We’ve heard the story before…Joseph and Mary are betrothed…she is legally his wife though they have not begun to live together and she remains in her father’s house…. She is anywhere from 13 to 16 and Joseph is probably somewhere between 17 and 21. And then the word comes…Mary is very obviously pregnant.

Under Canon Law, Mary should be stoned…but even by the first century people recognized that following the letter of the law sometimes was too cruel. A decent man, Joseph plans to simply divorce her quietly. And then he is visited…visited by truth…by wisdom…by Good News…that invites him not to make assumptions, to see things as they really are instead of how they appear to be.

And he decides to make Jesus his own child…to make a leap of faith…and to risk the rejection and ridicule of the entire community. Having had the most unexpected experience of all…in this visitation…he did the most unexpected thing…in calling another’s child his own, he sees things as they really are…instead of how they appear to be…

Recently I read a wonderful story about the unexpected. A story about a visitation…where things are not as they appear…It is told by poet Nancy Dahlberg and is included in the book entitled Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She tells the story this way:

“Our family was [on the road] on Christmas Day. That year Christmas came on Sunday and we needed to be in Los Angeles on Monday morning….

“We stopped for lunch at a diner in King City. I was enjoying a review of the happiness…of the day when my reverie was interrupted. I heard Erik, our one-year-old son, scream with glee in his high chair. "Hi there." (Two words he thought were one.) He pounded his fat baby hands - whack, whack - on the metal tray of the high chair. His face was alive with excitement, eyes wide, gums bared in a toothless grin. He wriggled and chirped and giggled, and then I saw the source of his merriment.

“A tattered rag of a coat; greasy, worn. Baggy pants, both they and the zipper at half mast over a spindly body. Toes that poked out of would-be shoes. A shirt that had ring-around-the-collar all over and a face like none other. Gums as bare as Erik's. Hair unwashed, uncombed, unbearable. Whiskers too short for a beard, but way beyond the shadow stage. And a nose so varicose that it looked like the map of New York. I was too far away to smell him, but I knew he smelled.

“His hands were waving in the air, flapping about on loose wrists. "Hi there, baby; hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster." Erik continued to laugh and call, "Hi there." Every call was answered. I turned the high chair. Erik screamed and twisted around to face his old buddy. The waitresses' eyebrows were rising. Several diners went "ahem." This old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby! Now the bum was shouting from across the room, "Do ya know peek-a-boo? Hey look, he knows peek-a-boo."

“The old guy was drunk. Nobody thought anything was cute. My husband was embarrassed. I was humiliated. Even our six-year-old wanted to know why that man was talking so loud. We ate hurriedly and in silence, all except Erik, who continued to run through his repertoire with the bum.

“My husband rose to pay the check, telling me to meet him in the parking lot. I grabbed Erik and headed for the exit. The old man sat poised and waiting, his chair directly between me and the door. "Lord, let me out of here before he speaks to me or Erik," I prayed.

“I tried to side-step, to put my back between Erik and any air the old man might be breathing. But Erik, with his eyes riveted on his best friend, leaned far over my arm, reaching out with both arms in a baby's pick-me-up gesture. In the split second of balancing my baby and turning to counter his weight, I came eye-to-eye with the old man. His eyes were imploring. "Would you let me hold your baby?"

“There was no need to answer. Erik propelled himself from my arms into the man's and immediately laid his head on the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands, full of grime and pain and hard labor, gently, so gently, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back.

“The old man stroked and rocked Erik for a moment, then opened his eyes and looked squarely in mine. He said in a firm, commanding voice, "You take care of this baby." I said, "I will."

“He pried Erik from his chest, unwillingly, longingly, as though he were in pain. I held my arms open to receive my baby, and again the gentleman addressed me. "God bless you, ma'am. You've given me my Christmas present."”

Ms. Dahlberg then goes onto say that as she rushed back to the car…the tears came…and the shame…and the gratitude…as she realized that she had finally seen the truth…of this one who would call her child his own…

Today we mark in songs and texts the story of the one who was adopted by a righteous and faithful man…But more importantly…we mark the coming of one who, in turn, adopted every mother’s child as his own…adopted us all because he saw us not as we appear to be…but as we truly are…as we truly can be…Is there any greater reason to sing?