Isaiah 60:1-6; Matthew 2:1-12
Bethel Presbyterian/Kingston United Methodist
Epiphany – January 6, 2008
I wonder what kind of map, if any, these visitors from the East consulted as they made their journey, first to Jerusalem, then on to Bethlehem? The star has always captured our fancy, but we might speculate if these wise men, who were likely wealthy, influential travelers from ancient Persia, also had at their disposal other, more conventional navigation devices?
We know little about their route -- neither their precise point of origin, the season and weather for their travels, not even the number in their party, only what would become their destination, one immortalized in Christian art and by the commercial exploits of Hallmark and assorted other greeting card companies. And then, of course, there are the gifts they brought, which in our most nostalgic moments we might fondly evoke as faint justification for our own Christmas extravagance, but which gifts, at least as spiritual metaphors, are probably best equated with charity and good works (gold), prayer and faith (frankincense), and the purification of suffering and belief in the resurrection (myrrh).
Our own cultural confusion between holy day and holiday not withstanding, this is a story as told in Matthew’s gospel that rightly inspires our sense of wonder and worship, the tale of these ancient astrologers who left home to seek the meaning of a message written in the stars. The Church traditionally honors these holy visitors as the revelation of God’s redemptive purpose for all the nations, not just for the Jewish people; these Magi, let us remember, were foreigners in the land of Israel, and did not realize that their journey symbolically announced the Gentiles’ coming to God through faith in Christ; nor could they know that this baby whom they honored would grow up to be crucified.
We, of course, read the story backwards, through the lens of Easter resurrection, and since we know the ending, we know what the magi couldn’t have known, and thus, we have some difficulty being surprised by the way things turned out.
A good story often draws on surprising twists and turns, as well as a strong dose of irony. The enduring quality of Matthew’s narrative about the adoration of Christ rests on the power of paradox: infant Messiah and wicked King, peasant parents and elite foreigners, a backwater Judean village under the heel of a mighty Empire, nature and scripture announcing a miraculous birth. As the story unfolds, it was neither Rome, seat of empire, nor Jerusalem, site of temple, which served as destination for these pilgrims; rather, Bethlehem is the place they sought -- a place revered in Israel’s collective religious consciousness as the birthplace of unexpected Kings, specifically the nation’s most idealized and revered sovereign, David, youngest shepherd son of Jesse.
These pilgrims paid their homage to the Christ child, and upon getting a little help from God in a dream, out-foxed Herod and his evil desires, discovering a new way to get back home.
As a rule, Protestants historically haven’t been too fond of the theological concept of pilgrimage since it smacks too much of Catholicism’s saints and shrines, and the sin of indulgences; that is, unless the kids have somehow convinced us that Jesus will be making an appearance at Disney World this year, which longed-for destination in Florida has become for many families with young children the destination highest on our must visit places. But as any high school or college reader of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales knows, pilgrimage is ripe with both humor and enduring lessons about human relationships and divine truths.
Perhaps the best contemporary pilgrimage analogy for us is the ubiquitous church mission trip or, perhaps, traveling with a tour group to some distant landmark. If you’ve had such an experience, you know that there is as much to be learned from the getting there, as there is in the actual doings once the “there” has been gotten to. While no amount of icebreakers or attractive nametags can ensure that people will take time to get to know one another, you can bet that if you’re traveling together over a great distance, that the serendipity of time shared will form friendships and create formative memories.
In fact, that’s probably not a bad way for us to think about the coming together of these two congregations for a season of time. What serendipitous and new discoveries during this journey will help us see the ministry of Christ’s Church in a new light? How will our own worship and service and spirituality and seeking be enriched beyond what we now know – so that we’ll look back on this time as one that has changed us in ways we never saw coming?
So I imagine it must have been for these first century astrologers who left home, following the star. They surely discovered things about one another, not to mention about themselves, that burned brightly in their hearts always.
We hear much about their star, but had they also acquired a map to help them across “field and fountain, moor and mountain” – a piece of yellowed parchment with dusty, bent corners? Did they hire Hebrew guides upon crossing the Jordan into Judah or simply trust the instincts of their camels to sniff out the shortest distance from Persia to Bethlehem? Moreover, we might also pause to ask: was that star they sought really a comet or some other noteworthy celestial phenomenon, whose presence in the sky long ago we can, even now, verify with the aid of new understandings of our galaxy? Was there some sign in that ancient, night sky, that might even help us date the human Jesus, to make him even more a real person with a birthday and with a history? Such intriguing questions about ancient travel and calendar rightly mean much to the archeologists and scientists among us; but I, for one, believe this story is finally intended for the pilgrim in all of us who has searched, and who searches even yet, for the Christ who lives in all things.
Each Epiphany, I am drawn to these star-seekers and Christ finders because they are people like us who hunger for God and who venture through ambiguity and darkness, following what little light they’d been given. A solitary star doesn’t give out much light; you’ve got to squint to see in the darkness if all you have is a star to guide you. Yet, the magical, mystical dance of these seekers across the pages of holy writ inspires us all to search and to search again for what new birth even now that God will bring into the womb of our world.
That’s really, I believe, what faith is all about: not so much the story that gives a summary and reports all the answers and reaches all the right conclusions, but the story that asks us to step into the pages and be ourselves the star seekers and Christ finders.
In the end, it’s an oft-repeated, even hackneyed, but nonetheless true affirmation: it’s not the destination but the journey itself that will form us into the image of the Christ. It’s tempting to confuse knowledge about God with the actual experience of knowing God. Being wise and seeking God doesn’t mean knowing and understanding everything. Like these magi who only had a star, it means following what light we have into an ever greater light. Or as the old Quaker proverb puts it: “Do not expect more light until you follow what you have.” (New Proclamation, Year B, p.83)
I, for one, would hope that the curiosity, trust in the unseen, feeling of adventure, devotion to Christ, and sense of companionship and solidarity experienced by these Epiphany pilgrims could be metaphors for our own time together, two separate but one congregation, stepping out in faith to travel across a landscape that might seem like a wilderness, yet a geography filled with so much promise and the joy of new discovery.
I confess that my own nocturnal journey towards a deepening awareness of the Divine begins less with the certainty of where I am headed and more with a simple trust that somehow, through the mysteries of creation and the intricacies of my own soul, that I can, therein, discern a pathway toward the light and countenance of God. It’s in trusting that both the star of nature and the word of scripture can help me find a path through the wilderness that most gives me hope that eventually, as St. Augustine once prayed, “my restless soul can find its rest in Thee.”
And so, on this Epiphany Sunday, as we partner on our own ecumenical journey, as we come to taste and see that the Lord is good at the table of holy communion, let us be open to the surprising grace, extravagant love, and ever-renewing spirit given to us by God, the one who is the giver of all good things.
And now, using some other words of St. Augustine, let us bow our heads in prayer as we close. Let us pray.
“O God, full of compassion,
I commit and commend myself to you,
in whom I am, and live, and know.
Be the goal of my pilgrimage, and my rest by the way.
Let my soul take refuge
from the crowding turmoil of worldly thought
beneath the shadow of your wings.
Let my heart, this sea of restless waves,
find peace in you, O God. Amen.
