Fourth Sunday in Advent
READING: Matthew 1:18–25

God Chooses Not Only to Visit but to Stay

I wonder if there has ever been a moment in your life when everything felt fragile or uncertain, and someone came to stand beside you. Not to fix anything. Not with clever answers or a five-point plan. Simply to be there – quietly, faithfully, almost shyly present.

I wonder what that presence felt like.

Perhaps it was a friend sitting by a hospital bed through the night, topping up your water and straightening the blanket.

Or someone who brought you soup when you were too low to cook, then stayed to watch something silly on television because talking was too hard.

Or a person who answered the phone at 2am and said, “I’m here. You don’t have to hold this on your own.”

Sometimes the smallest, most ordinary gesture of companionship can change the whole direction of a life.

I wonder if that is close to what Joseph experiences in this story from Matthew.gospel reading.

Before angels and prophecies and dreams, there is simply a man whose life has fallen apart. Joseph has discovered that Mary is pregnant, and the child is not his. There is confusion, perhaps anger, certainly hurt and fear. His hopes for a simple, honourable life with Mary have collapsed. Everything feels exposed. And the world around him, with its harsh judgements and quick condemnations, stands ready to watch what he will do.

The gospel does not give us a tidy, sentimental scene. It asks us to imagine Joseph as a real human being, standing in the middle of disappointment. And in that place, Joseph makes a decision. He will not put Mary to shame. He will step aside quietly. He will carry the wound himself. He chooses kindness over revenge, gentleness over public scandal. His “righteousness” is not about rules; it is about compassion.

And it is into this quiet, painful goodness that God comes.

Joseph meets God exactly where he is most afraid. Fear is not a sign that he has failed spiritually- failed in his relationship with God. It is simply the place where love begins to stretch him. Joseph is afraid of humiliation, of what people will say, of stepping into a story he cannot control. But love almost always asks us to step into what we can’t control. Faith is rarely about certainty; it is usually about finding the courage to take the next step when we cannot see the whole road.

And it is into this that God speaks to Joseph – in that vulnerable place — not with thunder and lightning, but in a dream. A whisper in the night. A trace of tenderness. “Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife.” Not, “Pull yourself together, man .” Not, “Here is a full explanation of everything.” Simply, “Do not be afraid.”

The whole movement of God’s coming among us is soaked in this kind of gentleness. God comes as a child. God speaks through dreams. God entrusts the most delicate, vulnerable life to an ordinary couple under a cloud of suspicion. This is not the God of force or spectacle. This is Emmanuel – God with us –  a God whose power is revealed in companionship.

Sometimes we catch a glimpse of this in stories that stay with us. Think of the character  Samwise in The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien. His refusing to leave Frodo even when the journey feels impossible. Sam can’t lift the curse. He can’t remove the ring. But he can say, “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you.” His love doesn’t make the darkness vanish, but it makes it possible for Frodo to keep going.

Or think of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, when Colin is trapped in fear and isolation, believing he is destined to die. What changes him is not a magic spell but the stubborn presence of Mary and Dickon, their daily coming back, their refusal to give up on him. They open a door, first to a garden and then to a different kind of future. Hope arrives with muddy boots and ordinary kindness.

These stories touch us because they show a truth at the heart of the gospel: often the deepest healing comes not from a dramatic intervention but from a love that stays.

And that  is what Emmanuel means. God chooses not just to drop in occasionally, like a distant relative on a brief visit, and then disappear. God chooses to move in, to share our vulnerability from the inside. Not only in the beautiful parts of life, but in the awkward, shame-filled, confusing ones. Not just when we are full of faith, but when we are full of questions.

When Joseph wakes from his dream, he does something quietly heroic. He takes Mary home. He chooses to stand beside her in the gossip and the raised eyebrows. He agrees to share his life with a child whose story he does not fully understand. He lets his future be rewritten. He doesn’t get all the answers. But he makes space –  in his home, in his reputation, in his heart – space  for God’s strange, tender work to unfold.

This is an example of profound holiness. You see , holiness is not about having everything sorted out in your relationship with God and the world. . It is about holding the door open for mystery. Joseph becomes a kind of patron saint of those who say, “I don’t understand this, I didn’t choose this, I’m a bit scared of this –  but I will not walk away. I will stay.”

And perhaps that is what God is like with us. God is the One who does not walk away. God is the quiet presence at the hospital bed, the unseen companion in the sleepless night, the patience that refuses to give up on us. Emmanuel is not an idea; it is Presence . A God who shares our vulnerability, sits in our uncertainty, knows our fear from the inside, and still whispers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Here in this gospel reading we see  God’s deep work of mending and remaking. Joseph thinks he is dealing with a disaster. God is gently weaving a new beginning. Joseph feels his life is breaking apart. God is, in fact, stitching his story into something larger and more life-giving than he could ever have imagined. salvation  is the word some would use.

And so this reading invites us to trust, as Joseph did, that our places of fear and confusion are not abandoned ground. Emmanuel means there is no situation so tangled, so shame-soaked, so apparently hopeless that God will not stand within it with us. The God who comes at Christmas is not an occasional visitor but a faithful companion. A God who stays. A God whose steady presence, over time, can turn breakdown into breakthrough, endings into openings, and fragile, fearful people into bearers of hope for others.

Photo Credit: Darwin Boaventura (Unsplash.com)