Joseph
Worship
WORSHIP RESOURCES FOR SPECIAL SUNDAYS
Measure twice; cut once.
That's been my life's motto, since my teens, I guess. I'm a carpenter like my father. He trained me, taught me, encouraged me. Sometimes he scolded me when I wasn't careful enough.
Carpentry is a precise trade. Just a tiny error while measuring can throw the whole project off. If you cut a piece of lumber too long, that's not so bad. You can always slice off a bit more. But if it's too short, then you have to set it aside, hoping it will be useful another time. That can get expensive.
Israel is not blessed with trees, you see. Much of our wood is imported from Lebanon. It's a necessity, but it's costly. And if I make a mistake, I have to absorb the cost. So I measure twice, cut once. I've become a careful man.
But I like my work. I love the feel and the smell of the wood. I like the process of creating something useful, something that will last. When I make a table for someone, I think about how it may be handed down from generation to generation. Just like my father handed down the trade of carpentry to me. My days are full of the smell of sawdust and the sounds of hammers and saws. When sunset comes, I look at my day's work - a table, a bench, a cart for a donkey to pull. It's plain, sturdy, and useful. It feels good.
I like my life. But, occasionally, I go to Jerusalem, to the Temple. I look at the beautiful wood there. The door frames are ornately carved. So are the beams in the ceiling. And they're inlaid with gold. Everything I do is useful and honest. But the things I make can't really be called beautiful. One table looks pretty much like the other.
When I go to Jerusalem and look at the Temple, I wonder what it would be like to build something just for the glory of God ... to build something that didn't have a practical use. I wonder what that feels like.
There's not much chance of doing that in Nazareth. There's no Temple there and the people aren't rich. They can afford things that are well made, sturdy, and practical. Things that give good value. But there's not much call for things that are carved or decorative, things that exist simply to cheer the spirit.
I guess I'm as careful with my life as I am with my lumber. At least I have been until recently. Lately things have been ... well ... strange.
A little over a year ago I entered into a betrothal. My wife to be was a girl named Miriam. I didn't know her well. I'd seen her sitting with the women at the back of the synagogue. I have to say, she was good to look at. She came from a good family, too. So when my father said it was time to start my own family and suggested Miriam as a wife, I agreed quickly. My father had taught me a good and useful trade. I thought I could trust his judgment in family matters, too.
It was time to think about having my own family. Father was active in our carpentry business, but I could see him slowing down. I could see that in not too many years, I would need an apprentice, just as I had been an apprentice to him.
So the betrothal took place. It was a serious business and there was no backing out. No changing your mind. Although Miriam and I would not live together for a while, neither of us could break off the betrothal. Only death or divorce could end it. So I listened very carefully as all the documents were read to me. There were dowries and agreements from both families and I wanted to be sure that everything was in good order. Joining two people was an even more intricate process than joining two pieces of wood! Measure twice; cut once.
Everything seemed to be in order and I liked Miriam. A lot. She was shy with me at first. But even then I could see an underlying twinkle and a certain strength. I thought we'd be a good match. I began to spend more time with her, usually with her family around. When the time came to live together, I didn't want either of us to feel like we were living with a stranger. It was the right thing to do.
As time passed, it became more than the right thing to do. I really enjoyed being with her. She had spirit. I could see that she was a good and responsible daughter, but she also had a carefree quality that attracted me. I laughed more when I was with her. I relaxed when she was around. Father was always good at selecting the right wood. I guess he was just as good at selecting the right wife.
So when Miriam put her head into my carpentry shop one day, eyes twinkling, I was glad. My heart warmed up right away.
"Joseph, I have to talk to you. I've got some wonderful news."
I wondered what it could be. Nothing very exciting ever happened in Nazareth. The plans for our marriage ceremony were in place. What could have made her eyes dance like this?
"Joseph, you'll never guess! The most wonderful thing. I'm going to have a child!"
"Certainly we will some day, Miriam," I said. "That goes along with marriage."
"No, Joseph. Not some day. Right now!"
It didn't make any sense. I'd never done more than hold her hand.
"Miriam, are you sure you know what you're talking about? We aren't living together yet. You can't be having a baby."
"I know, I know. But this is God's child, Joseph. I had a vision, or something. I was told I was going to have a baby by the power of the Spirit. He'll be the Savior of our people. Isn't that wonderful?"
No, it was not. It was not wonderful.
I wasn't sure what it was, but wonderful it wasn't.
I continued to talk with her, and she continued to make no sense at all. She swore she hadn't been with another man. And she wouldn't give up this vision story. It was obvious that she believed what she was saying.
