Welcome to the commons cast. We're glad to have you here. We hope you find something meaningful in our teaching this week. Head to comm

looking at someone who ran out of coffee cream this morning, so I used whipped cream instead. So I'm having a great day. It's great. My name is Bobby if we haven't met, and I would love it if you would just walk right up to me and say, hi, Bobby. My name is and we could have a chat if we haven't done that yet.

That would be so cool. It would be like your Christmas gift to me. And if you're listening online, drop me an email to introduce yourself. I would love to hear who you are and how you are. Bobbi@commons.church.

Today is the second Sunday of Advent, and we lit this lovely candle of love. And I love our Advent campaign this year. I spent my mid twenties to my late thirties in British Columbia. And if you know anything about my love of place because you listened to my summer sermon on place, you know that I form beloved attachments to the places that I live. BC was where I went to grad school, where I learned how to go on dates far too late in my life, and where I found my voice as a pastor.

So my heart has been with BC these last couple of weeks. As somebody who grew up on a farm, I'm thinking a lot about farmers and migrant workers after those floods. Along with the excellent work we're partnering with locally, even right across the street at Louise Dean School, I love that we also look out for our neighbors a province away this advent. Generosity is the good stuff. It's just the good stuff.

Our advent series this year is called advent angles. Advent is the beginning of a new church year where we trace the story of Jesus from beginning to end. So happy church year. Happy new church year. Last week, Jeremy reminded us of how important it is to be shaped by stories.

For as long as human beings could shape stories, stories have really shaped human beings. When you flip through your bible, you find poetry and lists of names and short parables, and every page is situated in the story of the Hebrew people and then the community of Jesus. You don't get rules without all those relationships. You don't get poetry outside of the beauty and the horror of being humans together, and you don't get parables apart from interacting with trees and oceans and farmers and fishermen, story is our context always. So for Advent, we are looking at the infancy stories in the gospels of Matthew and Luke, And we're using the literary lenses of tragedy, comedy, fairy tale, and mystery to bring these stories into view again this year.

We all read our bible with lenses, trust or distrust, belief or skepticism, maybe traditional leanings, or more progressive hot takes, and it can be illuminating to try on new lenses. In Advent, they may not be rose colored glasses, but they are a little bit purple. Symbolically speaking, purple is Advent's color to remind us of the solemn mood of the season. In any of the ways that you are waiting, waiting for love, waiting for arrival, waiting just to feel a little better, This is your season to name what feels unfinished. But the thing about feeling solemn or sad or unsure is that you cannot sustain despondency forever.

For me, a moment of interrupted sadness happened years ago at my grandma Sockled's funeral of all places. My family and I were all sitting in the front pews of the Catholic parish I grew up in, And I remember my aunt's sobs. And I remember the restlessness of children just trying to sit still. And the priest taking his sweet time with the liturgy. That man was not afraid of a pause.

And then that same patient priest accidentally spoke the wrong Pope's name. Pope Benedict was the new Pope at the time, not John Paul the second, but the priest had a moment of maybe mistaken memory and said the dead pope's name. Something about that moment where the priest realized the slip and then paused for what felt like a very pregnant minute and then corrected his mistake made us laugh. I remember the pew shaking as we tried to stifle the snickers at my grandma's funeral. Amidst the weeping, there was laughter, and I loved it.

I still think about it. Solemnity mixed with comedy. Today, we are in Matthew one verses 18 to 25. It's Joseph's story of confusion and dreamy angelic intervention. And the literary angle we're interested in here is comedy.

Today, we are going to talk about the smallness of god, deep thoughts by Joseph, Jesus, the joke, and awoke. Before we dive in, let us pray. Loving God, we pause in this moment to catch up to where we are, to notice our posture and our breath, and to think back on where laughter has been in our lives lately. We reflect. When did we laugh this week?

Was it in something that we saw? Something we said? Did we sense delight there? Do we remember the joke? And we look inside at our longing and we wonder, where do I want to laugh more?

