I have been a bit overwhelmed by my own inadequacy or have been, usually without a lot of success, trying to console somebody else. There is a deceptive depth in that little saying.

On the one hand, there is a certain consolation in it. Whether you are a parent, a teacher, a minister, a priest, an advocate for justice, or simply a friend to someone in need, there are countless times when you come face to face with your own inadequacy, when you are helpless in the face of all that you should be doing. At times like that, it is important to remember that God alone is adequate, that you are not God, and that God is more parent, teacher, minister, priest, advocate for justice, and friend than you are. Obvious as this is, it is not always evident to us, as our history of needless worry, being angry, feeling overly self-important, living with ulcers, and being chronically overextended give ample testimony to.

Great spiritual writers have always said this. For example, John of the Cross, in a treatise on spiritual direction, reminds directors that God is the real spiritual director and that they are only secondary instruments. That is also true for every parent, teacher, minister, priest, justice advocate, and friend. God is the real parent, the real teacher, the real minister, the real advocate for justice, and the real friend and alone is adequate for that task.  We are instruments, mere instruments, albeit important ones, and, unlike God, we are not adequate to the task.

Knowing this should give us some consolation at those times when it seems that, somehow, we should be doing better than we are. However, that consolation, expressed so well in the proverb, should never give us an excuse to slacken our efforts, be lazy, or to shirk responsibility. God may be the real parent or the real teacher or the real friend, but God, in the incarnation, has tied divine power to human hands and human effort. Hence the fact that nobody, save Jesus, is adequate to give expression to God must not however deter us from trying.

Be that as it may, this adage, the common sense faith of a very good nun, is itself a prayer. How so?

Healthy prayer functions paradoxically: On the one hand, it connects us to God and links us to divine energy. Conversely, at the same time, it dissociates us from God by making it clear to us that we are not God. Hence, a good prayer life is paradoxical too in its effect, namely, it connects us to God and thus saves us from depression even as it dissociates us from God and thereby saves us from inflation and self-righteousness. Simply put, if someone does not pray, in some way, he or she is forever falling either into depression or into infantile grandiosity, either there is a lack of connection to God or there is an over identification with God. Both have negative effects.

Thus, for example, when looks at someone like David Koresh—the Cult Davidian leader who burned to death in Waco, Texas—one sees precisely an over identification with God. There was plenty of energy, plenty of fire, but too little in the way of dissociation. He might well have meditated that little proverb on inadequacy and come to understand that he was not God. Conversely, when we are chronically depressed (as opposed to being clinically depressed) we are too out of touch with divine energy and stand in need of more connection. Accepting our inadequacy can help bring us to prayer.

Fear not, you are inadequate! To accept the truth of that is to be make a little prayer. It is both healthily humbling and uplifting to accept the fact that we are not God and that we are not asked to try to be. When we are overly discouraged it is because we have forgotten that truth. When are overly inflated, it is for the same reason.

In series B the Gospel readings are taken from the Gospel of Mark, supplemented by the Gospel of John. This is necessary because Mark’s Gospel, being the shortest, requires supplementing. Also, in the three-year cycle, John is otherwise read only on certain occasions (especially Lent and Eastertide) in series A and C.

Let us first remind ourselves of the structure of the Advent season. The theme of future eschatology—the Christian hope for the final consummation of history—dominates the concluding Sundays of the year and reaches its climax on the first Sunday of Advent.

On the following three Sundays, other themes preparatory to the celebration of Christmas and the first coming of the Messiah gradually take over. Thus, each succeeding liturgical season dovetails into its predecessor.

 
Reading I: Isaiah 61:1-2a, 10-11

This is one of the most familiar passages from Third Isaiah (Is 56-66). It is akin to the servant psalms of Second Isaiah (Is 40-55), for although the prophet does not explicitly call himself the servant, he describes his mission in terms of servanthood.

This passage appears to have profoundly influenced Jesus’ understanding of his own mission. Even if—which, however, is by no means certain—the sermon at Nazareth (Lk 4:16-22) is a Lucan composition, Jesus himself alluded unmistakably to this text in his answer to John (Mt 11:2-6/Lk 7:18-23), whose authenticity is beyond reasonable doubt.
 
Responsorial Psalm: Luke 1:46-48, 49-50, 53-54*

The Christological interest of this text, however, would be more appropriate for the Epiphany season (a slightly different selection from Isa 61 is used in the Episcopal Church’s adaptation of the Lectionary on the third Sunday of Epiphany in series C).

Today’s caption highlights the theme of joy in face of the impending advent of God’s salvation, a theme that is reinforced by the responsorial psalm (the Magnificat and the refrain taken from its two opening words). This, it will be noted, is in accordance with the tradition of the Roman Missal, where this Sunday was known as Gaudete Sunday, from the opening word of the Introit.

In the Book of Common Prayer, this theme belonged, as generally in the medieval rites of Northern Europe, to the fourth Sunday of Advent. We might note that the Magnificat is particularly associated with Advent, Bach’s Magnificat, for instance, being frequently performed on one of the Advent Sundays.
 
Reading II: 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24

The opening of this reading continues the theme of joy from Isaiah and the psalm (note that in the old Roman Missal this was “Gaudete” from the opening of the Introit). However, the caption underlines the second paragraph with its references to the parousia.

As we have already noted, the theme of the Second Coming is replaced after the first Sunday of Advent by that of the First Coming, but there are occasional echoes of the earlier theme on later Sundays.

Such is the genius of Advent. It refuses to contemplate the First Coming apart from the Second, or the Second apart from the First.
 
Gospel: John 1:6-8, 19-28

This Gospel reading represents an ingenious combination of two separate passages. The first paragraph is a prose comment that the evangelist inserted into the Logos hymn.

Bultmann thought that the Johannine prologue was first composed as a hymn to John the Baptist by his followers, who regarded him as the bearer of the eschatological revelation. Perhaps it was, even earlier than that, a hymn to Wisdom, successively adapted for “baptist” and for Christian use.

In any case, the evangelist’s prose insertion is clearly designed to counter a false estimate of the Baptist: he is not the light but only a witness to the light.

The same tendency ostensibly to downgrade the Baptist continues in the second paragraph of our pericope. John is here presented as entirely repudiating all messianic or quasi-messianic titles. He is neither the Christ, the prophet-Messiah, nor (contra the Synoptics) Elijah, but only the “voice” of Is 40.

This disagreement with the Synoptic interpretation should not worry us unduly. In the Synoptists’ environment, it was perfectly safe to interpret John as an Elijah redivivus. But for the Fourth Gospel, in its different situation, Elijah could well have been too high a title, suggesting that he was actually the Messiah, the immediate forerunner of YHWH.

Perhaps John reflects an earlier state of christology than that of the Synoptists, a stage when Elijah was still preempted for Christ himself—the stage that John A. T. Robinson characterized as the view that Jesus was his own Elijah, in the sense that he was the forerunner of the apocalyptic Son of Man and was himself exalted to heaven to fulfill that role.
 

Gaudete: Rejoice
 
"I am not the Messiah."
Among the many ways we might receive the word of God, we can hear and read it in the context of its presumed original setting. Thus Isaiah’s beautiful prophecy of glad tidings to the poor, healing for the broken-hearted, and liberty to captives is the likely promise of restoration of homeland and freedom to an exiled and defeated ancient people.

We could also investigate the word from the point of view of the author and the author’s audience. This could be our focus, whether we investigate the historical situation of the Hebrew people and the actual time a prophecy was recorded or look into the matter of this prophecy’s presence in the Gospel of Luke, when Jesus reveals his ministry in Nazareth’s synagogue. No matter what might have been on Jesus’ mind and lips, the use of Isaiah was certainly in the minds and hearts of the early church’s articulation of its encounter with Christ.

A third level of our engagement, a third type of focus, is presented by the context of our own lives and times: how we receive and respond. In some ways, it is this focus which is so difficult to hold. For if we allow ourselves to stand unmasked and unguarded before the Word of God, we may be shaken, transformed, and winnowed.

It might well seem safer to read and hear the gospel as if it all applied to something that happened long ago. We are willing to stop at its historical meanings or its dogmatic implications. But that is not the full range of its voice. It is spoken to us here and now.

That is why Jesus’ use of the Isaiah passage in the fourth chapter of Luke is particularly suggestive. After he gave the scroll back and all eyes were fixed on him, he said, “This text is being fulfilled today even as you listen.” It is fulfilled in our own hearing of it. Thus we are the Israelites receiving the promise that God will make “justice and praise spring up before all the nations.” We are the Thessalonians “waiting for the coming of the Lord,” advised not to stifle the Spirit or despise prophecies. We must in some way make John the Baptizer’s words our own.

