Reputation
Jesus . . . made Himself of no reputation . . . He humbled Himself and
became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross. (Philippians
2:5, 7-8)
My teenage
acquaintances included a handful of Christians, none of whom were very cool.
One minister's daughter passed on beer parties and gossip. As a result, she
spent most lunch hours and Friday nights alone. A football player came back
from summer break with a Bible bumper sticker on his car and a smile on his
face. We called him a Jesus freak. My voice was among the mockers. It shouldn't
have been, but it was. Somewhere inside I knew better, but I didn't go there
for advice. My parents took me to church. My minister told me about Christ. But
did I make a big deal about God or the church? No. I had something far more
important to promote. My reputation.
A three-sport athlete,
Student Body President and a bit of a flirt, I polished and protected my
reputation like a '65 Mustang. What mattered most to me was people's opinion … of
me. But then I went off to college and heard a professor describe a Christ I'd
never seen. A people-loving and death-defeating Christ. A Jesus who made time
for the lonely, the losers . . . a Jesus who died for hypocrites like me. So I
signed up. And as much as I could, I gave him my heart. Not long after that
decision, I came back home to meet some of the old gang. Only minutes into the
trip I started getting nervous. My friends didn't know about my faith, and I
wasn't sure I wanted them to. I remembered the jokes we had told about the
preacher's daughter and the Jesus freak. Did I dare risk hearing the same said
about me? Didn't I have my status to protect? One can't, at the same time,
promote two reputations. Promote God's and forget yours, or promote yours and
forget God's. We must choose.
Joseph did.
Matthew describes Jesus' earthly father as a craftsman. (Matt. 13:55) He lived
in Nazareth – a blip on the map at the edge of boredom. Joseph never speaks in
the New Testament. He sees an angel, marries a pregnant girl, and leads his
family to Bethlehem and Egypt, mind you. He does a lot, but says nothing. A
small-town carpenter who never said a Scripture-worthy word. I’ve thought, “Is
Joseph the right choice here, God? Don’t you have better options? An eloquent
priest from Jerusalem, or a scholar from the Pharisees, perhaps? But, why
Joseph?” A major part of the answer, I believe, lies in his reputation: he gave
it up for Jesus. "Then Joseph [Mary's husband], being a just man, and not
wanting to make her a public example, was minded to put her away secretly."
(Matt. 1:19)
With the phrase
"a just man," Matthew recognizes Joseph’s status. He was a tsadiq (tsa-DEEK), a serious student of
the Torah. Nazareth viewed Joseph as we might view an elder, deacon or maybe a Bible
class teacher. Tsadiqs studied God's
law. They recited and lived the Shema
daily. They supported the synagogue, observed Jewish holy days, and followed
the food restrictions. For a common carpenter to be known as a tsadiq was no small thing. Joseph likely
took pride in his standing, but Mary's announcement jeopardized it – “I’m pregnant.”
Mary's parents, by this point, have signed a contract and sealed it with a
dowry. Mary belongs to Joseph; Joseph belongs to Mary. Legally and
matrimonially bound. Now what? What's a tsadiq
to do? His fiancée is pregnant, blemished, tainted . . . he, on the other hand,
is righteous, godly. On one hand, he has the law. On the other, he has his
love. The law says, stone her. Love says, forgive her. Joseph is caught in the
middle.
But Joseph is a
kind man. "Not wanting to disgrace her, [he] planned to send her away
secretly." (Matt. 1:19) A quiet divorce, in other words. But how long
would it stay quiet? Not long, likely. But for a time, that was the solution.
Then comes the angel. "While he thought about these things, behold, an
angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, 'Joseph, son of David, do
not be afraid to take to you Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her
is of the Holy Spirit.'" (v. 20) Stated differently, Mary's growing belly should
give no cause for concern, but a reason to rejoice. "She carries the Son
of God in her womb," the angel announces. But who would believe that? Who’d
buy that story?
Just picture Joseph
being questioned by the city leaders. "Joseph," they say, "we
understand that Mary is with child." He nods. "Is the child
yours?" He shakes his head. "Do you know how she became
pregnant?" Gulp. A bead of sweat forms beneath Joseph's beard. He faces a real
dilemma. Make up a lie and preserve his place in the community, or tell the
truth and kiss his tsadiq good-bye. But
he makes his decision. "Joseph . . . took to him his wife, and did not
know her till she had brought forth her first-born Son. And he called His name
Jesus." (Matt. 1:24-25) In other words, Joseph tanked his reputation. He
swapped his tsadiq diploma for a
pregnant fiancée and an illegitimate son, and made the big decision of
discipleship. He placed God's plan ahead of his own.