Is it in a friendship that's been strained? Is it in partnership or relationships with kids or the way we even perceive ourselves? Maker of laughter and joy and lightness, be near. Christ at the center of the story of the season of the scriptures, be near. In spirit of creativity and hilarity and renewal, be near.

Together we pray. Amen. Alright. Matthew one beginning in verse 18. This is how the birth of Jesus, the Messiah, came about.

His mother, Mary, was pledged to be married to Joseph. But before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph, her husband, was faithful to the law I'm gonna pause there, dot dot dot. Now it's easy to think that there's this hard break between the genealogy in verses one to seventeen seventeen and the narrative as it begins in verses 18 to 25. Looking at the first chapter of Matthew, you might think, like, what does one thing have to do with the other?

And Jeremy taught on the genealogy last week. It's masterful. And he opened the series on Advent angles reminding us to read the Christmas stories as literary works. And the thing that Matthew wants us to be open to here is the possibility of a new beginning. In fact, that beginning is right here on the page.

Matthew one one uses the Greek word Genesis to introduce this genealogy. The writer unrolls the scroll of Israel's entire story and traces it name by name all the way to Jesus. And then right here in verse 18, the Greek word Genesis appears, but the NIV translates it as birth, but it can also mean coming into being. Now if you were writing a story that you truly believed was going to change the course of our religion and the path of humanity, wouldn't you want to start with something like, I don't know, a little bigger than a baby? I mean, really, shouldn't a story of god's coming into being start with fire breathing beasts or volcanic interruptions, maybe at least a few conquered kingdoms and a little more magic?

But the story of divine conception comes from somewhere. It's a genre. There are Greek and Roman stories of gods who take the shape of men or beasts and have sex with women to birth demigods. These kinds of legends formed birth narratives of rulers like Alexander the Great and Emperor Augustus. In telling the story of Jesus, Matthew adds this tender twist.

This isn't a story of God forcing God's self on the world. This is a new beginning. Faithful to Judaism, Matthew reads Jesus's conception with the lens of creation. In Genesis, spirit hovers over chaotic waters and speaks life into being. Something like that is going on inside of Mary, and Joseph just wants to do the right thing.

Sometimes our right thing is not quite as right as we think it is. And we do this with God all the time. We have such a clear eyed conception of God's greatness that we forget how small God can be. And it's not that our grand ideas of God are so mistaken, but maybe they're not all that right all the time either. In the story of new creation, a baby, a baby who begins our faith, God gets smaller.

Small enough to fit into the womb of a woman no one would have noticed. Small enough to sense the worry in the heart of a good and quiet man. Advent is a season for you to let go of the grandness of God. And of course I don't mean that literally. A view of the mountains will remind you of God's grandeur.

But in the second week of Advent we open our hearts to the ways God's love works in the small. God so small that the spirit is living right there in your steady breath. God so small that every little worry is counted with concern by creator. God so small that Joseph's secret plans are woven into the story of the savior. Now remember, Joseph was faithful to the law, a real rule follower.

He did not want to expose Mary to public disgrace. He had in mind to divorce her quietly. But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. As the story gets underway, we find Joseph's mind made up. Mary, the woman who was to be his wife, has been disgraced.

Like, what exactly did Joe know about Mary's pregnancy before the angel breaks it all down? Did the gossip of a community mark Mary as unfaithful or unchaste? Maybe. Either way, Joseph has two options available to him, all justified by the halacha, the Jewish law. Joseph can pursue a legal trial for adultery, or Joseph can draw up a bill of divorce.

And I imagine him checking in with his own heart after choosing a peaceful way to end the promise of marriage. He yawns, and he unrolls his bed on the floor of his one room house, and he thinks to himself, yeah, it's better for everyone if I don't get involved. He rests his head and shuts his eyes. His muscles twitch and throb from framing his neighbor's house down the road, and he dozes off to sleep. Then, bam, an angel is just waiting down there under the surface of his consciousness.

