Lectionary Commentaries for December 21, 2025
Fourth Sunday of Advent

The Gospel of Matthew begins with a titular sentence (1:1), which calls the account the “Book of Genesis” (Greek word meaning origin, beginning, birth, generation, creation, et cetera) of Jesus Christ. Here, Matthew uses the same Greek word, genesis, as the title of the first book of the Pentateuch in the Septuagint. It is possible, if not provable, that Matthew’s choice of this word is to present the biography of Jesus as if it is a new beginning at the cosmic level, comparable to the creation of the universe.

After the genealogy of Jesus from Abraham through Joseph (verses 2–17), Matthew sets out to tell the story of the birth (genesis: the same Greek word as in verse 1) of Jesus in today’s passage, which is the Matthean version of the annunciation and the virgin birth combined.

Unlike its Lukan counterpart, this passage has Joseph rather than Mary as the recipient of the annunciation. According to verse 18, before the betrothed couple lived together, Mary was found to be pregnant from the Holy Spirit. The text does not say whether Mary had previously known the conception was from the Holy Spirit, but it is clear that when her pregnancy was revealed to Joseph, he did not know this.

Probably assuming Mary had committed adultery, he intends to dismiss (in other words, divorce) her in secret, not wishing to disclose her shame publicly. Matthew calls such intent of Joseph just/righteous (verse 19), in that he chose not to follow the harsh punitive measures for adultery prescribed in the laws but to be merciful to his betrothed partner, whom he thought was unfaithful.

Then, the annunciation of an angel of the Lord came to Joseph, revealing to him that the child in Mary’s womb was from the Holy Spirit. The angel also told Joseph to name the child Iesus, a Greek transliteration of the Hebrew Yeshua/Yehoshua, meaning “Yahweh saves/is salvation.” This was a fairly common name among Jews during the Second Temple period, expressing their wishes and prayers for God’s deliverance from their current calamities, including oppression by the colonizing empires.

In our passage, the salvation by Jesus is further specified as “from their sins” (hamartiai). This should not be taken as evidence for the atonement theology of penal substitution, which is not clearly articulated in Matthew’s gospel. Rather, this reference to “sins” reflects Matthew’s adaptation of the Deuteronomistic theology of reward and punishment according to the deeds of the people of Israel, which interprets the conquest of Jerusalem by the Babylonian Empire and its lasting consequences as God’s punishment for the sins of Israel.

After narrating how the dream-revelation came to Joseph, Matthew provides his interpretive commentary using the so-called fulfilment formula, “All this took place to fulfill…” and providing a citation of Isaiah 7:14, which was originally an oracle of prophecy given to Ahaz, the sitting king of Judah, about the conception and birth of the future crown prince (in other words, Hezekiah) for the dynastic succession.

The Hebrew word used in the Masoretic Text is ‘almah, which means “young woman,” while Hebrew has a different noun, bethulah, for “virgin.” Matthew seems to follow the Septuagint translation that uses parthenos, which means “virgin.”¹ Regardless of the original meaning of Isaiah 7:14 in its eighth-century BCE context, it efficiently serves Matthew’s theological understanding of the Jesus event as the fulfillment of the Hebrew Bible prophecies.

The name of the soon-to-be newborn prince in Isaiah 7:14 is Immanu-El, which is a Hebrew phrase meaning “God with us.” As such, it reflects Isaiah’s oracular vision for the abiding presence of God in Judah in the midst of the national crisis caused by the threat from the Assyrian Empire, even as Ahaz wanted to capitulate to Tiglath-Pileser III of Assyria.

During the time of Jesus and also the time of the composition of the Gospel of Matthew, Israel’s sovereignty had not been restored, as they were living under the colonial power of the Roman Empire. The birth of Jesus as one who personifies the salvation and abiding presence of God for the people of Israel will rekindle the same kind of communal hope for deliverance by God as was promised by the oracle of Isaiah.

Verse 24 provides a brief statement of Joseph’s obedient act of taking Mary as his wife but “not knowing her” (Hebrew euphemism for sexual intercourse), apparently to keep Mary’s virginity until she gave birth to Jesus. Matthew simply says so without dwelling on the fine difference between virginal conception and virgin birth. What matters to Matthew is the recognition of the divine origin, hence the divine sonship, of Jesus.

The last sentence (verse 25) presents Joseph naming the child “Jesus,” as he was commanded by the angel. This naming act solves the problem of how Jesus could be called “Son of David” in Matthew’s narrative world since he has nothing to do with Joseph, biologically speaking, and therefore does not share Joseph’s royal lineage of the Davidic dynasty.

In this story, Joseph gives a name to the child of his wife, and by doing so, he symbolically, if not formally, adopts him as his own. That is, in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus is a natural son of God and an adopted son of Joseph. In that capacity, he is a legitimate “Son of David,” which was a messianic title among the Jews at that time.