It is rather easy to objectify and externalize God’s voice in the world. The poor, the broken-hearted, the blind, the captives were back then and out there. But Jesus insisted that Isaiah’s words were not merely for previous generations. They were for the present. They are for our present.

Even if we accept his words, however, for the present time, we still have a struggle to take them to heart. Perhaps we presume that the broken-hearted of our world must be healed; perhaps we think we ought to work for prison reform; perhaps we imagine ourselves challenged to work for the poor. But this is still not the deepest point of revelation.

For the prophecy is fulfilled in my, in our, very receiving of it addressed to us. It is you and I who are the poor. We are impoverished, not only in the matters of our unfulfilled desires, material or otherwise, but in the more secret matters of our personal vulnerability, our inability to save and heal ourselves, our utter incapacity to manage our way through life and love.

And it is we too who suffer broken hearts in those very lives and loves and labors that mark our existence. There is no woman, man, or child I have ever met who has been exempt from this condition. There are many of us, however, who have repressed or ignored that very fact. The receiving of the prophecy is the recognition of our truth.

So it is with our blindness before grace, to the bounty of life, to the gift of each breath and movement of our hearts. So also with our inability to see the wounds and gifts of those near and far. We have eyes but see not.

We too are captive: prisoners of barred rooms and closed roads, unable to see our way out of failure, our betrayals and egoisms, our fears that paralyze, our attachments that hold us frozen.

So is this church captive, sinful and poor, broken and held in thrall by its own idols and obsessions. Let us count the ways.

And so also our nations are caught in nationalisms, our tribes trapped in tradition that crushes human life and spirit, our economic and political classes locked in vested interest.

As we hear the word sounded or read it written, let it first “be fulfilled in our hearing of it.” O God, be with us, be our Emmanuel. Come to our poor inadequacy. Open our tired eyes. Free us—all of us. Unlock our hearts and minds.

If we do not encounter the Word of God on this most primary and existential level, all the historical reflections of human hermeneutics will not move us. All the high speculative theologies in the world will not transform our hearts.

We must, in effect, take upon ourselves the attitude of the Baptizer; one thing I know for sure: “I am not the Messiah.”

Focusing the Gospel

Key words and phrases:

• Who are you?
• I am not the Christ
• the voice of one crying out
• one who is coming after me

To the point: John the Baptist is sure about his own identity because he is sure about the identity of Jesus. John knows himself to the the precursor of the greater One yet to come, whose sandal strap he is not even worthy to untie. His self-knowledge enables John to be who God intends him to be: not the Messiah, but the one who points beyond self to the Messiah’s presence. If we are asked, “Who are you?” can we be so sure about our own identity in relation to Jesus that our lives too point to him?

Connecting the Gospel ...

... to the first reading:John the Baptist in the gospel describes the great difference that exists between who he is and who Jesus is. By implication, the same great difference exists between Jesus and us. Yet, in the second reading Paul makes clear that God indeed diminishes this difference through the grace of the Spirit in whom we are made “perfectly holy” and are “preserved blameless.”
... to experience:American Idol shows us identities and gifts in fierce competition to be number one. John shows us the opposite: how different identities and gifts must cooperate to bring about the reign of God by not focusing on self but on Other and other.

Commentary by John Scotus Erigena
 
There stands among you, unknown to you,
the one who is coming after me.

Into the theological plan of his gospel John the evangelist draws John the Baptist; deep calls to deep at the utterance of divine mysteries. We hear the evangelist relating the story of the forerunner, the man whose gift it was to know the Word as he was in the beginning, speaking to us of the one who was commissioned to go ahead of the Word made flesh.

“There was,” says the evangelist, not simply a messenger of God, but “a man.”
This he said in order to distinguish the man who shared only the humanity of the one he heralded from the man who came after him, the man who united godhead and manhood in his own person.

The evangelist’s intention was to differentiate between the fleeting voice and the eternally unchanging Word. The one, he would suggest, was the morning star appearing at the dawning of the kingdom of heaven, while the other was the Sun of Justice coming in its wake.

He distinguished the witness from the one to whom he testified, the messenger from him who sent him, the lamp burning in the night from the brilliant light that filled the whole world, the light that dispelled the darkness of death and sin from the entire human race.

So then, the Lord’s forerunner was a man, not a god; whereas the Lord whom he preceded was both man and God. The forerunner was a man destined to be divinized by God’s grace, whereas the one he preceded was God by nature, who, through his desire to save and redeem us, lowered himself in order to assume our human nature.

A man was sent. By whom? By the divine Word, whose forerunner he was.

To go before the Lord was his mission. Lifting up his voice, this man called out: “The voice of one crying in the wilderness!” It was the herald preparing the way for the Lord’s coming.

John was his name; John to whom was given the grace to go ahead of the King of Kings, to point out to the world the Word made flesh, to baptize him with that baptism in which the Spirit would manifest his divine sonship, to give witness through his teaching and martyrdom to the eternal light.

(Homily on John’s Prologue 15: SC 151:275-77)

John Scotus Erigena (c. 810-77) received his early education, which included some Greek, in Ireland, the country of his birth. Having won the patronage of Charles the Bald, he became head of the palace school at Laon. He was not a monk, and probably never became a priest.

Erigena translated into Latin the works of Pseudo-Dionysius, the Ambigua of Maximus the Confessor, and the De Horninis Opificio of Gregory of Nyssa. His greatest work was De Divisione Naturae or Periphyseon. The first medieval theological synthesis, it shows a strong influence of the Greek theological tradition.

Erigena was a profoundly original thinker. His obscure and paradoxical language has at times been misunderstood and led to accusations of heresy, and his Neoplatonism did lead him into error on some points. He was, nevertheless, the greatest theologian of his time in East or West.

A Different Kind of Priest
 
Priest or Prophet?
Why should the religious authorities in Jerusalem show concern for a marginal figure attracting crowds to the wilderness and baptizing repentant sinners in the Jordan?

In cultures guided by honor, persons are expected to behave according to their inherited status. The Baptizer’s status or acquired honor derived from the fact that his father, Zechariah, was a devout rural priest.

But the Baptizer is not behaving like a priest. Instead, he looks very much like a member of the numerous groups of alienated priests that emerged as early as the sixth century B.C.E. These groups found themselves increasingly separated from the aristocratic priests in Jerusalem.

The historian Josephus indicates that the gulf between the latter and the large number of lower clergy was very great just before the outbreak of the Judaic rebellion against Rome in the mid-sixties C.E.

A major cause of alienation was the widely known and very evident luxury in which the Jerusalem priestly aristocracy lived in contrast to the conditions of the rural clergy.

By his dress and diet, the Baptizer distances himself from this luxury and his rural priestly heritage and presents himself more like a prophet, a spokesperson who declares the will of God for the here and now.

The Jerusalem priests wonder whether John is an “action prophet” (a spokesperson who also leads a popular movement hoping that God will intervene in liberating action) or an “oracular prophet” (one who only pronounces words of redemption or judgment).

After interrogating John, the delegation from the Jerusalem authorities conclude that he is only an oracular prophet. He explicitly says he is not the light but only the witness to the light. He denies that he is the Messiah, Elijah, or “the prophet” who was to return at the end of time.

He is but the voice crying in the wilderness exhorting his listeners to prepare the way of the Lord. Because Jesus has not yet been baptized nor initiated his ministry, the delegation isn’t interested in the “coming one” John announces.

Reform and Baptism
The second concern of the delegation is John’s baptism. “If you are not one of these expected figures, then why do you baptize?”

Baptism was rather common in antiquity even outside of Judaism. The mystery cults of Isis, Mithras, and Eleusis contained baptismal rites. In the Old Testament, Naaman was cleansed of his skin problem by bathing in the Jordan (2 Kgs 5:14).

The high priest was required to engage in a purification rite before and after the rites of atonement (Lv 16:4, 24), and Leviticus 15 prescribes it for menstruating women. The Qumran community, too, practiced a form of baptism. In each case, the meaning of the baptismal rite derives from the ritual context, or instruction, or tradition.

The Jerusalem delegation understands John’s baptismal rite to be a symbolic action. They want to know what it means. Mark and Luke identify it as a “baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins,” a rite symbolizing purification and cleansing, a return to God.