It seemed to me that I was either betrothed to a boldfaced liar, who was very good at it, or she was simply crazy. Neither was acceptable as a wife.
Finally, angry and confused, with a heart that felt like a stone, I sent her out of my shop. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what God would want me to do. I listened carefully when the Torah was read and the rabbis taught from it. Because I thought that my life, and making it a life pleasing to God, was even more important than my craft of fitting wood together, I'd always wanted my life to be as honest and sturdy and true as the things I made. So I paid attention to the rabbis. The Law was God's way of measuring lives. And I knew how important measuring was. Measure twice; cut once.
According to the Law of Moses, Miriam had committed adultery. Adultery could be punished by stoning to death. In truth, that didn't happen often. The rabbis leaned toward compassion. I was glad of that, because as miserable as I was, I didn't want Miriam dead.
But that only left divorce. Maybe with the help of her family we could send her to relatives in another town where her shame wouldn't seem so great.
I ached. My whole body seemed to hurt, not just my heart. My body seemed to be weeping even though my eyes were dry.
Miriam had delighted me. How could my judgment, and my father's, have been so poor? How could we have completely failed to take the measure of Miriam's character?
Then it occurred to me - there was a third option. I could go ahead and marry her. I could raise the child as my own. But even if we were married soon, the old ladies would count on their fingers. And I'd be living with a woman who was either a liar or crazy. I couldn't be married to a woman I didn't trust. And I'd always wonder who the child's father was.
No, I would have to divorce her. That was the only proper thing to do. I'd speak to her parents tomorrow. They'd be heartbroken. Together we'd find a way to end this as gracefully as possible, for everyone's sake.
It took a long time for sleep to come that night. But it finally did and I began to dream. At first the dreams were of Miriam and times we had enjoyed together. But then I began to dream of that wonderful wood in the Jerusalem Temple. That wood that was carved, and detailed, and rich. In my dream, the wood seemed even more real than when I had seen it for myself. It was richer and deeper. It almost seemed alive.
In spite of the grief that I'd taken to bed with me, as I saw that carved wood of the Temple in my dream, my heart lifted. I began to feel a strange kind of joy, unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time.
And then I saw a face. It was strong and beautiful. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. I was frightened, but I found I couldn't look away from it. Then the voice spoke, and it sounded as though it came from the forests of Lebanon.
"Joseph, son of Jacob. Go ahead, take Miriam as your wife. Raise this baby as your own. He is God's child. And you must name him Yeshua, for he will be the Savior of his people."
That strange joy welled up in me. I was laughing and crying. It was true. Miriam was not crazy! She was not a liar!
The face faded away, and again I saw the carvings. I slept on. And when I woke with the sun, my heart was still singing.
But the waking world made me wonder ... was the dream real? It had been a real dream! But was it true? Was God creating something new? Something as beautiful, intricate, and lovingly designed as those carvings in the Temple?
I'd never put much stock in dreams, although I knew others did. Dreams just didn't fit my "measure twice, cut once" way of life. But then it hit me - something so obvious, yet it had never really dawned on me before.
My father had named me Joseph, after our ancestor who was sold into slavery in Egypt. There, Joseph had lived by his dreams. Every time his back had been against the wall, a dream had saved him. I'd been named for a man to whom God had spoken in his dreams. My father had passed on to me the honest, plain craft of carpentry. Maybe he was trying to pass on something else as well.
The choice was getting clearer. I could measure twice and cut once and have a plain, sturdy, honest life.
Or I could take a chance. I could do it differently. And maybe I would have a life as beautiful and breathtaking as the carvings in Jerusalem.
I chose.
I went to see Miriam. This time I recognized the sparkle in her eyes. For I had it, too. It was the sparkle of those to whom God has given the vision of something new.
So we were married. Miriam has grown heavy. Some days the sparkle is dimmed. Tomorrow we set out for Bethlehem to be counted in the Roman census. I hope we manage to make it there and back before the baby comes.
Am I sure about what I've done? Am I certain of the dream?
No. I'm not certain or sure. Maybe as the child grows and I see what he becomes, maybe I'll be certain then. But maybe not.
I've decided that when it comes to the voice of God, measure twice and cut once doesn't work. Maybe the best we can do is to do the things that make us feel like those carvings in the Temple made me feel.
I built a cradle for the baby. I measured twice and cut once for each piece. It went together beautifully. It's sturdy and honest. It will take care of this baby and all the rest that Miriam and I will have together. It's as good a cradle as I ever made.
But I did something else this time. When I'd measured and cut and joined, I took out my knife and began to carve. This cradle will be more than sturdy and practical and honest. It will be beautiful. No reason, really. Just in praise of God and this baby.