Notes

1. It is not impossible that the original Septuagint had neanis (“young woman”) and that parthenos (“virgin”) is a textual variant caused by a later Christian scribal substitution influenced by the virgin birth theology, as the Jewish editions of the Septuagint (for example, Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodotion) have neanis instead of parthenos.

On this final Sunday in Advent, the lectionary includes one more passage from the book of Isaiah. All four of the Advent Isaiah passages come from the first part of the collection and, therefore, share the same historical backdrop. All four passages promise impossible hope, given the dire straits of the Assyrian aggression against Judah. 

A literal or virtual trip to the British Museum provides ancient pictures of this very war. The Assyrian reliefs excavated from the palace of Sennacherib in Nineveh chronicle the siege of Lachish, a Judean city 18 miles southwest of Jerusalem. The towering panels depict the aggression of the Assyrian army with its battering rams, the fearful Judeans on the city walls, the mutilation of Judean soldiers, and the parading of Judean families as they are deported from their ancestral home. 

Separate from the reliefs, archaeologists also discovered the Lachish letters sent to Jerusalem begging for military aid, which never came. These letters attest to the fact that those in Jerusalem knew what was coming their way. Ancient armies moved slowly, only about three to five miles a day. The enemy would arrive in a week.

Imagine the excruciating days for those in Jerusalem, leading to the appearance of this enemy on the horizon. Imagine looking at your pregnant wife or daughter during that week and knowing you will never meet that child. Judah may not have had the resources to construct monumental visual art, but their scribes found other ways to commemorate their version of this watershed disaster.

Isaiah 7:10–16 provides a verbal panel in Israel’s series of images of this war. On one side of the panel, a prophet stands before an enthroned king whose duty it is to protect the most vulnerable citizens in his care. The king, holed up in his palace as the enemy advances, feels utterly impotent and defeated. His head droops, refusing to even consult the prophet about the city’s fate. He knows its fate too well: The city and all of his flock will be slaughtered. 

The prophet, who stands in the center of the panel, points to a pregnant woman. Really, she is no more than a girl, just having reached puberty. She sits on a smaller throne representing all the vulnerable people, born and unborn, who will be victims of the king’s ineffectiveness. The king does not want to look at her, even though the prophet commands it. Her fate is already emblazoned in his psyche. The king assumes the prophet is about to tell him why he deserves this fate, and what has made his God so angry with him that he would allow this to happen.

When we hear this panel during Advent, it is so easy to forget this horrible context. We have less than a week until Christmas. We sit in the pews composing the final shopping lists or mentally packing our bags for holiday travel. We can smell not the fires of a dying city but the spice of cookies and roasting meat. Our mangers have been dusted off and set up, with their idyllic tableaus of parents and newborn child. Let’s call him Immanuel and toast his birth. 

Let’s rush over the fact that in one version of this child’s story, the king was so determined to murder him that he executed a slew of infant boys as insurance. Can you hear the cries of their families in the background? In another version of this story, this child is born in a barn to parents, having been forced to make a long trip on foot to Bethlehem during the mother’s third trimester because some ruler commanded it. Can you see how tired, dirty, and far from home they are? The hope of the season becomes trite without these backgrounds. 

Advent attests to brutal reality. The king in Isaiah had it right: There was no reason to expect anything but disaster. He would never have the chance to give this child a name, no matter what the prophet said. The mother in the gospel could expect that her child would die in childbirth or infancy and that she would be rejected by her betrothed because he knew the child was not his.

The readings of anticipation in Advent prepare us, but for what? In many churches nowadays, the Easter Vigil service starts in darkness and ends in an eruption of light to liturgically recreate the move from despair to joy that accompanies Jesus’ death and resurrection. What if our midnight services for Christmas had the same movement? 

The final panel in Isaiah 7 portrays the same king standing with his wife. They both look down, but this time, not in despair. The viewer follows their gaze to the healthy child playing at their feet. He is talking now, and when he starts to reach for something he shouldn’t, he echoes his parents’ no-nos. He looks at them with a mischievous grin, a piece of cheese in one hand. He has survived! The army unexpectedly retreated, and life in Jerusalem went back to normal. The father knows in his heart that God has saved this particular child for a reason. He surely will be the ideal king someday.

As history goes, that happy panel’s fairy tale ending did not, in fact, come to pass. The artists or scribes who created these panels knew that. They knew that, although Jerusalem survived the siege by the Assyrians around 700 BCE, they would not be so lucky in 586 when the Babylonians razed the city walls and turned Jerusalem into a pile of ruins. They knew that the descendants of these royal parents would end up exiled to Babylon, where they would give birth to children who would never even see Jerusalem, let alone rule there.