The evangelist John implies yet another dimension. The Baptist baptizes with water, but one who is to come after him will bring a more radical purification to those willing to repent (see Lk 3:16-17).

Ultimately, “one who is stronger” will succeed.
 

Listen Well!
An angel appears with a startling announcement to an otherwise insignificant housewife. Mary responds, “Let it be done unto me according to your word.”

Is there a way to understand her heart as she utters these words, so dramatically significant to the human race? Let us take an “inside approach” to the story in the Gospel.

There is a contrast written into Luke’s gospel that will help us do that. In fact the Angel Gabriel makes two Annunciations in Luke’s Gospel, not just one, and Luke presents them right after each other. Each one is about a child to be born, and, strangely, each birth is completely impossible. Zechariah’s wife Elizabeth is barren, so she cannot have a child. Mary has no husband and has never had conjugal relations. In other words, Gabriel announced two seeming absurdities. Mary’s and Zechariah’s responses to the angel are the same.

Or almost the same.

Zechariah: “How shall I know this? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.”

Mary: “How can this be? I have no relations with a man.”

Stop. Ponder these responses for a moment.

Did you spot the difference?

Both are responding to God’s steadfast love as announced by Gabriel. We could paraphrase Mary’s response as: “How in the world is this going to happen? Tell me more so I can understand.” 

Zechariah answers with something quite different—and in fact, insulting, even though it sounds almost the same. He says, “How shall I know this?” Not Mary’s “I believe you, but how will it happen,” but “give me some reason to know the truth of your claim. Prove it.”

This kind of question is understandable, but terribly inappropriate. God’s voice had already spoken love deeply into Zechariah’s heart throughout his whole life. By this time, trust in God’s promise should have been woven into the fabric of Zechariah’s life.

His speech and his hearing were taken away when he challenged the Angel. But look, they were already gone anyway. He had not listened to what God has pledged to every human being—“I will be faithful to you no matter how impossible it may seem.” A human being has to let in the truth if he or she is to be able to speak it. Because Zechariah was deaf to God’s promise, he therefore had no voice to answer the angel in trust.

Mary on the other hand, simply asked for clarification. She already believed that “nothing is impossible to God,” so she listened with faith. As a result she was given the ability to “speak” the Word of God promised from the beginning of time. Her speaking here is a metaphor for giving birth to him.

How much do you and I listen to the voice of God’s promise, written in our hearts? Do our words and actions tumble out with reference to that unwavering love deep within? Maybe we are tempted to be like Zechariah, deaf to the beauties and needs of those around us, speechless when a word of love would make its home in our hearts.

Let us ask humbly on this last day of Advent for the grace to listen and to hear. The one who promised will not fail.

First Reading
2 Samuel 7:1-5, 8b-12, 14a, 161. In this reading David is embarrassed. He is living in a beautiful dwelling while God’s residence is in “a tent.” He plans to build a beautiful house for the Lord. What does God say in return (through Nathan the prophet)? Was it inappropriate for David to make his own decision as to where God would be? Where might God dwell besides in a tent or building? Where does the real Church reside?

2. Compare and contrast what David wants to give God with what God did for David. Can you relate to “receiving much more than you give”? What happens to you when you open up just a little to God? Who/what was God’s gift that brought perfection to David’s house?

Second Reading
Romans 16:25-27

1. What was the “mystery kept secret for long ages”? Do you think the “mystery” was really a secret or possibly that it was not understood till Jesus became man? What does the Incarnation reveal to you about God?

2. This reading says God’s saving plan is for “all nations.” If all people believed that message, what would happen to the conflict between nations, the selfishness that creates poverty and to the disparity of wealth? Is there anything you can do to brighten up some of this darkness?

Gospel
Luke 1:26-38

1. Why would an infinite God wait for a human “yes” to enter the human race? Why didn’t he just come to us on his own? Can you relate to Mary’s unconditional “yes” to God, or is your yes conditional? If you do say yes, will God come take up residence in your life?

2. In a General Audience on Oct. 23. 2013, Pope Francis spoke of Mary as a model of faith, after giving her “yes” to the announcement from the angel Gabriel.

Our Lady also wants to bring the great gift of Jesus to us, to us all; and with him she brings us his love, his peace, and his joy. In this, the Church is like Mary: the Church is not a shop, she is not a humanitarian agency, the Church is not an NGO. The Church is sent to bring Christ and his Gospel to all. She does not bring herself —whether small or great, strong or weak, the Church carries Jesus and should be like Mary when she went to visit Elizabeth. What did Mary take to her? Jesus. The Church brings Jesus: this is the centre of the Church, to carry Jesus! … The Church must bring Jesus, the love of Jesus, the charity of Jesus.

… Is it the love of Jesus that shares, that forgives, that accompanies, or is it a watered-down love, like wine so diluted that it seems like water? 

Pope Francis General Audience,
2b, St Peter's Square, Oct. 23, 2013

What does the following mean to you: “The Church must bring … the love of Jesus … that shares, that forgives, that accompanies”?

And the Lord God will give him the throne of David his father,
and he will rule over the house of Jacob forever,
and of his kingdom there will be no end. (Gospel)     
Christmas—Its Checkered Origins and Its Checkered Sequence
If someone who had never heard the story of Jesus were to ask any of us about his origins, we would, I suspect, begin with the story of his annunciation and birth and end with the story of his resurrection and ascension. While that does capture his life, that’s not how the Gospels either begin or end his story. The story of Jesus and the meaning of Christmas can only really be understood by looking at where Jesus came from, his family tree, and by looking at how his story has continued in history. Indeed, that’s how the Gospels tell his story.

The Gospel of John begins his story by pointing out his eternal origins inside of God before his birth. For John, Jesus’ family tree has just three members, the Trinity: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God. Mark’s Gospel gives no family tree, begins his story with his public ministry, and then has no ending to his story. For Mark, Jesus’ story is still ongoing. Matthew and Luke, however, include inside Jesus’ story a long family tree, a genealogy, that shows his origins. Too often we tend to ignore these genealogies with their long list of difficult-to-pronounce names, most of which mean little to us. But, as the renowned biblical scholar, Raymond Brown, emphasizes again and again, we cannot really understand the story of Jesus without understanding why his family tree, this long list of names, is judged to be important.

What’s to be learned from looking at Jesus’ family tree, that curious list of ancient names? Abraham fathered Isaac, Isaac fathered Jacob, Jacob fathered Judah, Judah fathered Perez and Zerah, whose mother was Tamar, Perez fathered Hezon, Hezon fathered Ram, Ram fathered Amminabab … and so on. Among other things, these genealogies trace out Jesus’ origins in a way that tells us that his real story will not be grasped by anyone who wants to believe that Jesus’ human origins were totally immaculate and pure, containing no sin or weakness. Jesus wasn’t born of all saintly ancestors. Rather, as the genealogies show, his family tree contains as many sinners as saints. Among his ancestors were liars, adulterers, murderers, power-grabbing men, scheming women, wicked kings, corrupt church officials, and sinners of every sort. The same holds true for the religious institutions that figured in his birth. The religious history of Judaism out of which Jesus was born was too a mélange grace and sin, of religious institutions serving both God and their own human interests. 

And what’s the moral in all this? The lesson is this: Both the persons and the institutions that gave birth to Jesus were mixture of grace and sin, a mixture that mediated God’s favor and also rationalized it for its own benefit. But, out of that mélange, Jesus was born. It can be a scandal to the piety within us to accept that not everything that gave birth to Christmas was immaculately conceived. The same holds true of what followed after Jesus’ birth. His earthly ministry was also partially shaped and furthered by the self-interest of the religious authorities of his time, the resistance of secular powers of his time, and the fear and infidelity of his own disciples. And this has continued through the two thousand years of history since. Jesus has continued to have earthly incarnation throughout the centuries thanks not only to saintly individuals and virtuous churches. No, Jesus’ family tree subsequent to his birth is also a long list of saints and sinners, of selfless martyrs and selfish schemers, of virtue and betrayal.

And recognizing and accepting this should not lead us to a cynicism where we begin to doubt the truth of Jesus or the legitimacy of the church because of the lies, sin, infidelity, and not-infrequent stupidity of those human persons and religious institutions who originally made up Jesus’ family-tree and who have constituted his family since. Faith can accommodate the recognition of sin and infidelity. So can Christmas.

Christmas has a checkered origin and a checkered sequence: Jacob did steal his brother’s birthright; Judah did sleep with his daughter-in-law; David did commit adultery and did commit murder to cover it up; the church did set up the Inquisition and kill more of its own than were martyred in the early church; the church did give us popes who sold ecclesial favors and were sexually licentious; the churches, despite their catholicity and holiness, have perennially been narrow and elitist and never been fully free of self-interest; and the sexual abuse scandal did happen.

