Epiphany, 01/06/2019

Sermon on Matthew 2:1-12, by Richard O. Johnson

Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the east came to Jerusalem, 2 saying, “Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” 3 When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him; 4 and assembling all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. 5 They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for so it is written by the prophet:

6 “‘And you, O Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,

are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;

for from you shall come a ruler

who will shepherd my people Israel.’”

7 Then Herod summoned the wise men secretly and ascertained from them what time the star had appeared. 8 And he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child, and when you have found him, bring me word, that I too may come and worship him.” 9 After listening to the king, they went on their way. And behold, the star that they had seen when it rose went before them until it came to rest over the place where the child was. 10 When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. 11 And going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh. 12 And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way. Matthew 2.1-12 [ESV]

The story of the Magi has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. It may date back to my childhood, when the Lutheran church three blocks from my house began putting up a Christmas time display that depicted the three Wise Men. The artistry was quite contemporary—they were just figures outlined, with no details, spread out across the roof of the Sunday School building, three kings on camels approaching a manger, with a star shining above it. There were no shepherds or sheep or oxen; as I recall it, Mary and Joseph weren’t even shown. It was just the infant Christ, and the Magi coming, as I said, spread out along the long building. To me it was the most spectacular Christmas decoration I had ever seen. I cannot hear the story without visualizing that church, the figures brightly lit up each night, with a particularly bright light on the star, the “star of wonder, star of light, star with royal beauty bright.”

As I grew older, there were many interesting things to learn about that story. It is perhaps the gospel account that has attracted the most legendary additions through the centuries. That display in my childhood showed just the outlines of the figures, but Christians quickly wanted to fill in the details. The Magi came to be known as kings; the number of them came to be specified as three; soon they were riding camels; by the fifth century they were being given names: Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar. None of this is in the gospel account, of course, but the story so captivated Christians that they wanted to flesh it out a bit. The historical study of how all these details were added to the outline is fascinating.

The journey of faith

But as I’ve reflected on the story over the decades, what really fascinates me is the theme of the journey. To think of the journey those guys took! They were from far away—from the East, Matthew tells us. Our liturgical celebration compresses their trip into the twelve days from Christmas to Epiphany, but likely it was much, much longer. Many scholars believe it may have been close to two years before they arrived, and that’s why wicked King Herod orders the death of all male children under two years of age.

And of course it wasn’t an easy journey. T. S. Eliot’s poem “Journey of the Magi” begins very starkly: “A cold coming we had of it,” and then later adds, “A hard time we had of it.” It was, to be sure, a hard time, a cold time—and always, Eliot adds, with that inaudible voice saying, “This is folly!”

In the Emilio Estevez/Martin Sheen movie The Way, Sheen plays Tom, a widowed dentist, somewhat alienated from his only son Daniel, played by Estevez, who has dropped out of graduate school to travel the world. As part of his travels, Daniel decides to walk El Camino de Santiago, “The Way of St. James,” the pilgrimage path of some 500 miles that begins in Southern France and ends at the traditional burial place of St. James in Spain. This famous route has been traveled by pilgrims for over 1,000 years.

But Daniel meets with an accident on his very first day, and is tragically killed. His father Tom flies to France to bring his son’s remains home, and in the process makes a spur of the moment decision to walk the Camino himself. He has not trained for such a long walk; he has no equipment except what was recovered from Daniel. He is not a religious man, calling himself a “lapsed Catholic.” But he feels a compulsion to walk this pilgrimage. I will not tell you all about the experiences he has along the way, the people he meets; suffice it to say that the journey changes him profoundly.

No longer at ease here

Journeys do that, don’t they? They change us—and the longer and harder the journey, the more we are affected. T. S. Eliot’s poem ends with the Magi profoundly changed: “We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, but no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation.” Indeed, the journey is one of the most important metaphors of the Christian life. The Bible is full of journeys, of course—Abraham’s journey from his home in Haran to the land that God promises to give him; the people of Israel’s journey from Egypt to that promised land. And here, in the second chapter of the New Testament, this journey from far away to find the infant Christ.

And that journey is our journey—cold sometimes, and hard, often long and arduous, always profoundly life-changing. It’s interesting that one of the themes that pops up in medieval art about this story is that one of the three Magi was a young man, one a middle-aged man, and one an old man—a way of saying, you see, that the journey of faith lasts a lifetime.

One of the sermons I remember in my 38 years of ministry was delivered on the first Sunday of Lent back many years ago now. The Old Testament lesson was about Abraham’s journey. I had a young associate—I don’t think he was at that time more than thirty years old. He and I, along with a retired pastor in the congregation, prepared a three-part, three-pastor sermon in which each of us reflected on the journey of faith from our own perspective. We were like the wise men in the medieval paintings: one young, one middle-aged, one elderly.

I remember that my young colleague talked about the challenge of new beginnings—logically enough, for a thirty-year-old. He spoke about how frightening they can be, and how he always found himself asking “Am I ready for this? Do I have what it takes?” But then he realized that the real question is, “Does God have what it takes?” In other words, when God is calling you to a new beginning, can you trust him?

Can we trust God?

And that is the question, isn’t it? On this journey of faith, can we trust God? Can we learn to trust God? Knowing that the journey won’t be easy, knowing that it will mean challenges, maybe disappointments, certainly changes—can we trust God?

Those questions come up whenever we begin a new stage of the journey—a new job, a new relationship, a new city. When I retired six years ago, I was full of questions, perhaps full of fears. As a pastor, one’s spiritual life is so very much tied up with one’s day to day tasks. Would I find time to read and study the Bible when I was not thinking about a sermon next Sunday? Would I find a place to worship that would be satisfying for both me and my wife? What would it be like to sit in the pew? I had no idea. But all those questions were really subordinate to the big question: Can I trust God? The journey ahead of me may not be easy, and it may be long, and it may be cold or arduous, and it may take me to unexpected places. So can I trust him?

In the end, you know, this story of the wise men is not about the wise men at all. It is about God. That’s true of the story of our lives, our journeys. One of my favorite lines comes in the Lutheran Book of Worship translation of the hymn “Whatever God Ordains Is Right.” It goes like this: “He makes the best of every stumbling turn we take, and loves us for his mercy’s sake.” All of us are part of this story that is finally about God. We take these stumbling turns, one mistake after another; at this stage in my life I can’t even count the stumbles I’ve made over the years. But God takes them, makes the best of them, because he loves us so. I’m on this journey of life and faith because I’ve been called to it by God. I’m not where I thought I might be by now; my trust is not as unswerving, my love is not as complete, my hope often stumbles and falters, and I’ve not accomplished everything I might have hoped. But there is this star, you see—this star that guides us over uncharted territory, through unknown lands. We follow this star, and it leads us to Christ.

We are satisfied

In Eliot’s poem, one of the Magi, thinking back, recounts his feeling on finding the Child: “It was (you may say) satisfactory.” A master of understatement, that Wise Man! But when we follow that star, over figurative field and fountain, moor and mountain, we are always, in the end, satisfied. It is always enough, and more than enough. This is, as St. Paul tells us, a great mystery. No matter what the challenges along the way, no matter what stumbling turns we take, on this journey to Christ we are overwhelmed with great joy.

As with gladness men of old

Did the guiding star behold

As with joy they hailed its light

Leading onward, beaming bright

So, most gracious Lord, may we

Evermore be led by thee.

The Rev. Richard O. Johnson
Grass Valley, California, USA
E-Mail: roj@nccn.net

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