Pamela J. Abbey
That's been my life's motto, since my teens, I guess. I'm a carpenter like my father. He trained me, taught me, encouraged me. Sometimes he scolded me when I wasn't careful enough.
Carpentry is a precise trade. Just a tiny error while measuring can throw the whole project off. If you cut a piece of lumber too long, that's not so bad. You can always slice off a bit more. But if it's too short, then you have to set it aside, hoping it will be useful another time. That can get expensive.
Israel is not blessed with trees, you see. Much of our wood is imported from Lebanon. It's a necessity, but it's costly. And if I make a mistake, I have to absorb the cost. So I measure twice, cut once. I've become a careful man.
But I like my work. I love the feel and the smell of the wood. I like the process of creating something useful, something that will last. When I make a table for someone, I think about how it may be handed down from generation to generation. Just like my father handed down the trade of carpentry to me. My days are full of the smell of sawdust and the sounds of hammers and saws. When sunset comes, I look at my day's work - a table, a bench, a cart for a donkey to pull. It's plain, sturdy, and useful. It feels good.
I like my life. But, occasionally, I go to Jerusalem, to the Temple. I look at the beautiful wood there. The door frames are ornately carved. So are the beams in the ceiling. And they're inlaid with gold. Everything I do is useful and honest. But the things I make can't really be called beautiful. One table looks pretty much like the other.
When I go to Jerusalem and look at the Temple, I wonder what it would be like to build something just for the glory of God ... to build something that didn't have a practical use. I wonder what that feels like.
There's not much chance of doing that in Nazareth. There's no Temple there and the people aren't rich. They can afford things that are well made, sturdy, and practical. Things that give good value. But there's not much call for things that are carved or decorative, things that exist simply to cheer the spirit.
I guess I'm as careful with my life as I am with my lumber. At least I have been until recently. Lately things have been ... well ... strange.
A little over a year ago I entered into a betrothal. My wife to be was a girl named Miriam. I didn't know her well. I'd seen her sitting with the women at the back of the synagogue. I have to say, she was good to look at. She came from a good family, too. So when my father said it was time to start my own family and suggested Miriam as a wife, I agreed quickly. My father had taught me a good and useful trade. I thought I could trust his judgment in family matters, too.
It was time to think about having my own family. Father was active in our carpentry business, but I could see him slowing down. I could see that in not too many years, I would need an apprentice, just as I had been an apprentice to him.
So the betrothal took place. It was a serious business and there was no backing out. No changing your mind. Although Miriam and I would not live together for a while, neither of us could break off the betrothal. Only death or divorce could end it. So I listened very carefully as all the documents were read to me. There were dowries and agreements from both families and I wanted to be sure that everything was in good order. Joining two people was an even more intricate process than joining two pieces of wood! Measure twice; cut once.
Everything seemed to be in order and I liked Miriam. A lot. She was shy with me at first. But even then I could see an underlying twinkle and a certain strength. I thought we'd be a good match. I began to spend more time with her, usually with her family around. When the time came to live together, I didn't want either of us to feel like we were living with a stranger. It was the right thing to do.
As time passed, it became more than the right thing to do. I really enjoyed being with her. She had spirit. I could see that she was a good and responsible daughter, but she also had a carefree quality that attracted me. I laughed more when I was with her. I relaxed when she was around. Father was always good at selecting the right wood. I guess he was just as good at selecting the right wife.
So when Miriam put her head into my carpentry shop one day, eyes twinkling, I was glad. My heart warmed up right away.
"Joseph, I have to talk to you. I've got some wonderful news."
I wondered what it could be. Nothing very exciting ever happened in Nazareth. The plans for our marriage ceremony were in place. What could have made her eyes dance like this?
"Joseph, you'll never guess! The most wonderful thing. I'm going to have a child!"
"Certainly we will some day, Miriam," I said. "That goes along with marriage."
"No, Joseph. Not some day. Right now!"
It didn't make any sense. I'd never done more than hold her hand.
"Miriam, are you sure you know what you're talking about? We aren't living together yet. You can't be having a baby."
"I know, I know. But this is God's child, Joseph. I had a vision, or something. I was told I was going to have a baby by the power of the Spirit. He'll be the Savior of our people. Isn't that wonderful?"
No, it was not. It was not wonderful.
I wasn't sure what it was, but wonderful it wasn't.
I continued to talk with her, and she continued to make no sense at all. She swore she hadn't been with another man. And she wouldn't give up this vision story. It was obvious that she believed what she was saying.
It seemed to me that I was either betrothed to a boldfaced liar, who was very good at it, or she was simply crazy. Neither was acceptable as a wife.