But the pure mystery of Jesus, of Christ, and of the Church somehow shine through in spite of all of this and, ironically, because of all of this. Like a hidden seed, God’s grace works, even through people like us and churches like ours, revealing divinity despite most everything. And the God who wrote the original Christmas with crooked lines also writes the sequence with crooked lines, and some of those lines are our own lives.

The Joy of Liberation

The focus of today’s liturgy is the Davidic covenant, the promise of a throne that will last forever. It appears in the First Reading, in the Responsorial Psalm, and in the Gospel, where the angel Gabriel announces to Mary that “the Lord God will give (her son) the throne of David his father.”

Jesus is to transform that covenant, revealing “the mystery hidden for many ages.” The throne in this new kingdom is to be occupied by “the Son of the Most High ... the Son of God.” Indeed, he is “Emmanuel,” God-with-us.

We are very close now to the coming of Christ tomorrow. What would the world be like if we were to allow Christ to really come as king? What would a world ruled by Jesus Christ be like? Would we have the poverty and homelessness that we have now? Would we have the death penalty? Would there be abortion and child abuse and negligence of the elderly? Would Jesus Christ allow the people of his kingdom to kill each other in wars?

If only we could join in consenting to God’s rule as Mary did: “Let it be done to me as you say.” Who knows what joy the world would know!

The Church ... receives the mission to proclaim and to establish among all peoples the kingdom of Christ and of God. She becomes on earth the initial budding forth of that kingdom. While she slowly grows, the Church strains toward the consummation of the kingdom and, with all her strength, hopes and desires to be united in glory with her King.

Vatican II, Constitution on the Church, 1964:5.

Focusing the Gospel

Key words and phrases: from God, The Lord is with you, conceive in your womb
To the point: God comes. In this annunciation gospel God establishes a divine dwelling place in a most unexpected place—in the womb of Mary. The Word is made flesh by God’s initiative—it is God-given. By fixing a place (see first reading) for divinity in human flesh and blood, God fixes a place for us within the divine embrace. Truly, the Lord is with us.

Connecting the Gospel …

… to the First Reading: In the First Reading, David takes the initiative in providing God a suitable dwelling place among the chosen people. God’s response to David is that God will do more for David (build an everlasting dynasty) than David could ever do for God (build a temple). What humans would confine to stones and mortar, God plants in human flesh and blood.

… to experience: We sense that David’s instinct was good: he lived in a fine house, and he wanted to build the same for God. But our ways are not God’s ways. Nothing we do for God can ever surpass what God does for us.

This Is My Body

Nothing is impossible with God. (Lk 1:37)
Where is the proper place for God to abide? Where can we find the Most High? Perhaps these were the questions that David asked of himself and his adviser Nathan, because the king was disturbed to be living in a cedar palace while God’s ark was confined in a tent. Although Nathan assured David that God was with him no matter where he might go, it was only Nathan’s night-time revelation from God that could make the case: “Why should you build a house for me? I have been with you no matter where you have been. And I will build an even greater house for you.”

What are these readings getting at? What is the mystery—“kept secret for long ages,” Paul writes in Romans—that is now manifested through Jesus? What is the upshot of this talk of God’s temple and dwelling place—especially in the light of Advent and the promise of Christmas?

The pre-infancy narrative in Luke provides the central clue. It may even suggest a paradoxical answer to one of the more troublesome issues in our contemporary church.

Mary is told by the angel Gabriel, the messenger of God, that the Lord is with her. Much more intimate than God’s presence to David, the Lord is literally with her. She is the dwelling place. She is the new ark, beyond all our reasonable expectations. She is tent and temple. God is literally, physically in her, conceived as human, her very flesh, great with dignity, by the power of the Most High. And she is the temple. She is the greater house, the promise to David.

“Let it be done to me according to your word.”

It is Mary’s very acceptance of the “mystery hidden for ages,” her utter openness to the promise of God’s intimacy with us, that yields her pregnancy. She believed that God could take human flesh in her, become one with her very body. Herein, she was fertile to bear forth the Most High into the world.

This is the heart of the Incarnation mystery: that the ineffable and unnameable God could take human flesh, could become one with us, could be a human baby.

Her “yes,” her “fiat,” is, of course, momentous in the drama of the world, an axial point of history. The willingness of Mary to open her life utterly to God is a model of our humanity as well as of our church and sacraments.

And this is what brings us to a conundrum of our times.

How does Mary reveal the place of women in the “Mystical Body of Christ”? How do women fit into the church?

We have called Mary not only the mother of Jesus, but the “mother” of divine grace, most pure, inviolate and undefiled. We have termed her amiable, admirable, counselor, prudent, venerable, most powerful, merciful, and faithful. She is the mirror of justice, seat of wisdom, singular vessel of devotion, the tower of David. She is the house of gold, a gate of heaven, healer of the sick, a refuge of sinners, and comforter of the afflicted.

Does not a question suggest itself? If Mary—the mother of Jesus Christ, the very Word of God made flesh—is all of that, could she be a priest?

There are those who think that women should be ordained. There are those who think otherwise. But who among them appeals to the revelation of Christ, rather than enlightened self-interest, merely human traditions, or ideology? Who among them humbly considers the Word of God, willing to say, “Let it be done according to your word”?

Blessed Isaac of Stella, in the readings of the Liturgy of the Hours for Saturday of the second week of Advent, portrays the reality of Mary that we must all assume. 

In a way, every Christian is also believed to be a bride of God’s Word, a mother of Christ, His daughter and sister, at once virginal and fruitful. These words are used in a universal sense of the church, in a special sense of Mary, in a particular sense of the individual Christian. Christ dwelt for nine months in the tabernacle of Mary’s womb. He dwells until the end of the ages in the tabernacle of the church’s faith.*

This observation of Blessed Isaac is a challenge to those of us who might think that a woman does not appropriately image Christ or adequately symbolize the incarnate mystery.

The Blessed Virgin Mary was the first human person who could say of Jesus, “This is my body, this is my blood.” She was the first altar of the Incarnation’s mystery. Her body a fitting temple, she was the prime analogate for those who know and live the mysteries of transubstantiation.

Was she not, then, the first priest, the first minister of the sacrament of the real presence?

How might those who hold that women are symbolically inadequate for the priesthood think about this? What might some feminists, who seem only ashamed of Mary, the mother of God, find by entering the mystery of her being? What might we all learn of her utter openness to the presence of God? That we, too, are called to make the Word our flesh?

*Blessed Isaac of Stella

Intimate and Cosmic

We are learning to listen for echoes when we read the New Testament. The early Christian writers chose their words with an ear to the Hebrew Scriptures, usually in the Greek version, and they want us to hear those resonances to understand what they are saying about Jesus.

This Sunday's Gospel reading provides some rich examples of that echo phenomenon. Listen to the way Luke articulates the announcement of the conception and birth of Jesus: “He will be great and will be called Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give him the throne of David his father, and he will rule over the house of Jacob forever” (Luke 1:32-33).

The only way to make sense of that language is to hear it as an echo of several Old Testament passages, especially the one from 2 Samuel proclaimed as this Sunday's first reading.

Just as the Church was founded with wordplay (Jesus to Peter: you are Petros and upon this petra I will build my Church), the exchange between David and the prophet Nathan deals with the future of the Israelite monarchy using a kind of pun. David tells Nathan: I'm going to build a decent house (meaning temple) for God. Then Nathan tells David: It's the other way around; the Lord will build a house (here meaning dynasty) for David. The prophecy goes on to speak of the son of David: it is he, Solomon, who would carry out David's plan of building the other kind of house (temple) and that he would be a son to God and God a father to him. 

This prophecy, first about Solomon and his immediate heirs, comes in time to be understood as a messianic text, looking to the ultimate son of David, who would liberate Israel from the oppressive imperial power and implement God's reign of peace.

The words of Gabriel's message, then, evoke the Nathan prophecy (as well as Psalm 2:7), but with a much fuller meaning; the one to be born of Mary is going to be Son of God not just in the adoptive, royal sense but in a genetic, divine sense.

