A VISIT FROM JOE DAVIDSON

A VISIT FROM JOE DAVIDSON Christmas Sunday, December 20, 1998 (adapted from Haddon Robinson’s Joseph Davidson: The Neglected) Given by: Pastor Rich Bersett [Index of Past Messages] Judging by your response, I think it would be a good idea to introduce myself.  My name is Joseph Davidson.   Many of you already know me --I’ve been hanging around Christmas for a long time.  But I’m sure you don’t know me very well--I get sort of hidden in the story.  Sometimes I feel a little like the father of the bride at a wedding --nobody notices him, but he has to pay for the whole affair.  It’s clear that you enjoy celebrating Christmas, but I want you to know that Christmas cost me a great deal. If I had anything to boast about during my life, it would be that I happen to be a descendant of David, Israel’s greatest king--and, in case you haven’t figured that out, that’s why my name in your church bulletin is Joe David(‘s) Son.   Of course, in the whole scheme of things, being a descendant of David was not much to boast about.  He had lived a thousand years before me, and by the time I came along, I had thousands of cousins, all descended from David.  In fact, that’s one of the things that makes my story so interesting to people.  When that brood gets together, there’s no room for anyone.  But I’m getting ahead of myself. When I lived, King David had been gone a long time--and so had the great glory days of Israel.  We were living in bondage to the Roman government and in spiritual darkness.   In fact, the spiritual climate of the whole empire seemed very cold.  The only hot spots, if you will, were the occasional uprisings by zealous Jews in Palestine who would announce that the Messiah was coming and would start some skirmish. But the Romans quickly quelled those activities with the sword. I grew up in the town of Bethlehem, a little town about seven miles south of the capital city of Jerusalem.  But as a young man I went up north to the hill country near Galilee Lake and settled in the town of Nazareth.  It was a very small town--in fact, it was so small that people used to make fun of it.  They would say “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”.   But, I didn’t go to Nazareth because it was a great city. I went there to work my trade.  I am a carpenter, and business was not good in Bethlehem. But in Nazareth, there were not so many carpenters, and a man could make a decent living.  Not that a carpenter would ever be wealthy, of course.  Carpenters were fairly low on the social scale back then. Carpenters are practical people.  We’re not philosophers or priests or writers.   I like to work with things you can handle.  I’m not at home in the world of ideas.  Give me a good piece of wood--something you can handle, measure and cut.   Wood is an honest thing.  I’ve been told that some of you have doors in your homes that are hollow.  I don’t want to offend you, but - that’s no door!  I like wood that’s wood clear through, solid, wood with integrity.   I like that in people, too. I loved my life in Nazareth.  I liked the people, I enjoyed working for them, being neighbors with them.  But the best thing about Nazareth is that is where I met Mary.   She was not quite 16 years old when we met. She was a wonderful young woman.   Before long we were betrothed--that’s something like your engagement, only more serious. Betrothal lasted about a year, sometimes longer.  It was a time for the two families to get acquainted. The more I got to know Mary, the more I loved her.  She was not only a devoted follower of Yahweh, but she was also nice to be with.  She was thoughtful and always seemed to have a song in her heart for the Lord--in fact, she wrote songs of praise.   I was admittedly a little starry-eyed in those days--I used to lie awake at night thinking of plans for a house I would build for Mary and our children.  I thought a lot about what it would be like being her husband. It’s strange, isn’t it, how dreams can so quickly turn into nightmares --how your best plans can be shattered.  I began to notice that all of a sudden, Mary was quiet and withdrawn.  When I asked her what was wrong, she just said she couldn’t talk about it.  I wondered if I had done something to offend her, or if her family had found something in me that displeased them.  Finally, one day, I was beside myself with anxiety.  I told Mary I could not stand her shutting me out of her life, and that I needed to know what was wrong.  I was not prepared for the answer she gave me.  She looked at me and said, “I’m pregnant.”  She started crying.  Of all the things that could have been wrong, that problem had never occurred to me.  I knew Mary was chaste, and I had not been with her in that way.   Who could it have been?  How could this have happened?  I was afraid to find out, but I had to know.  When she answered me, it was like a slap in the face.   She told me an angel had appeared to her and told her that she, a 16-year-old girl living in a nowhere village--that she was going to be the mother of Israel’s Messiah.   