The Virgin Shall Be With Child | A Virtual Pilgrimage on the Incarnation for Advent - Week 4

Fr. Michael reflects on the dual visits from an Angel to Mary and Joseph. Why does Joseph trust his dream and trust that his wife has not betrayed him?

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Transcript

Here we are in the fourth week of Advent. Christmas arrives—ready or not—on Thursday. Every year I think the same thing: I wish Advent were as long as Lent, and Lent as short as Advent. Lent can seem endless; Advent, by contrast, flies by too quickly.

This week, two gifted women help us prepare our hearts. Erin Maiorca, our Executive Director at the Bellarmine Jesuit Retreat House, invites us to ponder who Jesus is for each of us and even to create our own O Antiphon in celebration of his coming. Then ValLimar Jansen helps us rejoice in the Feast of Christmas itself. Both reflect on the verse at the heart of this series:

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

Each Christmas reminds us how much in our world is still not right. Wars rage on. Divisions persist. Justice and mercy seem to have fled the land. And we cry out, “Why, O Lord, do you allow so much suffering?”

God’s answer is not an argument. It’s a child—born into our midst, like us in all things except sin. As Isaiah foretold:

“The Virgin shall be with child, and they shall name him Emmanuel—God with us.”

At his birth, Jesus is God with us.
At his death, he is God with us.
And even in his ascension, he promises: “I am with you always.”
That promise—Emmanuel—is the beating heart of our faith.

The Catholic poet-theologian John Shea observes that Christian art most often portrays Jesus at his birth and at his death—the child in the manger and the man on the cross. What unites these two images is radical vulnerability. There is nothing more defenseless than a newborn. And there is no greater vulnerability than a man nailed to a cross.

When we gaze in wonder at the manger: Behold, a vulnerable God.
When we stare in sorrow at the cross: Behold, a vulnerable God.

Isn’t that what we most fear—losing control, being exposed to the elements, to the whims of others, to the power of the strong? Yet such is the lot of humanity. And those who hold power often live in fear of losing it. None of us escapes the vulnerability of death.

It is into this world that Christ is born. God’s answer to suffering comes not from above it but from within it. He enters our pain to free us from the fear of suffering. For when fear is conquered, hope takes root—and in that hope we find peace and a freedom no worldly force can give.

But the path to hope is never easy. It wasn’t easy for Mary or Joseph—the two closest to Jesus. Gabriel’s “Do not be afraid, Mary,” speaks volumes. And Joseph’s own faith was tested when he learned of Mary’s pregnancy. Only through an angel’s dream did he find the courage to trust. Yet surely his fears didn’t vanish overnight. Imagine Joseph—taking his pregnant wife to Bethlehem, finding no room in the inn, settling for a stable. Their first guests were shepherds—society’s outcasts.

Joseph had to keep praying for calm and faith as each new trial arose. Like him, we too struggle to trust that God is leading us when the path twists and turns.

My first name is Joseph. My siblings and I all go by our middle names—it’s a long story—but like my namesake, I’ve wrestled with trust when life hasn’t gone as planned. Years ago, when a ministry assignment changed unexpectedly, I wrote this poem. It came from a place of uncertainty and surrender. I share it because Emmanuel—God with us is not wishful thinking; it’s a promise renewed in every age. When fear rises in our hearts, it’s our cue to lean into that promise. For when we believe that God is truly with us, we have all that we need.

Joseph’s Dream

I never planned it this way…
My wife pregnant before the wedding,
Facing the knowing laughter of neighbors
As they counted months and measured her belly’s girth.

With my whole heart I want to believe her tale,
And with my whole mind I battle fear of betrayal.
I have only the guiding light of an angel’s voice—
Such stuff as dreams are made of—to sort thru my confusion.

I am a carpenter caught in the gears of government,
Never consulted about the census,
Deserving more than a stable.
This isn’t what I hoped for the birth of my son.

Somehow my wife’s heart is purer than mine.
She sees love where I sense abandonment.
She is grateful for straw, while I argue for wool.
She hears angel choirs; I hear only her cries.

O God of my ancestors, who is this tiny one?
There are shepherds and astrologers at the mouth of the cave.
I want to believe, but I am only a just man.
Is Emmanuel Your pledge—or only a prophet’s hope?

Teach me to trust in more than I can see,
To believe in more than I can hear,
To love beyond what I can feel,
To treasure this Child that is given.