IV: Christmas Eve
All this took place to fulfill
what the Lord had said through the prophet:
Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel,
which means “God is with us.”
When Joseph awoke,
he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him
and took his wife into his home.
The Catholic faith is exceedingly queer, if you know where to look. I experienced one of those thrilling, tender moments at my confirmation when I was anointed with chrism and my priest said to me, “Joseph, be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit.”
Joseph is the patron saint of workers, doubters, makers, the hesitant, a happy and holy death, social justice, and immigrants. Joseph was a tradesman; I imagine him with rough hands. Joseph was a righteous man, unwilling to expose a woman to any shame. Joseph was a refugee, taking his family to Egypt to flee Herod’s Massacre of the Innocents. Joseph is known by many other names: Husband of the Most Holy Theotokos. Guardian of God. Solace of the Afflicted. Terror of Demons. And yet the scriptures do not contain a single word he spoke, only attesting to his faithful actions.
St. Joseph was a man of obscurity. He is also my confirmation saint.
My personal devotion to St. Joseph was initially born from my fatherlessness and my desire to heal and fill those spaces. Over time, I found that my talks (prayers?) with Joseph moved from fatherly advice, to a deeper friendship around our crafts — his in the shop, mine on the paper. A religious poem I wrote back during easter of 2017 records this shift,
The gospel boasts, “God has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly. God has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He has sent away empty.” For this good news, Joseph was the perfect foster father. Lowly, humble, obscure. Lifted to greatness, exaltation, power.
To be honest, I don’t know how to leave these Advent meditations.
The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.
I am feeling strange. Perhaps you are too? Every breath, I think of Palestine. I think of those who have lost everything. I think of them sleeping in mud beneath leaking tents. I think of their hunger. I think of their infections. I think of the video I saw just two mornings ago, a mother holding her dead child, the noise she made — a scream, a cry. A noise I have never heard before. My god.
He told them another parable. “The kingdom of heaven is like leaven that a woman took and hid in three measures of flour, till it was all leavened.”
I think daily of Christ’s lament on the Cross, which is a quote from Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.”
The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.
What can be done? I call my representatives. I read; I educate myself. I have shed many tears and prayed many prayers. I have a long list of things I will never buy again. I feel complicit. You too? My complicity as a US citizen compells me: dig in, go deeper, be more principled. My tax dollars may feed this machine, but my leisure does not have to. Yet: I still feel powerless. You too? I cling to a kingdom where the valleys are lifted, the hills made low, and those who have no power now shall inherit the earth.
Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls, who, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it.
“How do you celebrate Christmas when the oldest Christian communities and holy sites are being eradicated? When Bethlehem has canceled Christmas? When genocide is being committed with the zeal and finance of rightwing Christians?” I received this text from a dear friend yesterday.
Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and gathered fish of every kind. When it was full, men drew it ashore and sat down and sorted the good into containers but threw away the bad. So it will be at the end of the age.
“I have no fucking idea.”
The kingdom of God is not coming in ways that can be observed, nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you.
“I really am lost. Thankful to know you though,” my reply.
Behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of us.
Obscure, perhaps, like Joseph, for now.
Later, like the mustard tree.
I believe in the kingdom of God, because I know you. I believe we will see a free Palestine. The children who appear in my social media feed — they will grow old, they will see the liberation of their people. I believe there’s another world ahead, where we all get free. Not because the arc of the universe must bend this way — there’s no reason it would have to, and often (mostly?) it doesn’t.
I believe this future is coming, because I see it among us. People of good conscience, millions of obscure people, are taking the next faithful, disciplined small step towards another world.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.