And how will Jesus inherit the throne of David? It does not happen in his earthly lifetime. It happens in his death and resurrection. In supreme irony, Jesus is first proclaimed to the world as God's Anointed One in the Roman placard giving the reason for his death penalty of crucifixion: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”

But we have to move on to the Acts of the Apostles to learn how Luke understands the prophecy of Nathan as fulfilled in Jesus. The connection is made in Peter's Pentecost speech. Explicating Psalm 16 in the light of 2 Samuel 7 (and its parallel, Psalm 132), Peter says:

Since he [David] was a prophet and knew that God had sworn an oath to him that he would set one of his descendants upon his throne, he foresaw and spoke of the resurrection of the Messiah, that neither was he abandoned to the netherworld nor did his flesh see corruption (Acts 2:30-31).

Thus it is in resurrection that Jesus is enthroned over Israel, the full, end-time, twelve-tribe “house of Jacob” (now understood as the Church).

We may choose to focus on the Bethlehem creche as we approach Christmas. Luke, however, cannot speak of the coming of the Messiah without evoking the whole history of Israel and its culmination in the Church. That helps us see where we fit in and what time it really is.

Virginity & Honor

In the ancient Mediterranean world, people believed that unless prevented by appropriate measures, a man and a woman who found themselves alone together would inevitably have sexual relations. This is why the culture prescribes that men (fathers, husbands, brothers) watch, guard, and protect the women in their care (Sir 26:10-12).

There are a variety of strategies for carrying out this concern. One is to ensure that a woman is always in the company of other women and children (girls and boys) younger than the age of puberty. Another is the structure of the houses where the inner room or courtyard secluded from the view of people (men) in the outside world is reserved as the proper place for unmarried women.

In Luke’s account of the annunciation, a presumably masculine angel visits Mary who seems to be quite alone. Very likely, she is in the innermost quarters of her family’s home, the proper place for an unmarried young woman. The angel is an intruder, and the scene would strike any Mediterranean person as suspicious, angel notwithstanding.

Moreover, Mary is betrothed (a more accurate word than the misleading “engaged”) to Joseph. Betrothal was a family event rather than an event between two individuals. Marriage in the ancient Middle East was arranged by the parents with the intention of joining and strengthening two families. 

In Middle Eastern villages today, the marriage contract is negotiated by the mothers to make certain the families are of equal status and that neither family is taking advantage of the other. The patriarchs will ultimately ratify what has been negotiated.

Mary thus finds herself in an embarrassing and potentially shameful situation. Should anything happen to her in the family home, her father and brothers would be shamed for not taking proper care of her (see Sir 42:9-10). The family’s shame would increase on the marriage evening if no tokens of virginity could be produced (see Dt 22:13-21).

Notice that despite all the honorable assurances from the messenger, Mary is still properly concerned about her honor status: “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” She is fully aware of the significance and consequences of the angel’s message. In a flash, she recognizes the new challenges that will emerge in her betrothal and the crisis into which this pregnancy could throw both families (see Dt 22:13-21 and Num 5:11-31).

The angel reminds Mary, “Nothing is impossible with God.” Mediterraneans recognize in the angel’s explanation two indications that God is going to play the role of traditional husband for Mary. He will “empower” her (“the spirit will come upon you”) and “protect” her (“overshadow you”), two duties of a Middle Eastern husband. The meaning is not lost on Mary, the Mediterranean maiden.

Her concluding remark is a typical Middle Eastern cultural response when one has lost an argument, or decides to conclude a discussion that is going nowhere. The sentiment “let it be done to me according to your word” is more commonly stated, “As you wish.” At this stage of the story, there still remains much for Mary to face. She may be as perplexed after the angel departs as she was when he arrived.

Historians frequently point to figures in the ancient world whose origins sound just like Jesus. For instance, Asclepius, the healing deity, had a human mother, Coronis (or Arsinoe), and a divine father, Apollo. From their twentieth-century, theologically enlightened perspective, modern Christians find the fact that Jesus had no human father not to be troubling.

Attempting to enter the first-century world and culture of Palestine to understand and appreciate this scene in Luke leads to a more sympathetic view of the unsettling experience it must have been for Mary. Even for saints, faith is not easy.

In series B the Gospel readings are taken from the Gospel of Mark, supplemented by the Gospel of John. This is necessary because Mark’s Gospel, being the shortest, requires supplementing. Also, in the three-year cycle, John is otherwise read only on certain occasions (especially Lent and Eastertide) in series A and C.

Let us first remind ourselves of the structure of the Advent season. The theme of future eschatology—the Christian hope for the final consummation of history—dominates the concluding Sundays of the year and reaches its climax on the first Sunday of Advent.

On the following three Sundays, other themes preparatory to the celebration of Christmas and the first coming of the Messiah gradually take over. Thus, each succeeding liturgical season dovetails into its predecessor.

 
Reading I: 2 Samuel 7:1-5, 8b-12, 14a, 16

This passage gives classical expression to the Davidic-messianic hope in the Old Testament. It is not the only type of the messianic hope, but it later became dominant in many circles, for example among the Pharisees, as we see from Ps Sol 17; among the covenanters of Qumran, who looked for both a Messiah of David and a Messiah of Levi; and among the simple pious folk of Judea and Galilee, as we see from the Lucan infancy narrative.

In its original intention, however, 2 Sam 7 was an expression of royal ideology. The promise was that the Davidic dynasty would last forever. Note how David’s original intention is reversed by the prophet’s later word. David indicates his intention of building a house for Yhwh, that is, a temple.

At first, Nathan approves of the king’s proposal but later corrects this in the light of a further word from the Lord received in the night. Instead of David’s building a house (temple) for Yhwh, Yhwh covenants to maintain the “house” (dynasty) of David in perpetuity.

Strictly speaking, then, this is not a messianic prophecy in the later sense, for it does not speak of the coming of the ideal Davidic king. But after the destruction of the Davidic monarchy, this promise could only take the form of the coming of a Davidic Messiah, and in Christian perspective the promise has been fulfilled in the coming of Jesus the Christ, whom the New Testament (as in the Lucan Annunciation story that forms the gospel reading today) proclaims as the Son of David.

 
Responsorial Psalm: 89:2-3, 4-5, 27-29

This psalm makes a perfect response to the first reading, for, as the Jerome Biblical Commentary points out, the two passages should be read in conjunction. Only the second and third stanzas deal directly with the Davidic-messianic hope.

The first stanza comes from the opening of the psalm, which is a general hymn of praise to Yhwh. But the first stanza is not unrelated to the messianic hope, for the faithfulness of Yhwh is exhibited precisely in his faithfulness to his covenant with David. Note how the second stanza refers quite specifically to the covenant of 2 Samuel.

 
Reading II: Romans 16:25-27

In the manuscript tradition, this doxology appears at three different places: after Rm 14:23; after Rm 15:33; and in its canonical position here. Some have thought that it is a Marcionite gloss, for it seems to assume that the God who is revealed in Jesus Christ had been silent through the Old Testament period, as Marcion taught.

However, this is untenable for two reasons. First, Origen explicitly informs us that Marcion did not read these verses in his text. Second, Marcion would never have allowed that the writings of the Old Testament prophets were instruments through which the Christian revelation was proclaimed, even in the Christian era.

The doxology actually has close affinities with the style and thought of Colossians and Ephesians (cf. especially Col 1:26-27; Eph 3:9-10) and is therefore probably the work of a Deutero-Pauline editor of Romans.

Judging from the various places where it appears in the manuscript tradition, it was probably added as a conclusion to Romans in the three different versions that were current in early times—ending respectively with chapters 14, 15, and 16.

The statement that the revelation was kept secret before Christ does not mean that the Old Testament God is a different God from the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, as Marcion thought, but that it is only with the coming of Christ that the Old Testament prophecies acquire their full meaning. The movement from silence to revelation is a good Advent theme.

 
Gospel: Luke 1:26-38

Annunciation stories are a regular literary form of Scripture. There are a number of such stories in the Old Testament (for example, the births of Isaac, Samson, and Samuel), and of course Luke has already recorded the annunciation of John the Baptist.

We should make full allowance for this literary form in assessing this narrative. The purpose of annunciation stories is to acquaint the readerswith the role that the person about to be born is to play in salvation history. It is thus a device to effect this end, not a historical narration.

At the same time, there are elements in the story of Jesus’ annunciation that surpass the other annunciation stories.

The usual situation is that of a miraculous birth granted to a barren couple—in the case of Isaac, to parents who were even past the age of begetting and bearing children. In the case of Jesus, it is an annunciation to a young woman without a husband. The emphasis rests on the creative act of the Holy Spirit rather than on the virginal conception per se, which is its presupposition.

