Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
The Rev. Matthew Wright
But we see that our so-called wise men, by making this their first stop in Judea, are making an assumption about where and who a king should be. And this assumption has disastrous consequences. What they essentially do is walk right into the center of corrupt worldly power and then ask the reigning tyrant if he could please point them in the direction of the new leader of the resistance. And of course Herod’s all over this, because he wants them to point him to this new leader of the resistance. And so he asks them, to please, once they’ve found the child, let him know, so he can pay homage also.
And the wise men set out again, and this time, rather than following their assumptions about where to find a new king, they follow the star, which leads them away from the center of imperial power in Jerusalem, and instead to Mary and Joseph, two Jewish nobodies, in the little nowhere town of Bethlehem. And there they present their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And we shouldn't miss the clash created by these gifts and their surroundings. Clearly, these men have expected to make their offerings in a royal court; these are gifts appropriate to that context—gifts a king would give a king. You've all probably seen the cartoon of the three wise women who arrive at the manger with diapers, a casserole, and a bottle of wine—more helpful and appropriate offerings.
I wonder how odd our magi felt giving these gifts in this setting to these people. Their expectations about where to find a king and who he will be have been turned upside down—and this is what Christianity, this is what Jesus, always does—he subverts our expectations, stands the world on its head, and shows us God in unexpected, humble, and innappropriate places. And so again, whose epiphany are we remembering this morning? Perhaps it is the epiphany of the wise men, who have their political preconceptions overturned, and then must return home, we're told, "by another road."
If they had attended only to the star and not gone where wordly logic told them to look for a king, how differently the story might have unfolded. No slaughter of the holy innocents or flight into Egypt. How differently might our own present day reality be unfolding, if those of us who claim the name Christian saw through the lure of worldly power , of our modern-day Herods, and had our assumptions overturned by the Gospel?
But back to our wise men. Just who are these guys anyway? In Greek they are called magoi or in Latin, "magi." And the word itself, and who exactly it points to, is a bit of a mystery. The Greek historian Herodotus, writing in the 5th century before Jesus, identified magi as "a caste of priests from Persia who could interpret dreams." And so this has led to a longstanding identification of the magi with Zoroastrian priests, who would have journeyed from what is modern-day Iran.
A bit more vaguely, Nathan Nettleton writes that magi “were the speakers of the sacred words at pagan sacrifices. At worst, the term referred to a magician or sorcerer, or even a deceiver. Magi were people whose activities were repeatedly condemned and prohibited throughout the scriptures and were completely anathema to the people of Israel.”
Similarly, Eugene Boring states, "The magi are Gentiles in the extreme, characters who could not be more remote from the Jewish citizens of Jerusalem in heritage and worldview." Ancient Church tradition variously understood them as coming from Arabia, Persia, and Babylon. And so, Zoroastrian priests, Arabian occultists, Babylonian astrologers—whoever they were, Matthew clearly intends us to understand them as foreigners and outsiders to Israel.
And yet, Mary and Joseph welcome and receive them. The arrival of peasant Jewish shepherds to honor the baby is one thing, but uncircumsized pagan foreigners? This is holding the door open wide. So again, whose epiphany? Do Mary and Joseph suddenly realize that the scope of the story they're caught up in is wider than they ever could have imagined? Matthew's Gospel is the most overtly Jewish of the four Gospels, rooting Jesus again and again in the hopes and longings of Israel, and yet Matthew begins his telling of the story with a first century interfaith encounter—pagans at the manger. The epiphany that St. Paul will have decades later, that the Gospel is also for the Gentiles, that this Light knows no bounds, Matthew prefigures here at the very beginning of the story. Paul was only catching up with Mary, Joseph, and the Magi.
Scott Hoezee says that by opening the Gospel in this way, with these people, Matthew is giving us a sort of “sneak preview” of things to come; he writes: “the Christ Child who attracted these odd Magi to his cradle will later have the same magnetic effect on Samaritan adulterers, [...] prostitutes, [...] tax collectors on the take, despised Roman soldiers, and ostracized lepers.” In other words, Jesus always attracts the wrong people—outsiders and outcasts; even from his birth, he has refused to play by the rules of wordly power and respectable society. He is the most unkingly of kings.