But what is this literary artwork’s legacy? Generations of scribes, Jewish and eventually also Christian, kept these stories alive, added to them, recast them, and maintained that illogical hope was not a fantasy. It could happen at any moment. Isaiah proved that. It may not have happened during the days of Jeremiah and Ezekiel, but it could, it would happen again. Someday. And this time, it would stick. God-with-us would become a permanent reality for Israel. Just wait… wait for it… wait for it.

Advent commemorates the time of pregnant pauses and reminds Christians that the birth of Jesus is not the end of the story either. It is another moment of impossible hope as we continue to wait… wait… wait in our impossible hope.

God has seemingly turned God’s face away.¹ So distant, so imperceptible is God’s presence in Psalm 80 that the psalmist concludes that God must be angry with Israel. Why else would God allow the fruit of the vine of Israel to be plucked by others while Israel is left with nothing but “the bread of tears” to eat and “tears to drink in full measure” (verse 5)? Why would God allow the vine of Israel to be ravaged by wild boars, burned with fire, and cut down as though it were mere rubbish? Why would God allow this to happen to one in whom God has invested so much? 

Even as God’s anger seems clear to the psalmist, however, no sin of Israel is evident that might provoke it. The psalmist has nothing of which to repent, but stands confused in the tension between what is known about God’s faithfulness because of what God has done in the past and the current experience of seeming disregard. 

If the preacher’s congregation tends to view suffering as God’s punishment for sin, it may be helpful to point out that there is no sin named here. Given the magnitude of the suffering, one would expect the sin to be obvious if it was present. The reason for some suffering is simply unknowable. Preachers who take this route, however, will want to be discerning with the psalmist’s belief that God’s anger is the source of the suffering. Given the unknown reason for the suffering, in addition to God’s favorable track record, one might be cautious about naming God as the source.

Preachers may want to let the “Why?” questions of their congregation resonate with the psalmist’s, as well as any current tensions between the theology of the congregation and their experience. Giving voice to these things may begin to nudge away any present toxic positivity–infused theologies that disallow any truth-telling that makes God vulnerable. God can handle even our strongest emotions, as well as our interpretation of God’s role in our present plight. If we let these things come into the light, perhaps we can discern them with greater clarity. 

The psalmist not only acknowledges Israel’s present suffering but boldly calls upon God to “stir up your might, and come to save us!” (verse 2b). Three times, while building upon God’s name each time, the psalmist cries, “Restore us, O (LORD) God (of hosts); let your face shine, that we may be saved” (verses 3, 7, 19). 

Though not included in the lectionary, verses 8–16 are helpful for the preacher to keep in mind because they review God’s past mighty acts that ground the psalmist’s faith and make the present circumstances so shocking. God is the one who brought this vine of Israel out of Egypt and planted it in a new, nourishing land. God is the one who tended to the vine with such care that due to its great height, even mountains were covered by its shadow and towering cedar trees by its branches; its width expanded to river and sea! Surely, God will not abandon but restore this vine that has been lovingly cultivated by God’s right hand.

Audacious hope is what I find most remarkable about this psalm, which makes it an ideal preaching text in Advent. Israel is walking in darkness due to the apparent turning away of God’s face, plagued by questions of “Why?” and “How long?” that have received no answers, and surrounded by the tears of loved ones and the scornful laughter of enemies. Still, the psalmist is convinced that God can and will restore Israel. 

For even though they do not know where they are going, their Shepherd’s hand is upon them, leading them “like a flock” (verse 1). Even now, they are being “made strong” “at [God’s] right hand.” (Alternatively, the preacher might interpret “the one at [God’s] right hand” in verse 17 to be Jesus, which is rich with Advent possibilities.) Even now, the proclamation of God’s salvation is breaking into the dark surroundings through the psalmist. In anticipation of the fullness of this inbreaking, the psalmist declares, “We will never turn back from you” (verse 18).

With the psalmist, preachers may also give voice to all that God has done and audaciously proclaim God’s salvation through Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit. Through that proclamation of the gospel, God’s face is already shining upon us, already saving us, already restoring our vision to see the great light that cannot be overcome, even as we are still the people who walk in darkness.

By the power of the Holy Spirit, the scornful laughter of enemies is being transformed into the joyous laughter of friends. The bread of tears we are eating is becoming the nourishing bread of heaven. The full measure of tears we are drinking is becoming the fruit of the vine that is tended by God’s right hand. 

“Being confident of this,” we preachers may declare to our congregations, God “who began a good work in you will carry it to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6). 

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for December 3, 2023.

For most of us, writing and receiving letters is a long-forgotten (or never-learned) practice. This is especially true of a longish letter like Paul’s missive to the Romans, with its more than 7,000 words. (Imagine receiving a 20-page email!) 