All that the historian can say with certainty is that the basic elements in this tradition are earlier than Matthew or Luke, for the name of Mary, her virginity, and the function of the Holy Spirit are common both to Matthew and Luke, who are otherwise entirely independent of one another at this point.

Many would also argue that these traditions can be traced back to the earliest Palestinian stratum of Christianity. Beyond that point, however, the historian qua historian cannot go. The exegete must deal rather with the meaning.

What is the kerygmatic thrust of the Annunciation? It is that the history of Jesus does not emerge out of the stream of ongoing history. As Adolf Schlatter put it, it expresses the transcendental origin of the history of Jesus. Or, as Sir Edwyn Hoskyns put it, the Incarnation is “a dagger thrust into the weft of human history.”

Our response to the annunciation story should be not to accept it as an entertaining story or even to insist merely on its historicity and leave it at that. As such, it would still be “flesh,” which profiteth nothing. Our response should rather be the affirmation of faith in the transcendental origin of Jesus’ history.

The role that the Child to be born is to play in salvation history is defined in terms of Davidic messiahship. Thus, the gospel reading is linked with the Old Testament reading. Christian faith sees the promise to, and covenant with, David fulfilled in the coming of Jesus Christ.

Commentary by Bede

You shall conceive and bear a son. (Lk 1:31)

Today’s reading of the gospel calls to mind the beginning of our redemption, for the passage tells us how God sent an angel from heaven to a virgin.

He was to proclaim the new birth, the incarnation of God’s Son, who would take away our age-old guilt; through him it would be possible for us to be made new and numbered among the children of God.

And so, if we are to deserve the gifts of the promised salvation, we must listen attentively to the account of its beginning.

The angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary.

What is said of the house of David applies not only to Joseph but also to Mary. It was a precept of the law that each man should marry a wife from his own tribe and kindred.

Saint Paul also bears testimony to this when he writes to Timothy: “Remember Jesus Christ, risen from the dead, descended from David, as preached in my gospel.” Our Lord is truly descended from David, since his spotless mother took her ancestry from David’s line.

The angel came to her and said, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus. He 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 father David.”

The angel refers to the kingdom of the Israelite nation as the throne of David because in his time, by the Lord’s command and assistance, David governed it with a spirit of faithful service. The Lord God gave to our Redeemer the throne of his father David, when he decreed that he should take flesh from the lineage of David.

As David had once ruled the people with temporal authority, so Christ would now lead them to the eternal kingdom by his spiritual grace. Of this kingdom the Apostle said: “He has delivered us from the dominion of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son.”

 “He will reign over the house of Jacob for ever.” The house of Jacob here refers to the universal Church which, through its faith in and witness to Christ, shares the heritage of the patriarchs. This may apply either to those who are physical descendants of the patriarchal families, or to those who come from gentile nations and are reborn in Christ by the waters of baptism.
In this house Christ shall reign for ever, and “of his kingdom there will be no end.”

During this present life, Christ rules in the Church. By faith and love he dwells in the hearts of his elect, and guides them by his unceasing care toward their heavenly reward.

In the life to come, when their period of exile on earth is ended, he will exercise his kingship by leading the faithful to their heavenly country. There, for ever inspired by the vision of his presence, their one delight will be to praise and glorify him.

Homily 3 on Advent: CCL 122, 14-17

Bede (c. 673-735), who received the title of Venerable less than a century after his death, was placed at the age of seven in the monastery of Wearmouth, then ruled by Saint Benet Biscop. From there he was sent to Jarrow, probably at the time of its foundation in about 681. At the age of thirty he was ordained priest. His whole life was devoted to the study of Scripture, to teaching, writing, and the prayer of the Divine Office.

He was famous for his learning, although he never went beyond the bounds of his native Northumbria. Bede is best known for his historical works, which earned him the title “Father of English History.” His Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum is a primary source for early English history, especially valuable because of the care he took to give his authorities, and to separate historical fact from hearsay and tradition. In 1899 Bede was proclaimed a doctor of the Church.

Love's Hiding Place
I sit surrounded by the quick smell of Frankincense and Myrrh. No, I am not in a temple, I am at home, where friends have sent a small plastic zip-bag containing chunks of these gum-resin fragrances—real ones, not chemical fabrications.

Of course I think of Jesus and the gifts of these he got. But I also think of Anna, the old woman who practically lived in the Temple. [She is in one of the possible readings for Holy Family Sunday (Gospel), along with Simeon of the famous saying “now you can let your servant go in peace, Lord.”] Certainly the temple that Anna loved would have been filled with tart aromas such as Frankincense and Myrrh. These would hide other less pleasant odors. I will not mention animal sacrifice as one source of the latter.

Anna was a prophetess, we are told, and she was the “daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher.” It is surprising to hear such details, since Anna is only mentioned once very briefly in the Bible. She seems to live an undistinguished life.

She was advanced in years, having lived seven years with her husband after her marriage, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four. She never left the temple, but worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer.

What was her life like, I ask myself. Was it ordinary and dull as it sounds? Married for only seven years. No children mentioned. As many as sixty long years of living as a widow. Did she rush to the temple immediately after losing her spouse—did she throw herself into worship of God as a way to cope? How was she regarded over the years: like a bag-lady or beggar? Or as someone holy and too old? We do not know.

Widows were to be given honor in Jesus’ day, at least if they were living good lives (see the First Letter to Timothy, Chapter 5, verses 5-15). Perhaps Anna had been given special status in the Temple because of her exemplary life. One pious legend even says that Anna had been a teacher of the young Mary.

But another idea strikes me. I wonder if it wasn’t suffering that so opened her heart to God. Maybe a “sword pierced” her heart, the same kind that Simeon predicted for Mary. What was it, loss of child? Or loss of a friend, or of respect from neighbors, or the long loss of a much hoped-for, holy family? Is this want made her able to teach the beautiful young Mary?

“You can see love’s hiding places better through tears,” one of my buddies tells me. Anna was deepened and her old eyes were sharpened, perhaps by pain’s openness to grace.

Though Anna had witnessed thousands of children being brought to the temple, when she laid her teary eyes on the infant Jesus she knew at once who it was. “I knew God was within you when I taught you,” she might have said to Mary. “I cannot explain it, I just knew. And now it is clear that you have the God-child in your arms. Your goodness fills this temple like pungent Frankincense and sharp, sweet Myrrh. Your child is the Glory of God, to whom be praise forever and ever.”

An undistinguished life, Anna’s, but made deep by grace and perhaps by suffering. Anna could see and could gave thanks. Let us pray that we may do the same, within our families, within the world, within ourselves.

You may want to pray ahead of time about the coming Christmas’ Mass. If so, this page is for you. "Getting Ready to Pray" is to help you quiet down and engage your imagination (not just your mind). Perhaps it will be enough to lead you to prayer, in which case stay with the prayer. You may also (or instead) want to ponder the spirituality under "Some Thoughts." In any case, the important goal is to find yourself praying, not to just get insights.

Getting Ready to Pray
 
So as to be more aware of the graces of the scripture and how they lead us to celebrate the Eucharist, let us first employ our imaginations.

A young man and woman are trundling along a road crowded with fellow travelers. The woman is riding on a donkey and holding a bundled baby in one arm. The Jerusalem temple is up and ahead and the woman looks from her child to her husband, then the temple, then to the sky, and then completes the visual circle by peeking at the baby once more.

The man is attentive to the passengers, the donkey, but he too keeps glancing up towards this great reminder of God’s dominion in Jerusalem.

Some Thoughts
 
“Help us to live as the holy family united in respect and love.” This is quite a dangerous request that the Church offers for our Opening Prayer today. We would be asking for mystery, uncertainty, letting go and receiving life’s pains gratefully.

We can pray for our own families of origin, for gratitude, healing and blessings. We can pray for our families of commitment, for growth, trust, togetherness and reverence. We can pray also for families whom we know are hurting, hoping, needy and separated. Families are where wishes meet weakness and humanity is made holy or harmed. We can pray personally with our expectations and for what is real around us in our homes.

The Good of the Family
 
Today’s liturgy speaks of two families. The first is the family that consists of parents and children: The shepherds ... found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger. The first two readings are about the qualities of the people who make up such a family, and we pray that God may unite our families in peace and love.

We also pray that God may help us to live as the holy family, united in respect and love. Here the liturgy concerns the human family, of which the Holy Family is also a model: we want to live as Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, in peace with you and one another.