And that the Spirit of God had miraculously planted the baby in her womb, and she was still a virgin. It was one thing for her to betray our love, but it was quite another for her to treat me like a fool with stories that bordered on fairy tale and blasphemy.  How could she expect me to believe that story?  You wouldn’t have believed it.  I am a righteous man.  I try to live according to the Law of the Scriptures.  I had a reputation in the community. When the people would inevitably hear that Mary was pregnant, they would naturally assume I was the father and my good name as a moral man would be destroyed.  So I had decided to make it public.  I was going to go before the elders at the gate and sever my relationship with Mary, explaining that I was not responsible. Partly as relief Mary had left town to see her cousin Elizabeth in Hebron.  Maybe she would decide to just stay on there and live with them.  Elizabeth’s husband was a priest and could afford to give her a home and protection.  There the shame would not be as great and she could raise her child alongside Elizabeth’s (she was surprised by a pregnancy, too-- she and Zechariah had never been able to have children before).  Mary stayed away for three months--three months of misery and loneliness for me. I couldn’t get the pain out of my heart.  I would work at my bench, then go for a walk; I would pray; I couldn’t eat or sleep.  One night I had a dream.   It was rare that I would dream so vividly or remember a dream, but I dreamed I was walking through a dark place, and suddenly up ahead there was a blinding light.  In the center of the light I saw an angel.  I was understandably terrified, but the angel told me not to be afraid.  The angel said, “Joseph Davidson, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.  She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus.” When I awoke, I realized this was more than a dream, and I was elated.  I had a message from heaven certifying that Mary had told me the truth!  I went down to Hebron as soon as I could and apologized to Mary for doubting her word.  I took her back to Nazareth and we were married right away.  But in those next months, I never touched her--until the baby was born she remained a virgin. In her ninth month we got word that we had to travel to Bethlehem, my birth place, in order to register for the census and the taxation.  In those days the census taker did not come to you--you went to them, and there were no excuses.  So, in spite of her condition, we went.  I took Mary rather than leave her in Nazareth to face the criticism and gossip alone.  What I did not count on was the crowd.  I did notice your shopping crowds in this area, but if those people were all from out of town and needed lodging--well, you get the idea.  Even though Bethlehem was where most of my cousins lived, there was not a bed available anywhere.  So, weary from the travel, and desperate for some sleep, I found a cave at the edge of town which served as a stable.   We lay on the straw. I lit a fire to keep us warm.  It was probably the long trip, I don’t know, but Mary went into labor that night.  I didn’t know what to do--I’m a carpenter.  Mary had to serve as her own midwife.  I did my part by cutting the cord with my carving blade and cleaning the child as best I could.  The only place for the child other than Mary’s arms was a feeding trough.  The rest of the floor was filthy from the animals. I had a lot of unanswered questions.  If this wife of mine was highly favored of God, how do you explain a cave for a birthing room, and the smelly, dirty company of cattle and sheep?  No family was there with us to celebrate.  Well, actually, a few shepherds did show up, claiming an angel had told them to come and see our baby boy, because he was the Messiah, the Lord. After all the hubbub of the census had subsided, we decided we would stay in Bethlehem.   With all the gossip in Nazareth, and lots of family in Bethlehem, well, even though there wasn’t as much work, we thought it would be best for the boy.  We rented a house; I took in whatever work I could.  It wasn’t much.  When we were there a year or so, some astrologers from the country you now know as Iran came to see us.   Or, more precisely, to see the child.  They said they read heavenly signs which led them to Jerusalem.  When they got there they went to Herod to find out where the King was born.  Herod didn’t know, and they followed the signs in the sky, which led them to Bethlehem.  And here was our boy, Jesus, just a toddler.   The dignitaries entered our home, and, as soon as they saw Jesus, they fell to their knees and worshipped him.  They gave him gifts of gold, incense and myrrh.   Then they left.  To tell you the truth, I thought those gifts would come in handy.  We were about as poor as a family of three could be. It was shortly after the visitors that I had another very vivid dream. I was warned to take Mary and Jesus into Egypt.  