Four score and seven years ago. Call me Ishmael. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.
Opening lines at their best can capture your attention. And if they really do hit, they eventually embed in our minds, memorized for decades, seemingly flowing through our veins. It seems most of the classic texts of humanity have solid opening lines.
So, do you remember the opening lines of our canonical New Testament? How does the writer of the Gospel of Matthew choose to open the text? Matthew 1:1 — An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Ok. Who was his editor? Why did the writer of Matthew use the first 17 verses of his Gospel to compose a genealogy?
Jonatjhan Greer
It is likely the only time you ever hear these 17 verses is in a Christmas pageant and the collective hope of the audience is for a skilled narrator who can navigate the many names quilted into the text. Abraham, Jacob, Tamar, Ruth, David, Solomon, Zadok. Those are the more famous and easier names. But Zerubbabel? Ya. That’s a tough one.
These genealogies are common in Hebrew Bible texts and if you’ve ever attempted to read the Bible in one year, it’s likely you’ve breathed a sigh of relief over a genealogy passage. Finally, a passage you can skim through! Look, I’ve been there. Why are the writers of our sacred texts spending so much time with genealogy?
Matthew is taking a page from his ancestors here in chapter 1. The writer of Matthew wants us to know from the outset this is a Jewish story, one that connects generations in their relationship with the divine. The genealogy sweeps through centuries of people connected to the divine in covenant and leads us to the promise of someone who is to come.
“These names within the genealogy are not just names.”
But these names within the genealogy are not just names. These names are key figures to the tradition; ancestors who have kept faith but also have been messy humans. We know this because many of their stories are captured in the Hebrew Bible, which we commonly call the Old Testament.
Most of us know the very messy story of David. His son Solomon has his own nuance as well. Zerubbabel: He’s not just a name. The first century reader would know Zerubbabel as a leader who led the Jewish people back to Jerusalem after their exile in Babylon. His life is interwoven in the history and lore of the Jewish people. Zerubbabel’s story is likely being told countless times at family gatherings and community events along with the stories of those included in Matthew’s genealogy.
Stories matter. They help us remember our connection to each other and our connection to a divine love so powerful it can overcome death. But what does overcoming death really mean?
For many of us, this year has been one of loss. The death of a friend or family member. A loss of a job. The passing of a cherished fur baby. Disappointment. Heartache. Sorrow. Grief.
Our first-century ancestors would have been well acquainted with disappointment, heartache, sorrow and grief. Living under the abusive thumb of empire certainly elevated the already difficult task of living life. Death and loss are inevitable parts of being human. Life really isn’t predictable, and there are times where it just seems cruel. But Matthew 1 shows us a glimpse of how the Jewish people maintained solidarity and a commitment to themselves and their quest for closer connection to divine love.
“These stories are quilted into the fabric of family, friendship and chosen family.”
Remembrance. Saying names. Telling stories. Our Hebrew Bible gives us the stories of leaders and figures within the movement, but they were not the only stories being shared in community. Imagine all the stories at a dinner table about aunties and grannies and misfit uncles that never were captured in our sacred texts. These stories impact those who share them because they are quilted into the fabric of family, friendship and chosen family.
I’m reminded of the lyrics of modern-day poet Joni Mitchell. “I remember the time you told me, ‘love is touching souls’. Surely you touched mine, ’cause part of you flows out of me in these lines from time to time. You’re in my blood, you’re like holy wine, you taste so bitter and so sweet. I could drink a case of you, and still be on my feet.”
The stories we tell reveal the people who have touched our souls through their love. And yes, these stories can capture the bitter and the sweet. Just as our ancestors told messy stories about David and Solomon, we can tell the bitter and sweet of those we have loved. This nuance. It reminds us of our own humanity, one in which we are humbled by our failings but also a nuance that leads us to strive to be better for ourselves and those we love.
As we continue in this season, I encourage you to tell stories of those who are no longer with us in body but are certainly still with us in spirit. They still remain quilted in our souls. Their memory remains embedded in our hearts. Their impact can still be felt deep in our veins. Say their names. Tell their stories. And in doing so, remember you are still connected to the continual work of the divine.
Jonathan Greer is a recent graduate of Brite Divinity School, where he received a master of divinity degree with a certificate in women and gender studies. He was born in raised in San Antonio and earned a bachelor’s degree in church music and a master’s degree in music history from Baylor University. He is a founding member and board member of Vox Peregrini, a pilgrimage choir. Jonathan lives in Dallas and recently was ordained as a minister by Royal Lane Baptist Church.