Linking these two families, one’s immediate family and the human family, today’s liturgy prompts us to think of their common welfare. It raises the possibility that our two families rise and fall together. Perhaps it is no accident that in this age of the universally recognized disintegration of the family, the human family is also experiencing a breakup into rich and poor, developed and underdeveloped, the privileged and the marginal.

Perhaps now more than ever, we need to beg God to show us the value of family life and help us to live in peace with all men.

"At a moment in which the family is the object of numerous forces that seek to destroy it or in some way to deform it, and aware that the well-being of society and her own good are intimately tied to the good of the family, the church perceives in a more urgent and compelling way her mission of proclaiming to all people the plan of God for marriage and family, ensuring their full vitality and human and Christian development, and thus contributing to the renewal of society and of the people of God."

Pope John Paul II, Familiaris Consortio (1981) 3.

Keying in to words and phrases from the gospel:

came in the Spirit, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, glory for your people Israel, she never left the temple, all who were awaiting

To the point:

Although the feast is entitled "Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph" the readings affirm that all the descendants of Abraham and Sarah are heirs of God's promise and members of God's holy family.

Connecting the Word to the incarnation (Christmas):

God's promise of salvation comes to fulfillment through the enfleshment of human life: the son born to Abraham and Sarah, the child parented by Mary and Joseph and tenderly recognized by Simeon and Anna. This promise continues to be worked out in our enfleshed lives today—in our real relationships with one another.

Connecting the Word to culture:

Our culture contains a tension between the notion of an ideal nuclear family and our actual experience of a family. This tension is eased when we respect everyone as members of the one family of God.

Understanding the Word:

Family and covenant

The responsorial psalm ties the three readings together under the image of covenant—"The Lord remembers his covenant forever." In the first reading the promise of descendants which God makes to Abraham is ratified by a covenant-making ceremony (the description of which is omitted from the selection); Paul makes reference to the promise to Abraham as having been fulfilled in numerous offspring descended from Abraham's only beloved son, Isaac, who was to have been offered up in sacrifice and who foreshadows (i.e., is a "symbol" of) Christ. The gospel describes Joseph and Mary fulfilling the obligations of the covenant as spelled out in "the law of the Lord" (3x).

The covenant is a major concern of both the Old and New Testaments—indeed, the word testamentum is Latin for the Greek and Hebrew words meaning "covenant." And it is an apt theme for the Feast of the Holy Family. In recent scholarship attention has focused on family and kinship as the origin for the concept of covenant. In the ancient Near East the basic social unit was "the father's house" which included wife, children, and extended family. A so-called nuclear family is created by marriage in which an outsider "becomes one flesh" with another and the "family" is extended with "in-laws" and with children.

Frequently covenants between individuals, clans, and tribes, even kingdoms, are described by using the language of family. In covenants between equals (e.g., two clan heads or two kings) the partners are called "brothers"—the most famous biblical example is perhaps the covenant of friendship between Jonathan and David who become "brothers" to one another (1 Sam 18:1-3; 2 Sam 1:25-26). In covenants between unequals (e.g., a great king and a petty king), the partners are referred to as "father and son." The language indicates the obligations owed to family members are owed also to those united in covenant. Such obligations are sacred and an individual is held duty-bound to fulfill them. While "family" informs our understanding of covenant, covenant broadens our notion of family to include relationships beyond blood or marriage ties.

God Made Flesh
 
"You have nothing to fear!"

If anything, Christianity—and especially Catholicism—takes human flesh seriously. Our central mystery is the Incarnation —God's "enfleshment," the necessary condition for the life and teachings of Jesus, his redemptive death, and his glorious resurrection.

God marries our human flesh and finiteness. In Jesus the eternal Word of God becomes wombed in time. Thus, we who bear his name and live his life are a people who see the transcendent in the particularities of names, places, historical events.

To others, our faith and practice may seem embarrassingly concrete and physical.

I remember a non-Christian woman, after weighing the possibility of becoming Catholic, saying to me, "But it seems all so primitive, so fleshy."

It is strange, when you think of it. We celebrate conceptions, circumcisions, and purifications; we ritualize marriage so highly that some of those who have left our communion are struck by the leanness, even barrenness, of some other marriage ceremonies. Births and deaths we linger and pray and play over. Food and blood characterize our Eucharists.

It is unsettling for many—and sometimes for us—that God would penetrate and inhabit our ordinariness. It might be more reassuring if our Baby-God had sprung fully matured from the head of Zeus, instead of appearing in the midst of such inadequacy and vulnerability. Sure, we have the angels, but they tell us merely to "fear not." And they point, like the star, to things so utterly undramatic and common as a makeshift bed and plain people.

Even early pseudodocuments of Jesus' birth and childhood seem uncomfortable with the common condition of the "baby Jesus." They would have this infant more splendiferous, this child more ominously powerful, someone shooting lightning bolts from his fingers.

And yet the plain humanity of Christmas is what it is all about, our lives and God's. In the last analysis we are as defenseless as a child before the great forces of time and consciousness. What is more, we are reminded that our very God, as well, is somehow like a child, defenseless before us. Perhaps that is why the heavenly advice so often given in the infancy narratives is "fear not."

It is fitting that the holiness of the family also be celebrated at this time. For it is only by the ordinariness of being born, nurtured, and taught, so frail and dependent upon those who have welcomed us into their lives, that we ever grow in strength and grace.

God enters these intimacies, too, just as surely as God wants entry into all of human history. And so the wisdom of the father and the authority of the mother and reverence of the child reveal the splendor. Sometimes the wise old ones in our midst, like Simeon, help us name the glory. Other times, it is the prophetic ancient, like Anna, who sees the truth of our ordinary radiance.

Paul reminds us that the virtues of daily life—kindness, thankfulness, patience, and forbearance—embody our good and gracious God, who has willed to dwell in us. Our submission to each other, our love, our care lest the frail among us lose heart, is the making, once again, of the Word into our flesh.

Commentary: Cyril of Alexandria
 
The child grew to maturity, and he was filled with wisdom.

We see Emmanuel as a newborn infant lying in a manger. In his human condition he is wrapped in swaddling clothes, but in his divine nature he is hymned by angels. Angels brought the shepherds the good news of his birth, for God the Father had given those who dwell in heaven the special privilege of being his first heralds.

Today we also see him submitting to the law of Moses; or rather, we see God the lawgiver subject as man to his own decrees. The reason for this we learn from the wisdom of Paul. He says: When we were under age we were slaves of the elemental spirits of the universe, but when the fullness of time had come God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law.

Christ ransomed from the law's curse those who were subject to the law but had never kept it. How did he ransom them? By fulfilling the law. Or to put it in another way, to blot out the reproach of Adam's transgression, he offered himself on our behalf to God the Father, showing him in all things ready obedience and submission. Scripture says: As through one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so through one man's obedience many will be made righteous. And so, Christ submitted to the law together with us, and he did so by becoming man in accordance with the divine dispensation.

It was fitting that Christ should do everything that justice required. He had in all truth assumed the condition of a slave; and so, reckoned among those under the yoke by reason of his humanity, he once paid the half-shekel to those who demanded it, although as the Son he was by nature free and not liable to this tax. When you see him keeping the law, then, do not misunderstand it, or reduce one who is free to the rank of household slaves, but reflect rather on the depths of God's plan.

When the eighth day arrived on which it was customary for the flesh to be circumcised as prescribed by the law, he received the name, Jesus, which means "salvation of the people"; for it was the wish of God the Father that his own Son, born of a woman, should be so named. It was then that he first became the salvation of the people and not of one people only but of many, indeed of all peoples and of the whole world.

Christ thus became the light of revelation to the Gentiles, but he is also the glory of Israel. Even though some members of that race were insolent and unbelieving, a remnant has been saved and glorified by Christ. The holy disciples were the firstfruits of Israel, and the brightness of their glory illuminates the whole world. Christ is the glory of Israel in another way too, for in his human nature he came from that people, even though he is God, sovereign ruler of all and blessed for ever.

The wise evangelist helps us, then, by teaching us all the Son of God made flesh endured for our sake and in our name, and that he did not disdain to take upon himself our poverty, so that we might glorify him as Redeemer, as Lord, as Savior, and as God; for to him, and with him to God the Father and the Holy Spirit, belong glory and power for endless ages. Amen.