There is an expansion of the story of the wise men, written in the late second century in the Eastern Church. Titled The Revelation of the Magi, it survives today only in Syriac translation, and was brought into English for the first time in 2010 by Brent Landau; it is a rather fantastic tale. There we learn that our magi were twelve in number, not three—which has long been a tradition in the Eastern Church. Matthew's Gospel never actually gives their number; he only tells us that they brought three gifts.
We're told that they were part of an ancient mystical Order who praised God in silence, and that they were descended from Adam's son Seth, and had for generations passed down the prophecy of the coming of a star. Well at long last, the star appears to these twelve, first as a column of light that coalesces into a star, and out of it reaches the hand of a child. And the voice of the star explains that the star itself is the light of the Christ-child, which is to be born as a human being, to, as the text says, "fulfill everything that was spoken about me in the entire world and in every land in unspeakable mysteries"—fulfilling not only the stories and longings of one people, but of all people.
And so they follow the Light, which they discover not everyone can see, and they make the journey to the cave in Bethlehem. And the story unfolds more or less as we know it. They bring their gifts and their reverence to the Child, who is the Light they have followed, and as they set out on the return journey, the Light appears to them once more and says, "I am everywhere, and there is no land in which I am not. I am also where you departed from me, for I am greater than the sun, and there is no place in the world that is deprived of it... How much more I, who am the Lord of the sun..." The Light's own epiphany, its self-revelation, of the Universal within the particular.
And then comes my favorite part. They return home, and find when they arrive that the provisions of food in their bags have multiplied. We know what Jesus does with food. And so they begin sharing both the good news and this surplus of food with the people, and as the people of this land eat this food, they begin rejoicing and leaping for joy, and then begin to share with each other the visions, the epiphanies, they received as they ate the food.
One says, "I saw God bearing Godself in the world." Another says, "I saw a human being, who is more humble in appearance than any man, and he is saving and purifying the world..." Another says, "I saw something like a lamb hanging upon a tree of life, and by him and his blood redemption takes place for all the creatures of the world..." And little by little they find that the fullness of the gospel has been communicated to them through this holy meal.
And so again, whose epiphany? A final, personal story. As an undergrad studying abroad in India, I learned how central the Eucharist was to my life of faith. I had grown accustomed to receiving Holy Communion at least twice a week back home. But for much of my time in India, I had no access to a church at all. Well one day, longing for the sacrament—I had just had a conversation with a friend about how hungry I was for it—I left the tea shop where we had been talking and began walking home. And as I came around a bend in the road, I passed this little Hindu temple and found myself walking towards it. And as I approached, the resident swami caught sight of me and walked forward in welcome. He spoke English with a very thick Indian accent, and after we had talked for a few minutes, he asked “Are you a follower of Chris-t?” It took me a moment to catch his meaning, and then I said Yes, I am a follower of Christ. And his eyes lit up, and he said so joyfully, “Muslims pray to Allah, Christians to Chris-t, here we pray to Shiva, but we all are one!”
He explained that he had work to do, and invited me to come back later in the evening. And as he walked inside, I turned to leave, but he very quickly reappeared, walking towards me with his hand outstretched and his fist closed. And I instinctively opened my palm, into which he dropped a handful of puffed rice, and said “Eat.” And I brought it to my mouth; it tasted sweet; and I said thank you and again began to walk away, but he then summoned me towards the shrine area—making sure that I first took off my shoes—and he poured a spoonful of milk, that had been given in offering to God, over the food in my hand to drink, and then he handed me a banana that had also been brought as an offering. And now I could go.
As I walked around the curve in the road, eating this holy food that had been offered to God and returned to the people, I was struck with an overwhelming sense of Eucharist, of the Body and Blood of Christ given for me in this moment, in this encounter, in this food. It was my own Epiphany. The Gospel was there in that food, given to me by a pagan wise man from the East, Christ showing up exactly where he didn't belong, in puffed rice and milk, as if they were bread and wine. The Light reminding me, "I am everywhere, and there is no land in which I am not."
And so again, whose Epiphany do we celebrate today? Mary and Joseph's? The Magi's? Or is it our own sudden perception of reality through something simple and striking? May the epiphany be for each of us this morning, as we are sent out to follow the Light, and to discover Christ in unexpected, unlikely, and innapropriate places. May our assumptions be overturned, and may the circle be drawn ever wider.
No comments:
Post a Comment