Love in the Midst of Fear

Matthew 1:18-25, Isaiah 41:5-10

Of all of the characters in the Christmas story, Joseph is probably the most overlooked. He is mute in our scriptures. He never utters a word. So it is helpful to imagine what he might say and to contemplate how he might have felt. The uncertainty. The anxiety and shame. The fear of what others might think and fear for his own safety and that of his family.

This fear is demonstrated in his impulse to dismiss Mary quietly. It is acknowledged by the angel’s first words, “Do not be afraid.” It will be justified in the next chapter when Herod slaughters the male infants of Bethlehem.

Joseph’s fear is easy to overlook in his portrayal as the strong, silent type and in the narrative that highlights his lineage, his dreams, and his obedience. But his actions are risky. To stay by Mary’s side exposes him to public disgrace and religious judgment. Women suspected of adultery were to be stoned according to the law. Mary’s pregnancy was more than scandalous. It was dangerous.
Joseph could have stepped back. Instead, he steps up and steps in. Not to fix everything or make everything all right. Not to erase the risk, but to share it. He is not Mary’s savior. He is her companion.

In a world defined by empire, patriarchy, and honor, Joseph’s decision is striking. It is a quiet act of unexpected resistance to the social, legal, and religious expectations of his time. And that kind of love, the love that stays, is the love we celebrate on this fourth Sunday of Advent.

Jesus tells a story about it. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, a man is beaten and left for dead on a dangerous road. Others see him and keep their distance. But the Samaritan stops. He risks being attacked himself. He risks being blamed. He risks his own money and time. He does not ask whether the man deserves help or whether the road is safe. He steps into the danger because compassion requires proximity. Jesus tells us that this is what love looks like.

Centuries later, during World War II, Corrie ten Boom and her family demonstrated this love by hiding Jewish neighbors in their home in a hidden room behind a false wall. They helped people who were living in daily fear of arrest and deportation. The risk was real. Eventually, the family was betrayed. Corrie survived a concentration camp. Her sister did not. Later, Corrie wrote, “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.” Words that echo Joseph’s trust.

Closer to home, in March of 1965, pastors from across the country traveled to Selma, Alabama, to stand with Black citizens demanding the right to vote. Among them were many Presbyterian pastors who left their pulpits and walked into a city where violence was expected. They were beaten, jailed, and threatened. Some lost their jobs when they returned home. Their congregations told them, “This is not what we pay you for.” But those pastors believed something deeper. Loving their neighbor meant standing where fear was real and injustice was visible. They did not go because it was safe. They went because faith told them neutrality was not an option.

This past fall in Chicago, a group of local faith leaders, including many Presbyterians, gathered outside a federal immigration processing facility where families were being detained. They did not meet for a press photo or a comfortable prayer service. They stood in the street, in full view of vans and agents, because people were living in fear and being torn from those they love. Week after week they showed up. Some were arrested. One pastor was struck by pepper balls fired by federal agents, not for violence, but for standing in the way with prayer and presence. When they were denied access to offer spiritual care or Communion, they did not walk away. They insisted that sharing God’s love must be present when fear is strongest.

Just last Tuesday morning, federal police arrested forty-two faith leaders under a banner that read, “People of faith choose love over cruelty,” as they protested the arrest of immigrants and asylum seekers after court hearings in San Francisco.

Like Joseph, these witnesses remind us that sharing Christ’s love does not mean staying where it is safe. It means standing where people are afraid, bearing witness with our bodies and our prayers, and trusting that God’s love is stronger than fear.

The truth is, we do not have to look far to find people living in fear. They may be in our own families, in our community, or even in this room. People afraid of rejection. Afraid they are not good enough. Afraid for their physical or mental health. Afraid they cannot care for their children. Afraid of being separated from those they love. Afraid of how they will be treated because of who they are, how they present, or who they love.

Joseph’s story asks us a simple but costly question. Will you step back, or will you step up and step in. Not to save. Not to fix. But to stand beside. To support. To encourage. To share the risk of love.

This is how the light of God’s love enters the darkness. Not through spectacle, but through quiet courage. Through love that refuses to leave.

So let me ask this in a very practical way. Who is Mary in your life right now. Who is living with fear and wondering if they are alone. It might be a family member afraid to tell the truth about health issues they are facing. A teenager or young adult afraid they will not be accepted for who they are. A parent quietly overwhelmed and unsure how they will make it work. A neighbor fearful of losing housing, work, or community. Someone sitting in these pews who looks fine on the outside, but is carrying fear alone.

Joseph does not show us how to fix their situation. He shows us how to stay. How to step up and step in. That might look like making the phone call you have been avoiding. Sitting longer with someone who is grieving instead of offering quick reassurance. Walking beside someone into a hard conversation or appointment. Speaking up when silence would be easier. Letting your love be visible even when it costs you comfort, reputation, or certainty.

Some of those choices may feel risky. You might be misunderstood. You might say the wrong thing. You might be told to stay out of it. But Joseph reminds us that love is not measured by how safe it feels, but by whether it shows up when fear is real.

So the invitation today is not to be a hero. It is to be a companion. To step in, not to erase fear, but to share it. Because this is how God’s love enters the darkness, when ordinary people dare to love like Joseph did.