We were aliens there, outsiders, and there was certainly no work there for Jewish carpenters.  That’s when I know the gift of gold was a godsend.  We stayed there for two years until the political unrest had settled, and God directed us back to Nazareth. Again, I had serious questions.  Here he is the Creator of the universe, who knows all things, and he sends us back to Nazareth with all of its gossip and raised eyebrows and dirty jokes.  To be honest, I faced a lot of doubt in those days.  I often wondered if I had made up those angelic dreams, just because I wanted to believe Mary and wanted so badly to be her husband.  And, you know, Jesus was as normal a little boy as you would ever see--he didn’t seem much like the world’s savior to me, I’m sorry.  Oh, he was a good boy--a very good boy--in fact, I can’t remember him ever being disobedient.  But when he was a baby, well--you people sing that song, “the little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes...”  But, I’m here to tell you, he cried. He slept and ate meals with the other children; he fell and skinned his knees; I held him on my lap and told him stories and he fell asleep.  He was normal--a good, normal boy.  He didn’t work any miracles or walk on water while he was growing up.   So I regularly wondered, was he really the Son of God? Once, though, when he was twelve, we went up to Jerusalem for one of our feast days.   All of our neighbors and family went together.  On the way back, we were gone about a day’s journey when we realized he wasn’t with us.  So, while the rest of them went on home, Mary and I retraced our steps back to Jerusalem.  We found him talking to the leaders of the people asking them very intelligent questions.  We didn’t know whether to be angry or proud. We brought him correction when we got him alone.  We told him we were worried sick about him, not knowing where he was.  He just said, “Don’t you know I have to be about my Father’s business?”  That sounds like a nice answer in church, but when you are a worried parent, and you hear that from your 12-year old... All in all, though, he wasn’t much different from our other children.  I couldn’t really talk with Mary about my doubts.  She was always keeping the promises of God in her heart, and I couldn’t tell her I didn’t have enough faith to shout down all my doubts.  I couldn’t talk to the people in the village.  They had some very earthly explanations about Jesus’ birth. One thing I did have was a passage in the scriptures.  Eight hundred years before I came along, a prophet named Isaiah said that a virgin would conceive and have a son and would call his name Emanuel, which means “God with us”.  And there was that other verse, strangely coincidental, about Bethlehem, and how the ruler of Israel would come from there.  I had a tough time believing, but I held on to those two scraps of scripture for all I was worth. Some of you here have a faith like Mary’s faith.  Strong, obedient, deep and devout.  You’re God’s special people.  Some of you, though, I think are more like me--you’re practical people.  You live in a world of real things, like wood.  You like things you can touch and see and feel and measure.  You like to plan things out and have a hard time believing invisible ideas.  Sometimes you wonder if you really believe at all.  I understand. All I can say is that when I faced those questions and those doubts, I eventually came down on the side of faith.  I often had to work hard at believing things I had no evidence for.  Sometimes it was real hard, sometimes it hurt.  Sometimes all I could do is bite my lip and trust when I didn’t feel like trusting.  And that is exactly what God used--my feeble trust. I, Joseph Davidson, was given the distinct honor of putting my thumb print on Jesus, the Messiah.  Humanly speaking.  I taught him to be a carpenter--people referred to him early on as “the carpenter of Nazareth.”  And he was a good carpenter.   He was especially good at making yokes for oxen.  His yokes went on so easily, and they were so lightweight.  I taught him that.  Even though he did not have my genetic makeup, I put my thumbprint on him. Of course, he WAS the savior of the world--you know that now.  And what ultimately happened was, he put HIS thumbprint on my soul.  But it wasn’t easy.  My kind of faith taught, when I thought I knew what God wanted me to do, I just did it.   I did have enough faith for that. Do you? That’s my story.  I enjoyed sharing it with you.  Now it’s time for you to celebrate Christmas in your own way.  And you ought to.  Go on worshipping Jesus as the wise men did.  Keep on trusting him like Mary did.  And when you find it hard, remember me, won’t you?  I’m the one who sometimes believed his doubts and doubted his beliefs, but faithed it through. I’m not the main character of the story.  But when you celebrate Christmas you might remember that when God wanted someone to take care of his boy, he chose Joe Davidson, a carpenter, who believed the best he could.       [Top]