Growing up, every New Year’s Eve, my sister and I would watch the New York ball drop, then race outside with our dad to see what the sky looked like at the very first moment of the new year. To my disappointment, it always looked exactly the same as the night before.
On those nights, my dad would point out constellations: Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper. He told us how ships once navigated by the stars, and I would gaze at the North Star with awe for all the people she guided home.
Stars have always intrigued me– these mysterious bodies of hydrogen and helium that shine because they are dying, that shine because they are always expanding, always letting go. We can learn a lot from stars.
As a child, I was terrified of space (and a part of me still is). I would hold tight to the porch railing while looking up, afraid gravity might suddenly turn off. Yet I couldn’t stop watching the stars– so fearless, so steady, so courageous in their burning. I never missed a chance to wish upon one, whether it was a shooting star or the first star of the night.
Do you still remember the rhyme?
“Star light, star bright,
the first star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
have this wish, I wish tonight.”
When was the last time you wished upon a star? When was the last time you ran outside simply to marvel at their light?
What would you wish for now? What’s your wish for this new year?
Long ago, others followed a star, not with wishes, but with hope and faith. They were travelers from the East, guided by the heavens, uncertain where the journey would lead.
As a child, I thought I knew everything about them. I would have confidently told you that they were kings named Casper, Melchior, and Balthasar, who rode camels to meet baby Jesus. But those details come from pageants and tradition, not from scripture. In Matthew’s Gospel, they are never called kings. We are never told their names or their numbers. And, disappointingly, there are no camels mentioned. So, who, then, were these people?
Our pageants make these visitors relatable– children dressed in brightly colored robes with thin, precariously balanced crowns. Yet, they would have been entirely mysterious, almost ethereal visitors to little Bethlehem.
The word “magi” comes from the Persian “magush,” which means “priests.” Scripture borrows this Persian term to make clear that these priests are different, they are not Hebrew nor belong to the Jewish temple. They are the mysterious other, members of a priestly caste known for their wisdom and knowledge of stars. Often, magi were advisors to their kings, interpreting astrology and astronomy to speak of the past, present, and future.
I wonder which of the magi noticed the star first. How did they know that this star was different, that this star would lead them to a king?
What did they see: A supernova? Jupiter and Saturn in alignment? The shepherds were sent singing angels to tell them where to go– which seems like a much simpler journey, although frightening– but the magi were given this mysterious star, a single light to follow across a dark world. During their long, difficult journey, did they ever doubt the sign? Did they ever wonder if the star was really leading them onward to a king? Did they ever wonder if they were following the wrong star, if the map was turned upside down?
Still they went. These priestly king-advisors took a big risk. They left behind the comfort of their palaces and families to travel to a foreign land that wasn’t always the friendliest to outsiders, especially those of a different faith. How assured must they have been to go– to go and follow a star.
They opened their hearts to hear from God, and they brought gifts, a sign that they trusted that they would reach their final destination and that it would be an important moment, worthy of such extravagance. They bring symbols of what they somehow know: Gold for a king, frankincense for the Divine, and myrrh for the One who would die.
In this tragic comedy, Matthew sets up a dichotomy between the magi from the east and the religious, biblically literate folk of Jerusalem. Both groups of people were earnestly seeking God, but in different ways. The magi saw a star and were willing to move to follow where God led them. The religious elite were seeking God in scripture, but they stayed where they were and with what was comfortable, following a leader who was willing to do anything to stay comfortable. Not a single one of the people in Herod’s court volunteered to go with the magi after their visit. Not a single person rushed to gather gifts.
The star was visible to all—but only some noticed and followed. How many others prayed for peace, for healing, for salvation, and yet never stepped outside to see where God’s light was leading? It is one thing to wish upon a star; it is quite another to follow it. Following a star, following the movement of God, requires that we pay attention and that we allow ourselves to be changed.
As theologian James Howell writes, “God is determined to be found, and will use any and all measures to reach out to people who are open.”1 Are we open? Are we paying attention?
Christmas celebrates God coming to dwell with us, love made flesh. But, Christmas does not mean much if we end the story there. The next chapter is Epiphany, the story of humanity’s response.
Epiphany invites us to notice where God’s light still shines and to have the courage to follow. Epiphany urges us to move beyond comfort into the unknown and trust, like the magi, that God still speaks through stars, through dreams, through mystery.
Rachel Sutphin
- The Will of God: Answering Hard Questions by James Howell, 2009 ↩︎
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