The Rescue, the Virgin Birth, and the Invasion of Light
A patrol marched past outside, hobnails striking loudly on the stones. Platon froze, his hand drifting toward his blade. The sounds faded, and the house settled.
Matthew had awoken in the late afternoon. Platon had let him sleep, considering the events of the early morning hours. He was once again preparing a meal for them. He pondered the morning’s discussion about the state of the world and the fall of man.
“Tell me something,” he said, his voice tight. “If the world broke that badly… why didn’t God simply start over?”
Matthew looked at him with sorrowful eyes.
“God could have scorched the world, that is true.” Matthew closed his eyes. “He could have left nothing but ash and dust where gardens once bloomed. Instead, God created a plan to save us. I imagine it this way.
“The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit met in a chamber out of time. They stood in a circle of brilliant light—the Father with his eyes like ancient starlight, the Son, his hands already marked for nails, and the Spirit, hovering like morning mist.”
Platon edged closer, keeping one eye on his bubbling pot.
“Three distinct persons, one perfect will. Their unity unbroken, I imagine the Son stepped forward, his glory wrapped around him like living flame and quietly stated, ‘I will go.’”
“Why would he do that?” Platon’s voice cracked slightly.
Matthew’s eyes snapped open, and he wasn’t done.
“He exchanged heaven’s crystal halls for the stench of animal dung. He traded his sapphire throne and his eternal nature for the confines of infancy. He wrapped Himself in mortality. Fragile veins beneath translucent skin, wet lungs gasping for breath…”
His voice softened to a whisper.
“A tiny heartbeat, fluttering like a captured bird.”
He stared at Platon.
“He did all of that so that the Immortal could bleed and die for the mortal.”
Platon stared back.
“I understand what, Matthew. Why?”
Matthew stopped writing.
“We are a nation…” he stopped.
He began again.
“We were a nation of law. The law that covers the forgiveness of sin requires sacrifice. God has been sketching this outline in crimson. Every lamb that is slain on every altar was just a foretelling of the ultimate sacrifice that was to come. The Creator of the world borrowed the flesh of a teenage girl with calloused hands to complete this work.”
Platon rubbed spices between his fingers and watched them fall into his pot.
“Matthew… Why a virgin? Why start with scandal? Look at what happened last night. This world isn’t kind to vulnerable women.”
Matthew sighed. “Nazareth wasn’t gentle either. Mary told me her story. I’ll never forget her face as she told it.”
Satisfied, Platon gave his stew another stir. “I don’t mind telling you, I’m skeptical.”
Matthew nodded. “I can only tell you what she told me, and what I believe.”
“You believe her?”
“Every word,” Matthew said, matter-of-factly. “An angel visited her.
“The angel’s announcement shattered logic. It would be like throwing this clay jar into the wall. She was very emotional as she remembered how she wrestled with what to tell her betrothed, Joseph.”
Platon said nothing for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. “I can imagine.”
“She was going through a lot.” Matthew chose to ignore him. “She could already hear the whispers that would follow her around Nazareth. She wasn’t even showing yet, but she could already feel the staring eyes. And she was afraid for her life!”
Platon looked up, intrigued. “Why was she scared for her life?”
“You really weren’t raised in Israel, were you?” Matthew questioned.
Platon shook his head. “We barely practiced Judaism in Athens.”
“We’ll get to that. Just remember, Gabriel stood in front of her, in her little bedroom in Nazareth, and told her that she was going to have a child, by the Spirit of the Lord.”
“She could have said no?” Platon took the stew off the fire and placed it on the hearth to cool.
“As we discussed yesterday, we all have free will,” Matthew nodded. “But she was devout, and she loved serving God.”
“So, she served,” Platon stated this as a fact. Matthew nodded.
Matthew stood and bade Platon sit. “You are always serving me a meal; let me serve you.”
Platon looked uncomfortable, “Are you sure?”
Matthew nodded.
Platon asked his next question. “What of Joseph. How did he take this?”
“They had a conversation about it,” Matthew said. “A tough conversation. This is how Mary told me it went:
“She said she stood outside of Joseph’s house – “
“Wait, they weren’t living together?” Platon asked.
Matthew dipped a wooden ladle into the stew and poured it into a bowl for Platon.
“No,” Matthew said. “In Judea, when you’re betrothed, it’s the same as marriage, except that you don’t live together until after the wedding. The betrothal period is for the bridegroom to prepare the new couple’s home. It must be prepared before the wedding. This shows the woman’s family that you are prepared to take on the responsibility.”
