Tuesday, January 07, 2014

Following Stars

Matthew 2:1-12; Isaiah 60:1-9
January 5, 2014
I want to spend a moment, this morning, rescuing the magi from the disrepute they’ve lately fallen into in some quarters. You know the joke that’s made the rounds for a few years now: if it had been three wise women they would have asked directions and brought practical gifts.
Well, to begin with, the story doesn’t actually specify three wise men. That tradition likely arose because the story names three gifts. The text, itself, is silent on the numbers. As to the gifts: while they may appear to us strange and utterly impractical, in fact, they would have been quite valuable. A family that was going to be on the run and in exile could certainly use a bit of financial support. Moreover, as in all of Matthew, the events of Jesus’ life regularly refer back to Hebrew scriptures – in this case to the passage from Isaiah that we just heard.
The great poem that closes Isaiah provides the plot for Matthew’s narrative. Upon such reference, in fact, the whole of this story rests. Oh, and it’s also in looking at that referential nature of the story that I’ll defend the wise men on one last note: as the first verse of this story tells us, the wise men did ask for directions.
“Wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?’”
They came asking directions. In fact, they went straight to the top – to a gathering that included the king, the chief priests and the scribes. Now, you might well say, “typical men, on a power trip,” and I won’t argue that point. In fact, this story of the magi is filled with warnings about the dangers of power and the structures that ensure that power remains in the hands of the powerful.
Those warnings begin when the wise men travel to Jerusalem – the capital city, and a city with a long and storied history of pretension to power. We can hear all of this in the passage from Isaiah:
“Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.” This proclamation comes in Isaiah’s closing vision of the new Jerusalem, and it would have come as comfort and affirmation to Herod – “my city is going to rise up and become an important power in the world!”
But the priests Herod consults are wise enough, and honest enough, to point Herod toward a different prophetic vision. They tell Herod that he – and the wise men from the East – are consulting the wrong text when it comes to this rising star. Instead of Isaiah, they suggest, you should be reading Micah, who proclaims, “you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.”
As Walter Brueggemann puts it:
This is the voice of a peasant hope for the future, a voice that is not impressed with high towers and great arenas, banks and urban achievements. It anticipates a different future, as yet unaccomplished, that will organize the peasant land in resistance to imperial threat. Micah anticipates a leader who will bring well-being to his people, not by great political ambition, but by attentiveness to the folks on the ground.
Herod tells the Eastern intellectuals the truth, and the rest is history. They head for Bethlehem, a rural place, dusty, unnoticed and unpretentious. It is, however, the proper milieu for the birth of the One who will offer an alternative to the arrogant learning of intellectuals and the arrogant power of urban rulers.[1]
Micah, moreover, speaks in a clear voice utterly lacking in sentimentality.
It’s been said that sentimentality is among the greatest enemies of the gospel. It’s easy to sentimentalize all of the stories we read and repeat around Christmastide, and the story of the magi is no different. We like to include dress-up kings in our pageants, and we must – as we did this morning – include “We Three Kings” in the proceedings.
But this is no sentimental tale, and we should attend, however difficult it is, to the horror imbedded in it. The story of the magi ends when they avoid going back to Herod, and that avoidance foreshadows the flight of Mary and Joseph from the terrors that Herod will inflict upon the children of Israel.
If we confront the story honestly – and allow ourselves to be confronted by it – then we must ask ourselves about slaughters of the innocent here and now. How is it that in the richest country in the world, almost 1-in-4 children live in poverty?[2] How is it that the U.S. rate of child deaths by gunshot has increased by 60 percent over the past decade, even as overall murder rates have plummeted in cities across the country?[3] How is it that 16 million kids in America don’t get enough to eat?
Ol’ Herod had little on us when it comes to a slaughter of the innocents. This is not a sentimental story. This is the story of the beginning of a great turning – a turning that has been ongoing and that continues and to which we are called to commit our hearts and minds and talents and treasures, just like the magi who came following a star to offer homage to the one whose birth heralds change.
We are called to follow that one to whom that star pointed – just as faithful folk at Clarendon Presbyterian Church have for 90 years now. We are called to follow the one to whom that star pointed to create a community in our own time that bears witness to the God revealed through the life of that child born in dusty Bethlehem. We are called here and now to follow; and in following, to build a community centered around this table to which all are welcome, at which sanctuary is offered to the innocents among us and to the rest of us, at which all are fed.
The story doesn’t end there, because we don’t just sit around this table telling old stories until we pass away into history. No. The story doesn’t end here, because we are sent from this table into the world to participate in God’s work in the world: the in-breaking of the Spirit; the cosmos-shaking of Christ; and the history-making of Christ’s church. Let us break bread together. Let us be the church of Jesus the Christ. Amen.