The words of this holy creature speak more clearly than anything Joseph has heard in his life. First, he's reminded that he, Joseph, is the link to a great family line. And by adopting the son Mary carries, untold miracles await the world. Second, Joseph is told that he doesn't need to fear the goodness in this child is for his good too. And third, Joseph is told that the truth about the baby, and the truth is something his cultivated faithfulness would understand.

God has always initiated new direction in the story of salvation through ordinary people. God told Abraham to leave his homeland and start all over again as a father of a great nation. Joseph was sold into slavery and dreamt of a famine that would bring his scoundrel brothers back to him. Moses stumbles upon a burning bush out of nowhere and ushers in the exodus by freeing his people from slavery. You can just be walking along in your life being so good, technically correct about so much, and still get things wrong.

Some of the most sacred work you can do is to stay open to the voice that argues with you like an angel. Sure. Sure. You're following the rules. You're trusting in your understanding of the past.

But you're so committed to your path that you didn't notice that there was a fork in the road a kilometer back with a sign that said, to really feel alive, go this way. Because how funny is that? To know that you're going in the right direction and then to find out, I'm sorry, pal, but you've gotten a little bit lost. In Advent, we imagine the possibility of a sacred story that involves you in surprising ways. And if you can't see the humor in getting lost and being found, I'm sorry because it's a thrill to find a new path.

It's a thrill. But maybe you just need a little more time to see the humor in a new way forward. As the hilarious essayist David Sedaris says, everything is funny, eventually. And this advent, I'm adding, even Jesus is the joke. The angel keeps speaking to Joseph in his dream.

Mary will give birth to a son, says the angel. And Joseph, you are to name him Jesus because he will save his people from their sins. All of this is taking place to fulfill what the Lord said through the prophet Isaiah. Look, the virgin will conceive a child. She will give birth to a son, and they will name him Emmanuel, meaning God with us.

One of the things I love, like I really love about the scriptures is their intricacy, how old phrases weave into new ideas. Visions get reimagined across centuries. Patterns are detected and unearthed. And Matthew gets in on this. Here at the beginning of the gospel, Matthew reimagines what the prophet Isaiah said to an evil king hundreds of years before.

So disobedient, according to second Kings, Ahaz sacrificed his son in the fire. Isaiah had said, look, you're in trouble because you rely on foreign kings rather than the Lord, yet a young woman will give birth to a baby, and that baby will be better than you. And Jewish interpretation attaches Isaiah's son to this judgment. And Matthew links Immanuel to Jesus. The old prophecy holds new meaning only.

There's another twist. Matthew shifts the pronouns in the Isaiah text to suit his purpose. The Hebrew reads that she will give birth to a son. And the Greek translation of that passage uses the pronoun you. But Matthew stretches the pronoun to the third person plural they, as in all people hearing this story.

And then as if to elbow his audience in the side, Matthew adds the definition. Guys, Emmanuel means god is with us. And the people who heard Matthew's gospel would know that these are the words the resurrected Jesus says right before he leaves. I am with you always to the end of the age. Chapter 28 verse 20.

Jesus is a simple name, common in its time and place. But Emmanuel, Emmanuel is a promise. Now from where I stand, I see comedy in the name Emmanuel because here's the truth. Jesus came, and Jesus was with them. Jesus was with them.

Jesus was with them, and then he wasn't. And, you know, what kind of joke was that? I am with you, but also I'll be a little hard to find. Between Matthew's bookends of God with us, the joke of Jesus is on every page. Jesus is the Messiah, but he isn't what you expect.

Jesus faces down oppressors, but he does not wield a sword. Jesus is born to free Israel, but he refuses to stop with them. The writer and theologian Frederick Beakner says, is it possible, I wonder, to say that it is only when you hear the gospel as a wild and marvelous joke that you really hear it at all? If you have ever felt like you got Jesus one moment but forgot him the next, like he was so clear to you back then but now feels far off and strange, just stay put. Keep listening.

