When I was in elementary school, one of the easiest ways to humiliate a classmate was surprisingly simple: calling them by their parent’s name. My friend Andi was called Aching simply because that was his father’s name, just as Lydia was called Maryati after her mother. I remember one boy in my class, let’s call him “Raphael”. His real name was perfectly ordinary, but once someone discovered his father’s name, let’s say Hadi, it spread like wildfire. Suddenly, no one called him “Raphael” anymore. During class breaks, as he tried to eat his snack in peace, voices would mockingly call out, “Hey, Hadi, share some!” While we might dismiss this as childish banter, in the context of a family-oriented society like Indonesia, it is no small matter. A parent’s name carries honor, identity, and family dignity. Dragging it into public ridicule feels deeply shaming. The more my friend “Raphael” protested, the louder the teasing grew, until laughter turned into anger, tears, and eventually a fight. What may seem to us like a childish prank reveals something deeper: in many Asian cultures, family lineage is never just personal. To mock someone’s family is to wound them at the very core of who they are.

For this reason, family history can be a source of great pride but also of deep shame. We gladly show off what is respectable, but quietly hide stories that are embarrassing, morally troubling, or broken. Against this deeply ingrained cultural instinct, the Gospel opens with something startling: Jesus’ family tree is not polished or sanitized.

God Redeems the Past

Matthew begins his Gospel with a genealogy that would have been unusual for his Jewish audience. First, he does not merely provide a list of names and descendants. His genealogy of Jesus is carefully crafted with annotations that carry deep theological significance. Second, whereas traditional genealogies typically recorded only male names, Matthew intentionally includes the names of five women that would certainly have caught the attention of his Jewish audience—names that many would have preferred to forget.

One of these women was Rahab (see Joshua 2:1-24). She was not an Israelite, but a Canaanite from Jericho and a prostitute by profession. By ethnicity, gender, occupation, and moral reputation, Rahab existed on the margins of society. She was the definition of an outcast, symbolized by her residence on the city wall—a space that was neither fully inside nor fully outside. Rahab lived in profound liminality: a Canaanite, yet not fully accepted even within Canaanite society itself.

Yet Rahab heard about the God of Israel: the God who liberated slaves, defeated oppressive powers, and remained faithful to His promises. In the midst of fear and impending destruction, Rahab made a simple but courageous confession of faith: “The LORD your God is God in heaven above and on the earth below” (Josh. 2:11). Her faith was not sophisticated, nor was it wrapped in refined theology. It was raw but real, and God honored it. When Jericho fell, Rahab was spared (Josh. 6:25). Not only was her life preserved, but she was welcomed into the people of God. She received a new dwelling in the land of Canaan, and more than that, a place in the heavenly kingdom. She became the wife of a man named Salmon, and together they had a son named Boaz. Rahab’s past was not erased, but it no longer defined her future. God redeemed her story and granted her dignity, a new identity, and a place in the lineage of the Messiah. This is the God revealed in Scripture: One who redeems the past without denying it.

God Gives a New Future

Rahab’s redemption did not end with her personal salvation. It also shaped the life of Boaz, the son she would raise. We can imagine Boaz as a child, listening to his mother’s stories of fear and faith—of a city falling, a God who saves, and a new life given where none was deserved. She likely taught Boaz, again and again, never to forget the fate of the outcast, the foreigner, and the vulnerable. Boaz was raised within Israel’s covenantal life and was taught the law of Moses, which included commands that reveal the compassionate heart of God. The Torah instructed landowners not to harvest to the very edges of their fields, but to leave grain behind for the poor, the widow, and the foreigner (Leviticus. 19:9–10).

For Boaz, these commands were not abstract religious rules. They resonated deeply with his own family story. He knew that the God of Israel was not only a judge of nations but also a redeemer of sinners, a protector of strangers, and a refuge for those with no place to belong. It is therefore no surprise that Boaz grew into a man who would be remembered for his integrity, generosity, and attentiveness to the vulnerable. As Scripture tells us, when he noticed a woman gleaning in his fields—a poor widow, a foreigner from Moab as reported by his neighbors—he did not turn away in suspicion or contempt. Instead, he asked about her, welcomed her to share food with his workers, and instructed his men not to shame or harm her. Ruth, like Rahab before her, was an outsider who had placed her hope in the God of Israel (see Ruth 1-2). In extending protection and provision to another woman from the margins, Boaz was echoing the mercy his own mother had once received.

Yet Boaz’s faithfulness was further tested when Ruth approached him with a bold request: that he act as her kinsman-redeemer. This was not a simple marriage proposal. It was a plea for justice, protection, and continuity for both Ruth and her widowed mother-in-law, Naomi. Although there was another relative who had a prior right, that man refused the responsibility. Boaz, however, willingly stepped forward, fully aware of the social cost. To marry a Moabite widow was not an obvious or advantageous choice for a respected and wealthy Israelite man such as him. Nevertheless, Boaz chose obedience over convenience (see Ruth 3-4). He chose compassion over reputation. He chose to embody the redemptive heart of God. In doing so, Boaz did more than redeem a family’s future. He became part of a larger story in which God continually works through those who remember what it means to be rescued, and who therefore refuse to ignore the suffering of others.

Even Boaz’s costly faithfulness was only a glimpse of a greater redemption still to come, his story prefiguring the coming of Jesus Christ, the ultimate Kinsman-Redeemer. As the eternal Son who shares fully in the life of God, Jesus reveals that the God of Scripture is not distant or uncaring, but One who graciously draws near to the outcast. In Him, we see that God’s very nature is to welcome, embrace, and restore those who have been rejected, making divine hospitality visible in human form. Thus, Romans 8:29 describes Jesus as the firstborn among many brothers. He opened his arms to reach out to sinners, sharing meals with the rejected, touching the unclean, and welcoming the outcast. The incarnate God did not distance Himself from stories of scandal, loss, or moral failure. Instead, He embraced a broken family line and transformed it into a channel of salvation for the world. The Gospel proclaims this good news clearly: God does not wait for people to become worthy before receiving them. He receives them in order to restore them.

The Church as God’s Field of Grace

If Christ Himself deigned to come from a lineage that includes outcasts, then His church cannot be an indifferent and detached community, blind to the needs of the world around it. Especially in Asian soil, where social hierarchy, tribal division, poverty, shame, harassment, power abuse, and exclusion remain potent forces, the church is called to embody a radically different story. The church is meant to be a home for the wounded, the foreigner, the outcast, and those still in the process of healing. As Christ, the Bread of Life, was born in Bethlehem, the “house of bread,” will we in the Asian church also become a “house of bread” for a starving world?

Perhaps some of us feel like Rahab: burdened by a painful past. Or like Ruth—tired, uncertain, and unsure where we belong. The Gospel assures us that in Christ, the field of grace is open. There is still room; there is still welcome. And for those of us already standing in the field, resting in that grace, the challenge is this: Will we make our churches like Boaz’s field, a place where God’s grace can be found by those who have long been hungry and cast aside?

Carmia Margaret is Associate Pastor at Gereja Kristen Immanuel Hosanna and Adjunct Faculty at Bandung Theological Seminary, Indonesia. She is currently pursuing a Ph.D. at the Oxford Center for Mission Studies (OCMS), UK, supported by the Langham Scholarship and Scholar Leaders International. Besides her research on context-rooted hermeneutics and lived theology, she is passionate about equipping churches for faithful discipleship by integrating rigorous theological reflection with pastoral wisdom.