Would you be
willing to do that? God grants us an uncommon life to the degree we surrender
our common one. "If you try to keep your life for yourself, you will lose
it. But if you give up your life for me, you will find true life." (Matt.
16:25) Would you forfeit your reputation to see Jesus born into your world? For
instance, let’s say that you’re a photographer for an advertising agency. Your
boss wants to assign you to your biggest photo shoot – ever. The account? Hustler magazine. He knows about your
faith. Say yes and polish your reputation. Say yes and use your God-given gift
to tarnish Christ's reputation. What would you do?
Or, take the
college philosophy teacher who daily harangues against Christ and Christians.
He derides spirituality and denigrates the need for forgiveness. One day he
dares any Christian in the class to speak up. Would you? Or, let’s say you
enjoy the role of a Christmas Christian. You sing the carols, attend the
services. But come January, you'll jettison your faith and re-shelve your
Bible. During December, however, you soar. But something hits you this
particular December. The immensity of it all strikes you – heaven hung her
highest hope and King on a cross, for me. Radical thoughts begin to surface:
joining a weekly Bible study, going on a mission trip, volunteering at a soup
kitchen. Your family and friends think you’re crazy. Your changing world
changes theirs. They want the Christmas Christian back. You can protect your
reputation, or protect his. You have a choice. Joseph made his. Jesus did too.
Jesus "made
Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the
likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and
became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross."
(Phil. 2:7-8) Christ abandoned his reputation. No one in Nazareth saluted him
as the Son of God. He did not stand out in his elementary-classroom photograph,
and didn’t demand a glossy page in his high-school yearbook. Friends knew him
as a woodworker, not a star hanger. His looks don’t turn heads; his position
earned him no credit. In the great stoop we call Christmas, Jesus abandoned
heavenly privileges and aproned earthly pains. "He gave up his place with
God and made himself nothing." (Phil. 2:7)
God hunts for those
who will do likewise – Josephs through whom he can deliver Christ into the
world. But when you're full of yourself, God can't fill you. It’s only when you
empty yourself that God has a useful vessel. And your Bible overflows with
examples of those who did. In his gospel, Matthew mentions his own name only
twice, and both times he calls himself a tax collector. In his list of
apostles, he assigns himself the eighth spot. John, on the other hand, doesn't
even mention his name in his gospel. The twenty appearances of "John"
all refer to the Baptist. John the apostle simply calls himself the "other
disciple," or the "disciple whom Jesus loved." Luke wrote two of
the most important books in the Bible but never once penned his own name.
Paul, the
Bible's most prolific author, referred to himself as "a fool." (2
Cor. 12:11) He also called himself "the least of the apostles." (1
Cor. 15:9) Five years later he claimed to be "less than the least of all
the saints." (Eph. 3:8) In one of his final epistles he referred to
himself as the "chief of sinners.” (1 Tim. 1:15) As he grew older, his ego
grew smaller. King David wrote no psalm celebrating his victory over Goliath,
but he wrote a public poem of penitence confessing his sin with Bathsheba. (See Ps. 51) And then there’s Joseph. The
quiet father of Jesus.
Rather than make
a name for himself, he made a home for Christ. And because he did, a great
reward came his way. "He called His name Jesus.” (Matt. 1:25) Queue up the
millions who have spoken the name of Jesus, and look at the person selected to
stand at the front of the line. Joseph. Of all the saints, sinners, prodigals
and preachers who have spoken the name, Joseph, a blue-collar, small-town
construction worker, said it first. He cradled the wrinkle-faced Prince of
Heaven and, with an audience of angels and pigs, whispered, "Jesus . . .
You'll be called Jesus."
Seems right,
don't you think? Joseph gave up his name and, in exchange, Jesus let Joseph say
his. You think Joseph regretted his choice? I didn't regret mine. I went to the
hometown party. As expected, every-one asked questions like, "What's new?"
I told them. Not gracefully or eloquently . . . but honestly. "My
faith," I remember saying. "I'm taking faith pretty seriously."
A few rolled their eyes. Others made mental notes to remove my name from their friends
list, since that was before you could be “unfriended” on Facebook. But one or two found their way over and confided,
"I've been thinking the same thing." Turns out I wasn't the only one.
And neither are you.
Grace,
Randy
No comments:
Post a Comment