Open your heart to the absurdity of God with you from beginning to end, likely showing up in places you never imagined to find God. The divine is unruly like that. Now I've been processing a bit of a personal story lately of God's withness with me by tracing patterns of beginnings and endings in my own search for meaning. Subtle teaser here. In the New Year, we are dropping a brand new season of Between Sundays, the podcast from Commons Church, and the theme is meaning making.

So buckle up. It's gonna be beautiful. But back to my story. As many of you know, I took a fall on November 1, and November 1 is a very significant day for me. It is not only All Saints Day.

We love to see it. It is also the day I had a total hip replacement nine years ago. Bit shocking to some of you. I know. Now I love November 1 so much that I named my hip Teresa, the titanium hip, because she was a saint for me, giving me a new version of my body that hurts less.

So on this past November 1, I decided to take a walk to commemorate the arrival of my saintly hip. But somehow, my poor feet found a tiny patch of ice in the forest, and I fell, and I broke my fibula on the anniversary of much healing in my body. I mean, whether I like it or not, that's funny. That I would try so hard to honor my healing. And in my trying, fall down and break something else.

I mean, come on with that. It's beautiful. And because I walk with Christ and commune with Christ and arrange ritual in my life around Christ, I wondered, okay. Are you here with me in this? I mean, Jesus didn't push me down that day, though that would have been pretty funny.

Little spiritual slapstick. But the divine reminded me of my fragility and my vulnerability, my need for community, my capacity to break and then to heal. And what's more, to find in a painful story some funny parts. We find Jesus in the joke of being human. After all, it's what Jesus was born to do, to show us all how to be fully human too.

But so far, this was all a dream for Joseph. When Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took Mary home to be his wife. But he did not consummate their marriage until she gave birth to a son, and Joseph gave him the name Jesus. Okay. I wanna finish with the word awoke.

The Greek word is agero. It has a literal and a figurative meaning. Literally, awoke is to rise from sleep, from lying down, or even from death. And figuratively, awoke is to rise from obscurity, inactivity, nonexistence. When we look at the story through the lens of comedy, we see the fullness of Joseph's awakening.

Having made up his mind what to do, he went to sleep, and he woke up to rearrange his life in the opposite direction. Now it's been my spiritual practice with this story to imagine Joseph's expression right after opening his eyes. Was it dread? Was it bafflement? Was it amusement?

Well, this advent, I'm settling on amusement. Joseph had thought he would finish his life with a lovely wife, some kids who like to play outside, and the good work of his hands. But that plan was wildly disrupted, replaced with a new one that was absurd and peculiar and pulsating with a new kind of obedience, the kind he could have never imagined for himself. So I like to think that after Joseph opened his eyes, he smiled. If 2021 has been as challenging for you as it has been for me, it's been a bit of a doozy.

I beg you, as we close it out, to hunt for humor, to stay open to new dreams in a really tough moment, to laugh whenever you get the chance. And I invite you to imagine how the arrival of Jesus made people laugh, not because Jesus was what they were expecting, but because he was the opposite. And the shock of it, the surprise, the strangeness of God wrapped in flesh like you and like me is as hilarious as it is holy. Thanks be to God for that. Let us pray.

Loving God, before we rush out today into a busy season, we pause, and we center on gratitude. God, thank you for jokes. Thank you for surprises. Thank you for the relief that we have when we laugh from our pain. What you bring to mind the ways, god, that you've been hiding out in our stories and the things that make us laugh.

Oh, to be surprised by you. Renew us with your holy humor once again this year, Jesus. Remind us of the clumsy nature of your family and how they all pulled together in the end. Maybe we can be like that too. Spirit of the living God present with us now.

Enter the places of maybe our inflated egos, our abandoned hopes, and our longing for love and heal us of all that harms us. Amen.