A broken tulip

What do these stories of Ruth and Tamar and Rahab matter for my healing? you might ask. Maybe you think they are old stories. And they are.

But if we go back to the image of the Russian dolls that live inside each other, life within life and doll within doll, we can say: God, whom the universe cannot contain, came to earth and tucked himself inside these very stories. He became small, wrapped into the life of Mary, a young woman who made a bold choice by faith. And he came, small, to be embedded in the life of Joseph, a righteous young man who risked his reputation and livelihood to stand up for Mary, Mary and her extremely unconventional choice.

And Joseph’s story is wrapped into his ancestor Boaz’s story. And Boaz too used his privilege and position to cover a woman who followed God into the thick of shame, reproach, emptiness. Boaz is a child of Salmon, who validated a Canaanite prostitute’s entrance into the chosen family. And Salmon comes from Perez, born of Tamar, who made a call you probably have judged her for, but which proved her righteousness and her loyalty to the house of Judah.

Often the presence of women in the Bible can be assumed in the negative space. Like the white spaces on a page that let a poem speak, or the background of sky that makes the painting of a tree pop, we can guess things about the women who are obliquely implied in the stories.

But in the genealogy of Joseph we find the opposite. There are stories in this genealogy where the woman acts, and the man frames her action—validating it and enabling it, like Boaz. Maybe he’s on his own character arc (Judah). Maybe he’s pretty much absent (Salmon). But the legitimacy these men give to their unconventional brides in a patriarchal society tells us something about their character. (The word ‘patriarchal’ is automatically a value statement for some, but I use it here in a descriptive sense.)

The unspoken presence of these men, and their willingness to honour another’s name (which is the choice their wives made as well), prepares us for the opening of Matthew. Because when we learn that the riskiest choice of all has been made to honour the name of God—a betrothed teenager says she is with child by the Spirit of God—there we find Joseph. And we have read his lineage, and we know that faced with his betrothed, he has the same choice his ancestors had.

The Gospel of Matthew, which shares this genealogy and focuses on Joseph, is often said to be the gospel that displays Jesus as king. It is written for a Jewish audience, and it is honed in on the kingdom of God, and who this Messiah is who came.

So you could say that the great lengths Matthew went to, to remind us of the unlikely and foreign women who joined the family in a way that altered the nation’s history, was expecting his Jewish audience to be more tolerant of the idea of Mary, pregnant by the Holy Spirit but legitimized in the line by Joseph. (Mary, of course, was not joining this family from the outside. She was herself a child of Abraham, Judah, and David—and so a child of Sarah, Tamar, Rahab, and Ruth.)

But the Bible Project points out something else. This genealogy is being told to show you what kind of Messiah he is. He is the righteous man, who extends his covering to those who ask boldly. Sharp Canaanite women procure miracles from Jesus in the book of Matthew, even when he resists. Their persistence and faith plunge them into his family, his story. And Jesus like Judah, like Boaz, testifies to their valour.

Maybe you feel like you’re on the outside. Maybe you think that if you blend in and be good long enough, you can sneak in the door with your head down in the middle of the crowd.

Hear what Jesus, the King, says in the context of Matthew’s gospel telling; the kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and the violent take it by force (Matt. 11:12).

I never understood those words until I paid attention to the early genealogy in Matthew, and to the Canaanite women included in the gospel. Maybe I’m still misinterpreting it, but I see it now as Jesus saying: the kingdom of heaven is here. Take it. Choose to be one of those bold women. When you know that it is right (regardless of your heritage, your gender, your relative standing to the chosen ones), act. Risk everything like Rahab, like Tamar (who was literally being carried out to be killed). Choose what you know is true, like Ruth, who turned from her family and people and their gods and lands to cling to Naomi. Accept the unacceptable, like Mary. This act will wrap you into the story.

Whoever you are, man or woman, old or young, don’t say that the kingdom of God was always far off from you. Don’t say that your story was irredeemable, or that the people of God kept you away from God Himself.

If you feel apathy or victimhood threatening to kill your faith, that spark of life in you that answers to something much larger than yourself, then let these stories give you courage and verve to act. The kingdom of heaven is still near. Walk into the story. Set up your tent in it. Be bold and startling. If you are going to give—Jesus said in the Gospel of Matthew to the crowd surrounding him in the Temple—give like the widow, who put in her last two pennies. Give everything. Not because anyone asks you to, or forces you to. Not because someone threatened you. Give because you have found your spot in the story, and because you know that no power on heaven or earth will budge you from that spot until you see it out. Be Ruth, who doesn’t wait for Boaz to tell her what to do but instead asks boldly and clearly. Be the widow at the door of the judge (another one of Jesus’ parables) who asks and asks and asks until even the unrighteous man is obliged to give in to her so that he can rest. Camp out under God’s window. Ask until you are answered. Enter the story.

Photo by ActionVance