Platon nodded.
Matthew continued with the story and the ladling.
“She said the village was already hissing with rumors about her. She’s barely more than a girl you see. She hadn’t slept in weeks. Her voice was raw from rehearsing what she was going to say to him.”
Matthew sat down opposite Platon.
“He answered the door, and she stepped in, wringing her hands in worry. Joseph, of course, saw this and asked her what was wrong.
“’ Joseph,’ she whispers, her voice cracking. He backed up to take a good look at her.
“’ I need to tell you something,’
“She said she could see his body stiffen at those words.
“’ An angel came to me. I am carrying a child.’ His face drained of color at these words because they had not been together.
“’ And, Joseph… I swear before God that I’ve not been with a man since our betrothal.’
“She said that he stared at her, and the hurt in his eyes was palpable. His eyes hunted hers for deceit, for madness, for anything but this impossible truth, that heaven had invaded her womb.”
Matthew blew on his stew. Platon looked at him incredulously.
“I can imagine what he was thinking.”
“Oh, he didn’t rage. He didn’t curse at her. He just stepped away and told her what she said; no bride wants to hear it from her husband. ‘I don’t believe you.’”
“I can imagine,” Platon said, around a mouthful of stew. “What did he decide?”
Matthew took a chunk of bread and dipped it into his stew.
“He decided to divorce her quietly. He really saved her life.”
“How?” Platon asked, taking his bread and sopping up the last of his portion of stew.
Matthew shook his head.
“If it had become public knowledge, the priests would have dragged her out to he edge of the village and stoned her. And that – even before divine intervention – shows the bleeding heart of the man.”
Platon looked interested. “How so?”
“Righteous, upright, merciful. Joseph was like an ancient oak, whose roots drew on deep springs of compassion. He was a man who could shape stubborn wood one minute and cradle his son’s head – the Son of God – the next. His faithfulness to Torah’s demands somehow never calcified his heart.”
“Well, he obviously didn’t divorce her,” Platon said, picking up his cup of water.
“No. Mary said that the Angel Gabriel visited him, too. Only after his heart was revealed, did Gabriel remind him of who he was – Joseph, Son of David.”
“Also, a Son of David?” Platon queried.
“You read the genealogy,” Matthew stated.
Platon’s jaw flexed. “Obedience like that is rare.”
Matthew reached out and squeezed the younger man’s forearm. “Yes. Rare, but not impossible.
“Faith over fear,” Platon said, his brow creased with thought. “Why does this matter to us? Here and now?”
Matthew smiled. “Mary’s story is the mercy of God wrapped up in newborn skin. It’s God saying to the world, ‘I’ll bleed into splintered wood before I let you drown in your own darkness.’”
“That dramatic, eh?” Platon didn’t look convinced.
“It’s proof that holiness doesn’t flinch at the mess we’ve made. He didn’t decide to hover over the world and watch it burn. He crawled into it as the most vulnerable thing there is: a newborn”
“Seems to me the world needed a warrior, not a newborn.”
“He did it for a reason,” Matthew said. “He did it to establish a personal relationship. He did it so that he could experience hunger, fatigue, temptation, and grief. He had to experience all of these things to relate to us.”
“He did it so that we could never again say, ‘You don’t understand’”
“So, what now?” Platon asked.
“The invasion continues,” Matthew said. “You’re a soldier, so let me put to you this way.”
Platon perked up.
“The birth of Jesus was the foothold in the invasion: the first standard or banner that was planted into enemy terrain. Every act of forgiveness is another legionnaire arriving on the battlefield. Every prayer is another established logistical line. Every time you choose love over bitterness, you gain an inch of territory.”
Platon chuckled. “That actually made sense, Matthew.”
Matthew smiled back, then sobered. “Remember, when you look at this ruined world, heaven has already breached the walls. Jesus is on the battlefield with you. His hands are busy clearing the debris of our lives out of our way. He’s calling you.”
Platon arched an eyebrow.
“Yes, you, Platon. He’s calling everyone to trust him. To believe that his light doesn’t just win, it floods every shadow until darkness drowns in the dawn.”
Matthew stood up slowly. Outside the tiny room, Antioch had grown dark.
“I am going to bed, Platon,” Matthew said, “Sleep well tonight.”
He shuffled to the corner and lay down. Within minutes, his soft snoring filled the room.
Platon remained by the fire, staring into the embers.
For the first time in years, the word hope didn’t feel like a stranger.