The Story Begins NOW

Look, the virgin shall become pregnant and give birth to a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means, “God is with us.” (Matthew 1:23)

We know this verse. We know this story. Across this country—even in the most secular of spaces—everyone knows it. At Christmas, amidst all the snowmen and the sleds that hardly fit our climate, the images of stables and mangers continue to come to the surface, pointing to the birth of Jesus.

We know this story because it is our story—the origin story of the community of Jesus, the Christ—and like all origin stories, it stands alongside other narratives that explain how nations, tribes, and religions began.

Think of Romulus and Remus, the legendary founders of Rome. Born of Mars, the god of war, and Rhea Silvia, a Vestal Virgin, they were abandoned at birth, miraculously saved by a she-wolf, and raised by shepherds. Their destiny was heroic: they overthrew their uncle Amulius, founded Rome, and Romulus became king (after killing his brother). It is a story that embodies Roman values: courage, survival, conquest, and the ruthless pursuit of power.

Or consider the stories told by our Indigenous Australian elders. The Sun Mother, a cosmic maternal figure, awakens sleeping spirits, brings forth plants and animals, and gives birth to ancestors who shape the land. The Rainbow Serpent, known by many names across this continent, carves rivers and valleys, brings fertility and abundance, and enforces the laws of life. These are grand, cosmic narratives—divine beings shaping destiny, establishing order, and giving life.

Placed alongside these, Matthew’s story of Jesus’ birth is strikingly different. It is not about conquest or cosmic spectacle at all. It seems to be primarily about humility.

Jesus is born into obscurity. His parents are ordinary. His early life is marked not by triumph but by vulnerability. Herod seeks to kill him, and his family flees as refugees into Egypt. He grows up in Nazareth, a town of no reputation. His survival depends not on heroic strength but on the faithfulness of his parents and the providence of God.

The contrast could not be sharper. The story of Rome’s foundation is one of violence and conquest; The story of Jesus begins with peace and humility. The Sun Mother radiates cosmic authority; Mary embodies quiet obedience. Where other myths celebrate divine prestige, our Gospel narrative celebrates simple faith. And yet, it is precisely through this humility that God’s kingdom is revealed.

Matthew’s genealogy reminds us that God has always worked through ordinary, even flawed, people—Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba. The birth of Jesus continues this pattern. God does not choose the mighty or the noble, but the humble and the faithful.

This is what makes our story unique. By presenting Jesus’ birth in such ordinary terms, the Scriptures proclaim that God’s kingdom is not built on conquest or cosmic spectacle, but on humility, obedience, and faith. The Messiah comes not as a warrior or emperor, but as a child—vulnerable, dependent, and yet Emmanuel: God with us.

We live in a world that celebrates power, prestige, and success. We are told that greatness lies in conquest, achievement, and status. But our story reminds us that true greatness lies in humility, that God’s kingdom begins not with the mighty but with the meek and the ordinary.

Mary and Joseph teach us again that obedience and faithfulness are more important than prestige, just as Jesus’ early life reminds us that vulnerability is not weakness but the very stage for God’s power. In contrast to Romulus and Remus, violence and conquest are not the way of God’s kingdom. In contrast to the Sun Mother, cosmic authority is not the only way to reveal divine power. Sometimes God’s power is revealed in the quiet faith of ordinary people.

It’s not great being ordinary, yet ordinariness is no barrier to God’s work. Mary and Joseph were very ordinary people, as are we, but our vulnerability is not something to be ashamed of but something through which God can work. For greatness in God’s kingdom is not measured by conquest or public prestige, but by love, humility, and faith.

As we reflect on our origin story again this Advent, let us embrace the humility of Mary and Joseph, our spiritual mother and father in faith. Let us see in their ordinariness the extraordinary work of God, and let us remember that God’s kingdom is revealed not in the mighty but in the meek. Let us believe, and let us celebrate that God can work through our ordinary lives to accomplish extraordinary things.

Amen.

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