Advent 4A - 2025
Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, Year A
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
The Rev. Andrew McLarty
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer.
On this Fourth Sunday of Advent, I am taking a bit of personal privilege and speaking today about Joseph. We will hear the fuller story of the Nativity, with Jesus, the angels, and shepherds later tonight at Lessons and Carols, as well as on Christmas Eve and Day; but today, I wanted to give a little of the spotlight to Joseph, because across the whole, I think this adoptive dad deserves a little of the spotlight.
Scripture gives him precious few lines. He has no speaking parts. Yet, Matthew introduces him with a title of immense weight: a righteous man. In his time, to be “righteous”—tzaddik—meant one thing: your merit outweighed your inequity. You were meticulous in observance, a faithful son of Deuteronomy and Leviticus. You built your life on the clear, firm foundations of Torah.
And Joseph, this righteous man, finds himself in a catastrophic breach of that very Law. His betrothed, Mary, is with child. Deuteronomic law was unambiguous. Mary could have been legally put to death, pending investigation. Joseph was trapped in the situation, caught between the letter of the Law and the person he loved.
Matthew tells us he, “being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.”
So which path does he choose: the righteousness of strict adherence and the righteousness of tender-hearted protection. And he chooses the latter. He decides to disregard the strict letter of the Deuteronomic law in favor of its deeper, truer spirit: the spirit of covenant love.
He decides that protecting a vulnerable young woman from ruin is more righteous than enforcing a punitive statute. His compassion and will overrules the legal manual. He chooses kindness over condemnation, support over scandal, and quiet release over a righteous revenge. In doing so, he redefines what it means to be a “righteous man” for all of us. True righteousness is not cold compliance; it is the faithful, brave, and often messy work of love.
And luckily for our story, and for us today, God’s revelation to Joseph to "not be afraid to take Mary as your wife” confirms the direction Joseph's heart was already tending.
In our Psalm today, Psalm 80, echoes this tension. It is the cry of a people who feel God has become like a distant, angry judge, “how long will you be angered despite the prayers of your people?” They feel the weight of the law, the consequences of failure. They plead, “Restore us, O God of hosts; show the light of your countenance, and we shall be saved.” They long for God’s face to shine not with strict judgment, but with merciful favor.
Joseph is the answer to that prayer in flesh and blood. He is the one through whom God’s countenance begins to shine with a new light—the light of a father’s protecting love, a husband’s faithful trust. In Joseph’s merciful choice, the stern face of the Law begins to soften into the gracious face of the Gospel.
For us, that Advent joy is often found in our own Joseph-moments. We live in a world full of Deuteronomic choices—choices between being right and being kind, between the black-and-white of the rule and the complex, messy gray of the human being in front of us.
The joy of family—biological or chosen—is often forged in messy moments. It’s choosing to listen rather than lecture when a child fails. It’s offering a spare room to a friend whose life has fallen apart. It’s deciding to forgive an old wound at the holiday table, to prioritize the relationship over being right about the past.
The joy of welcoming others flows from Joseph’s example. It is choosing to see the stranger, the one who is different, not first through the lens of law, policy, or suspicion, but through the lens of a heart inclined toward protection and quiet dignity.
Joseph teaches us that before we can welcome Christ, we must practice his kind of merciful welcome. Our hearts must become, like his, a manger—a place prepared not by strict legalism, but by the tender, brave work of making room for the unexpected, the scandalous, the holy thing God is doing in our midst.
This Advent, may we have the courage of Joseph. May we, too, be called “righteous,” not because we never wavered from the code, but because when love and law collided, we had the faith to let love lead. For it is on that path—the path of the merciful heart—that we will surely meet Emmanuel, God-With-Us.