(Homily 12: PG 77, 1042.1046.1047.1050)

Cyril of Alexandria (d. 444) succeeded his uncle Theophilus as patriarch in 412. Until 428 the pen of this brilliant theologian was employed in exegesis and polemics against the Arians; after that date it was devoted almost entirely to refuting the Nestorian heresy. The teaching of Nestorius was condemned in 431 by the Council of Ephesus at which Cyril presided, and Mary's title, Mother of God, was solemnly recognized. The incarnation is central to Cyril's theology. Only if Christ is consubstantial with the Father and with us can he save us, for the meeting ground between God and ourselves is the flesh of Christ. Through our kinship with Christ, the Word made flesh, we become children of God, and share in the filial relation of the Son with the Father.

Reading I: Sirach 3:2-6, 12-14

This passage forms a commentary on the fifth (fourth) commandment, "Honor thy father and thy mother." That the keeping of the commandment atones for sin is a typical idea of later Judaism, but we should not take this with full theological seriousness. For the New Testament, atonement for sin is through Christ alone. Sirach's statement should be taken merely as an incentive to obedience. In a loose, non-theological sense, one could say that love of parents makes up for many sins.

Reading I: Genesis 15:1-6; 21:1-3

God has promised Abraham that his descendants will become a great nation. This seems a most unlikely prospect. He and his wife are childless; she is well past the age of childbearing, and he is a very old man. In this situation Abraham is provided with an assurance: if Yahweh can make all the stars of heaven, he can certainly make Abraham's descendants just as many in number. In verse 6 Abraham takes Yahweh at his word. This is quoted by Paul as one of the pivotal verses in his exposition of the righteousness that comes through faith (Rom 4:3, 9-22), that is, a right relationship with God.

The second part of the reading, from Gen 21, speaks of the fulfillment of the prenatal promise in the birth and naming of the child. This whole story line is repeated in the narratives of the birth of Jesus in Matthew and Luke—the promise of (supernatural) birth, the birth, and the naming.
 
Responsorial Psalm: 128:1-2, 3, 4-5

This psalm presents piety as the true foundation of family and social life and of economic prosperity, in a manner reminiscent of Deuteronomy. Naive though it may seem, this should not be too lightly dismissed. Where there is a wholesome respect for God and his will, there is a better chance for human relationships to be well ordered and harmonious. Those who fear the Lord are not tempted to put themselves in God's place, are therefore free to love their neighbor, and make it easier for the neighbor to love in return.

Responsorial Psalm: 105:1-2, 3-4, 6-7, 8-9

The response highlights the theme of covenant, an image not actually present in the Old Testament reading, though the first part of it (Gen 15:1-6) is followed immediately by a covenant ceremony.
 
Reading II: Colossians 3:12-21

This reading is taken from the parenetic section, or ethical exhortation, of Colossians and, as is widely thought, reproduces the pattern of an early Christian catechism. This catechesis begins with a list of virtues to be "put on"—an echo of the vesting of the candidates as they come up out of the baptismal waters. Sometimes another imperative, "put off,' precedes, recalling the stripping of the candidates before baptism. Then. comes a "household code," a list of the duties of the members of a family and of society in their several states. These codes were apparently already taken over by Hellenistic Judaism from Stoicism, and passed thence into Christian usage. Their subordinationist tone is thus not distinctively Christian but is derived ultimately from Stoicism. The distinctive Christian elements are to be found in the words "in the Lord"; in the injunction to husbands to love their wives; in the earlier definition of love as forgiveness; and in the motivation of that forgiveness in Christ's forgiveness of the sinner.

Reading II: Hebrews 11:8, 11-12, 17-19

Hebrews 11 is often called "the roll call of the heroes of faith." Yet, strictly speaking, the Bible knows no heroes, for heroes are witnesses to their own achievements, whereas in Heb 11 the great figures of salvation history from Abraham to the prophets and martyrs of the old covenant are adduced, not for their heroism, but precisely for their "faith," which is, in the author's thought, closely linked to hope. Faith is taking God at his word when he makes promises for the future. Thus, the Old Testament figures become examples for the new Israel, the new wandering people of God. The new people has also in each succeeding generation had to imitate Abraham, who "went out, not knowing where he was to go," and his family, who lived in tents because they had no abiding city here, but "looked forward to the city which has foundations."

 
Gospel: Luke 2:22-40 (long form); 2:22, 39-40 (short form)

The caption at the head of both the long and the short form, as well as the text of the short form itself, puts the stress on the growth of the Christ-child to maturity and on the fact that he was filled with wisdom. The presentation scene and the encounter between the Christ-child and Simeon, the Nunc dimittis, and the encounter with Anna are important kerygmatically, but they receive their proper due on the feast of the Presentation of the Lord (February 2), when the same gospel is read. Our comments today will therefore be confined to the growth of the Christ-child.

Three points may be made here. The first is a dogmatic one. The Christ-child is fully human, and as such he has to grow not only physically but also mentally and spiritually. If we are to understand the incarnation in scriptural terms, we must not think of it as entailing complete maturity from the outset. Rather, Christ is perfect man with the perfection that belongs to each stage of human growth. At each stage, too, he is the perfect manifestation of God in a manner appropriate for that stage.

The second point is that this growth to maturity takes place in the context of a human family. Apart from the story of the visit to the temple when Jesus was twelve years old, this is the only verse in the New Testament that speaks of his life in the Holy Family. Scripture is very reserved about that life, unlike the later apocryphal gospels. But this verse is a priceless gem, for it contains all that we really need to know about the Holy Family. First, it was the divinely provided context in which the Christ was prepared for his saving mission. Second, the Holy Family is the paradigm for all Christian family life, for the Christian family is the divinely provided context in which the Christian child may grow to physical, mental, and spiritual maturity.

The third point is typological. This verse points back through Luke 1:80 to 1 Sam 2:26. Jesus stands in the prophetic succession. He is the last and the greatest of the prophets but transcends them all, for he is the eschatological prophet. But he is still a prophet. 

Circumcision & Naming
 
Defining the family is never easy. The challenge was no different in the ancient world than it is in modern cultures. Even more difficult is deciding what kind of family is good and decent, and what kind of family is not.

As today's gospel indicates, the family into which Jesus was born and raised is unquestionably devout and pious. They observe the Torah meticulously. In accord with Leviticus 12:3, Jesus' parents have him circumcised and name him on the eighth day after he is born. In accord with the larger context of Leviticus 12:1-8, the family accompanies Mary to the Temple in Jerusalem for her purification forty days after the birth of Jesus.

In the ancient Middle East, circumcision was practiced in many societies. Its origins are obscure. Originally, scholars thought it had originated in Egypt and moved thence east and north into the Semitic world. Contemporary opinion rooted in recent archaeological discoveries holds that the practice of circumcision began in the northwest Semitic world and moved south where the Egyptians adopted it.

The meaning of the procedure varied. For instance, in early Israelite history, males were circumcised at puberty (see Gen 17:25) or at the time of marriage (Gen 34). In this connection, the rite has a functional meaning: the man is now able to get married and to function as a married person It was not until Abraham was circumcised that Sarah was able to bear a child, the proper child whom God would bless.

Later in Israelite history (see Lev 12:3), circumcision was performed on the eighth day after birth, a custom that was retrojected into Abraham's life (Gen 17:10-14). The Palestinian Targum, that is, the Aramaic paraphrase and interpretation of the Hebrew Bible, reports an interesting, and very likely fictional, argument between Isaac and Ishmael. Isaac argues for his superiority over Ishmael because Isaac was circumcised, therefore pleasing to the Lord, at a very early age. Ishmael, acknowledging that he was circumcised at the age of thirteen, argues for his superiority over Isaac by noting that at puberty he could have resisted and rejected circumcision, but willingly accepted it. Who knows what Isaac would have done at puberty?

To appreciate the significance of circumcision and naming, it is important to recall the ancient understanding of conception. It was widely believed that the male deposited a fully formed miniature person in the woman who served merely as the "field" in which the "seed" would grow to maturity.

But women in the ancient Mediterranean world were considered to be lascivious and untrustworthy (read Sirach and Proverbs for illustrations of this concern). A husband never knew for sure whether the child born was actually his. Such uncertainty would weaken the family by making potential heirs suspect, thereby rendering the family treasure vulnerable to theft. So by circumcising and naming a boy as early as eight days after birth, the father made a public proclamation formally accepting this child as his son, no matter what other charges might be made later.

In Luke's Gospel, Joseph does not receive a "revelation" about Jesus and his divine origins, such as he does in Matthew's Gospel. Nevertheless, Joseph demonstrates that he is truly an honorable and just man by seeing to the circumcision and naming of his son in accord with the prescriptions of the Torah. Joseph's honorable behavior solidifies the bonds of his young family.