Finally, angry and confused, with a heart that felt like a stone, I sent her out of my shop. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what God would want me to do. I listened carefully when the Torah was read and the rabbis taught from it. Because I thought that my life, and making it a life pleasing to God, was even more important than my craft of fitting wood together, I'd always wanted my life to be as honest and sturdy and true as the things I made. So I paid attention to the rabbis. The Law was God's way of measuring lives. And I knew how important measuring was. Measure twice; cut once.
According to the Law of Moses, Miriam had committed adultery. Adultery could be punished by stoning to death. In truth, that didn't happen often. The rabbis leaned toward compassion. I was glad of that, because as miserable as I was, I didn't want Miriam dead.
But that only left divorce. Maybe with the help of her family we could send her to relatives in another town where her shame wouldn't seem so great.
I ached. My whole body seemed to hurt, not just my heart. My body seemed to be weeping even though my eyes were dry.
Miriam had delighted me. How could my judgment, and my father's, have been so poor? How could we have completely failed to take the measure of Miriam's character?
Then it occurred to me - there was a third option. I could go ahead and marry her. I could raise the child as my own. But even if we were married soon, the old ladies would count on their fingers. And I'd be living with a woman who was either a liar or crazy. I couldn't be married to a woman I didn't trust. And I'd always wonder who the child's father was.
No, I would have to divorce her. That was the only proper thing to do. I'd speak to her parents tomorrow. They'd be heartbroken. Together we'd find a way to end this as gracefully as possible, for everyone's sake.
It took a long time for sleep to come that night. But it finally did and I began to dream. At first the dreams were of Miriam and times we had enjoyed together. But then I began to dream of that wonderful wood in the Jerusalem Temple. That wood that was carved, and detailed, and rich. In my dream, the wood seemed even more real than when I had seen it for myself. It was richer and deeper. It almost seemed alive.
In spite of the grief that I'd taken to bed with me, as I saw that carved wood of the Temple in my dream, my heart lifted. I began to feel a strange kind of joy, unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time.
And then I saw a face. It was strong and beautiful. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. I was frightened, but I found I couldn't look away from it. Then the voice spoke, and it sounded as though it came from the forests of Lebanon.
"Joseph, son of Jacob. Go ahead, take Miriam as your wife. Raise this baby as your own. He is God's child. And you must name him Yeshua, for he will be the Savior of his people."
That strange joy welled up in me. I was laughing and crying. It was true. Miriam was not crazy! She was not a liar!
The face faded away, and again I saw the carvings. I slept on. And when I woke with the sun, my heart was still singing.
But the waking world made me wonder ... was the dream real? It had been a real dream! But was it true? Was God creating something new? Something as beautiful, intricate, and lovingly designed as those carvings in the Temple?
I'd never put much stock in dreams, although I knew others did. Dreams just didn't fit my "measure twice, cut once" way of life. But then it hit me - something so obvious, yet it had never really dawned on me before.
My father had named me Joseph, after our ancestor who was sold into slavery in Egypt. There, Joseph had lived by his dreams. Every time his back had been against the wall, a dream had saved him. I'd been named for a man to whom God had spoken in his dreams. My father had passed on to me the honest, plain craft of carpentry. Maybe he was trying to pass on something else as well.
The choice was getting clearer. I could measure twice and cut once and have a plain, sturdy, honest life.
Or I could take a chance. I could do it differently. And maybe I would have a life as beautiful and breathtaking as the carvings in Jerusalem.
I chose.
I went to see Miriam. This time I recognized the sparkle in her eyes. For I had it, too. It was the sparkle of those to whom God has given the vision of something new.
So we were married. Miriam has grown heavy. Some days the sparkle is dimmed. Tomorrow we set out for Bethlehem to be counted in the Roman census. I hope we manage to make it there and back before the baby comes.
Am I sure about what I've done? Am I certain of the dream?
No. I'm not certain or sure. Maybe as the child grows and I see what he becomes, maybe I'll be certain then. But maybe not.
I've decided that when it comes to the voice of God, measure twice and cut once doesn't work. Maybe the best we can do is to do the things that make us feel like those carvings in the Temple made me feel.
I built a cradle for the baby. I measured twice and cut once for each piece. It went together beautifully. It's sturdy and honest. It will take care of this baby and all the rest that Miriam and I will have together. It's as good a cradle as I ever made.
But I did something else this time. When I'd measured and cut and joined, I took out my knife and began to carve. This cradle will be more than sturdy and practical and honest. It will be beautiful. No reason, really. Just in praise of God and this baby.
Pamela J. Abbey