Accordingly, we might be tempted to move quickly beyond the opening salutation, with its identification of sender and receiver, in our rush to get to the substance of things. With Paul’s letters in general, and this one in particular, this would be a serious mistake. How Paul opens his letters, how he presents himself, and how he depicts his addressees—these typically set the agenda for the letter as a whole and frame how best to read all that follows. This is the time for slow reading.

Paul’s introduction of himself here is extraordinary, especially in comparison with his other letters known to us. He uses three avatars, we might say, then develops the third by a summary of the gospel.

• First, he is a “servant of Christ Jesus”—a reference to himself in biblical terms, for in Israel’s Scriptures, God’s chosen were often identified as servants (or slaves). Paul thereby triggers a household scheme, both identifying himself with God’s household and locating his message in this letter within the category of “household instructions”—that is, he clarifies the life patterns appropriate to those who dwell in God’s household. 
• Second, he is an “apostle,” a divinely authorized messenger, a status he elsewhere ties to his having seen the risen Lord and having carried the gospel to people unaware of God’s good news (1 Corinthians 9:1–2). (Luke recounts the story of Paul’s encounter with the risen Jesus and Paul’s commissioning on the road to Damascus [Acts 9:1–31].) 
• Third, and closely related, Paul has been “set apart for the gospel of God.” This language recalls Isaiah’s references to bringing good news, signifying God’s coming to bring restoration and to rule.

Get you up to a high mountain,
     O Zion, herald of good news;
lift up your voice with strength,
     O Jerusalem, herald of good news;
     lift it up, do not fear;
say to the cities of Judah,
     “Here is your God!” (Isaiah 40:9; see verses 1–11)

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger
     who announces peace,
     who brings good news,
     who announces salvation,
     who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.” (Isaiah 52:7)

With this scriptural backdrop, (1) Paul apparently envisions his role in God’s work, through God’s Messiah, to regather and renew Israel—a renewal that encompasses the gathering of the gentiles among God’s people. God comes to set things right. What’s more, in a letter read and heard among Christ-following assemblies in Rome, (2) Paul’s words comprise an implicit challenge to claims made on behalf of, or even by, the Roman emperor concerning Rome’s “good news” of universal rule, peace, and salvation.

Having presented himself in relation to Christ and God’s gospel, Paul moves uncharacteristically to introduce the gospel itself, its substance deeply rooted in God’s promises in Israel’s Scriptures (Romans 1:2–4). On the one hand, then, Paul foregrounds God’s trustworthiness, his fidelity—an important motif within the whole of this letter. On the other hand, the apostle ties his own identity to this good news. It is as if he says, “You cannot understand me apart from my relation to God’s good news, and you cannot understand God’s good news apart from the Scriptures.” Paul’s recitation of the gospel sounds four additional notes.

• First, he is likely borrowing from and adapting a well-formulated and well-known tradition, perhaps already known among the Roman Christ-followers. Paul, we will learn as we continue to read this letter, may be known to several Roman followers of Jesus (see, for example, Romans 16), but he has yet to visit the Roman assemblies. He begins, then, by claiming as one of his credentials his service to a commonly understood gospel. 
• Second, this gospel centers on Jesus’ resurrection, which Paul portrays as God’s vindication of Jesus following his crucifixion on a Roman cross. His execution may have seemed to contradict Jesus’ status as David’s son and God’s Son, the Messiah (see Luke 24:19–21), but his resurrection is God’s indisputable affirmation and public announcement of Jesus’ status and role in God’s work to bring salvation. 
• Third, Paul declares that his call to serve the gospel has this objective: “to bring about the obedience of faith” (1:5; see 16:26). The sense of this phrase may seem obscure. Paul is not referring to two different responses, obedience and faith, but coordinating these two. This is an “obedient faith” or, perhaps better, “faithful obedience” (Common English Bible), or even “committed allegiance.” As such, the expected response is modeled on Jesus’ career, known in Romans for his faithfulness (see, for example, 3:22, 26; 5:19). Allegiance to Jesus Christ is only to be assumed of those who profess him as “Lord” (1:4). 
• Finally, Paul ties his commission as God’s authorized messenger to “all the gentiles” (1:5). Since it is grounded in Israel’s Scriptures, we might expect that the gospel is good news for Jews, but Paul’s articulation of the gospel tradition embraces the gentiles too. Implicitly, Paul has just announced a central concern of this letter: namely, the importance of one people of God, Jew and gentile, united in the one gospel (see 1:16–17).

After what may seem to be a rather involved parenthetical explanation, by which Paul identifies himself in reference to God’s good news, he turns finally to portray his addressees: Romans, God’s beloved, saints (1:7). As Paul is called to be an apostle, so they are called to belong to Jesus, and so to be set apart as holy for service as members of God’s household. And apparently, their number includes a gentile majority (1:5–6). Gentile or Jew, their relationships to God and the world have now been transformed in relation to Jesus, in whom God’s promised good news is actualized.