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Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Advent  — December 21, 2025

Deacon Jeffrey Preiss, St. Helen’s Anglican Church, West Point Grey, Vancouver

Matthew 1:18–25

A few years ago, someone told me about a night they remember with surprising clarity.

It was late … one of those ordinary nights when you assume life will keep being……. ordinary. 

Then the phone rang. A family member had been taken to the hospital. Nothing was certain yet; there were no answers, only that sudden shift: before the call, life was one thing… and after the call, it wasn’t.

They said the most sacred part of that night wasn’t any particular sentence someone offered … because no sentence could tidy it up. The sacred part was this: when they opened their front door, someone was already there. A friend. Coat on. No speech prepared. No solution in hand. Just presence. They came inside, put the kettle on, sat at the table, and stayed.

That, to me, is one of the most human ways love shows up when the ground shifts under us: not with perfect words, but with faithful presence.

And that’s not far from where today’s Gospel begins.

Matthew tells us that Mary is found to be pregnant, and Joseph’s world tilts (Matthew 1:18, NRSVue). Whatever Joseph thought his life would be, it suddenly isn’t. He has to take in information he didn’t ask for, make sense of what he can’t control, and decide what kind of person he will be in the middle of it.

Matthew calls Joseph “a righteous man,” and what is striking is how that righteousness shows itself: he is “unwilling to expose [Mary] to public disgrace,” and he plans to dismiss her quietly (Matthew 1:19, NRSVue). In other words, even before he understands what God is doing, Joseph chooses gentleness. He chooses care. He chooses not to make a spectacle out of someone else’s vulnerability.

Then God meets him in the place where so many of us do our hardest thinking: in the night. An angel comes to Joseph in a dream and says, “Do not be afraid” (Matthew 1:20, NRSVue).

That sentence is so important, especially because it can be misunderstood. “Do not be afraid” is not God telling Joseph to stop feeling anything. It is not a demand for calm. It’s not denial. It’s more like God saying: You are allowed to be shaken. But don’t let fear become your guide. Don’t let fear make your choices for you.

And when Joseph wakes, he does what the angel asks. He takes Mary as his wife (Matthew 1:24, NRSVue). He does not solve everything. He does not suddenly get a simple life. He does not get certainty. But he does take the next faithful step.

[pause]

This past week at St. Helen’s, we heard news none of us expected: that the Rev. Mark has resigned and left this parish.

Even with a week to absorb it, shock doesn’t evaporate on schedule. It can come in waves. Some of us are grieving. Some of us are angry. Some of us are worried. Some of us feel numb. Some of us are holding a complicated mix of love, loss, and questions. And some who are with us today and in the weeks to come may be hearing this for the first time, or may not feel its impact in the same way.

So I want to say something simple, and I want to say it slowly: whatever you are feeling, you do not have to hide it in order to belong here. You do not have to rush your own heart. You do not have to force yourself into a “fine” you do not yet feel.

And into this moment, the Gospel gives us a word—not a detailed explanation, not a neat narrative, but a word: “Do not be afraid.”

  • Not because nothing has happened.
  • Not because change doesn’t hurt.
  • Not because uncertainty is easy.

But because fear is not meant to lead this community.

Fear can make us reach for quick answers. Fear can make us interpret one another harshly. Fear can make us tighten up, pull back, get suspicious, get isolated. Fear can make a parish feel like a room full of separate people … each trying to manage their own reaction alone.

But that is not what we are.

We are the Body of Christ. We belong to one another. And in a moment like this, belonging is not a feeling: it’s a practice.

So what does it look like to take the Gospel seriously right now?

It can look like Joseph’s kind of righteousness: choosing gentleness when we are unsettled. Choosing dignity. Choosing care with our words. Refusing to turn pain into spectacle. Being slow to judge. Being quick to listen. Making room for one another’s different reactions, without ranking them.

And it can look like one next faithful step.

Because that’s what Joseph does. In the middle of disruption, he doesn’t demand a five-year plan. He doesn’t require certainty before he can act. He takes the next step that love asks of him.

That is enough for us, too.

For some of us, the next faithful step may simply be to keep coming to worship, even if it feels tender.

For some of us, it may be to check in on someone who seems quiet or absent.

For some of us, it may be to ask for support, rather than trying to carry everything alone.

For some of us, it may be to pray … not as a way to bypass reality, but as a way to stay rooted in God when reality is heavy.

And for all of us, the next faithful step can be this: to let love, not fear, set the tone of our life together.

Because Advent does not tell us that everything will remain stable. 

Advent tells us that God enters real life. Complicated life. Interrupted life. Tender life. 

And the sign of God’s presence is not always fireworks. 

Sometimes it is simply the strength to keep showing up—gently—for one another.

So today, as we stand close to Christmas, the Gospel does not ask us to pretend. It asks us to trust that when things are shaken, God still speaks.

“Do not be afraid.”

  • Not because everything is clear—
    but because we are not alone.

  • Not because nothing hurts—
    but because love is still possible.

  • Not because the future is predictable—
    but because the next faithful step is enough.

Amen.