Matthew 2:1-12 "Seekers"

Matthew 2:1-12

         A family was once traveling by car to spend Christmas with relatives.  It was a long road trip – several hours.  As they drove into one rural town, they passed a church where a manger scene was set up in the front yard.  The 5-year-old son sitting in the back seat was staring out the window, periodically exhaling tremendous sighs of boredom. However, the sight of a stable with elaborate plastic figures inside caught his attention.  As he did not regularly attend Sunday School, he asked about the crèche scene.

“That is Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus, there in the manger,” his mother explained.

The boy nodded silently and continued to watch the world go by.  When they drove through the next small town, they passed another church, where a scene illustrated the journey of the Magi.

“Who are they?” the youngster asked.

His mother replied, “Those are the Magi, who are looking for the Baby Jesus.”

“Well,” the child declared emphatically, “they won’t find him there. He’s down at the other church.”

Magi, kings, wise men, astrologers, philosophers:  those mysterious visitors from the East wherever that is – the Orient perhaps?  Or Asia, China, India, maybe even Africa? - but undoubtedly someplace exotic and non-European.  The Bible gives us nary a clue – only that these people traveled wherever a brilliant Star led them because they were bent on finding the One they had been seeking all their lives.

We do not know much about them really.  Most of our knowledge is based on tradition – legends and stories told and written down centuries later – as well as on the artistic imaginations of the likes of Giotto and Rembrandt and Caravaggio as well as nameless graphic designers at Hallmark Cards. 

We say there are three of them because the Gospel writer of Matthew mentions three gifts – gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  One magi – one gift – seems to make perfect sense.  However, Henry Van Dyke in his short story postulates four travelers and a fourth gift.  Other traditions say there were as many as 12 visitors, and I have always wondered why there could not have been hundreds of wise men and women from all over making their way toward Bethlehem to find the One who might give meaning to their lives. 

In the seventh century, the magi were given names and back stories:  There was Caspar who was young, beardless, with a ruddy complexion.  Then there was Balthazzar.  He was a bit older, dark-skinned, and sported a growth of new beard.  Finally, there was Melchior with his gray hair and a long flowing beard, clearly the most ancient of the three.

 Artists often depict them in rather flamboyant clothing featuring bright colors, flowing fabric, crazy hats or even turbans, bejeweled, and bedecked in assorted baubles and beads, clearly different from other more conventionally dressed Biblical characters.  And except on the very edgiest of Christmas cards where one might see them riding on white stallions, they are drawn sitting atop one-hump camels.  Of course, none of these details are found in the Gospel writer’s account, which brings us back to the beginning.  We have little to go by when it comes to these nocturnal travelers.

What we do know, however, is that the star did not completely do the trick in efficiently getting them to where they wanted to be because they had to stop off in Jerusalem to ask for directions.  Maybe that is where the trouble began. 

You see, as they asked around if anyone had seen the missing star that had been leading them to the real King of the Jews, the city folk were not unexpectedly a bit put off by their brashness that one could say was laced with political blasphemy and wary of their general nosiness. 

In fact, the Gospel writer says that all of Jerusalem was “disturbed”, and so it is little wonder that the presence of the magi came to the attention of Herod, who himself had been given the title King of the Jews over 40 years ago but had always been paranoid about losing it one day to someone else.  But isn’t that how it is with people in power?  Whether you are King Herod or Donald Trump, what you seek more than anything else is to remain in power - and long lost is the memory that you were placed in your position in the first place to serve rather than be served. 

         When Herod’s paranoia overwhelms him, and he becomes fearful, rather than tweeting, he becomes volatile.  After all, at one time or another, he murdered a wife, her two sons, her brother, her grandfather, and her mother, changed his will three times, and assassinated his firstborn son, all of whom he believed threatened his throne.  Herod was no one to fool around with.

          Of course, it did not take much of a wise man to recognize a mentally unstable ruler.  And so the magi put more stock in a fleeting dream one of them had than in Herod’s seemingly sincere wish to worship a fellow king and potential usurper of his crown and title.  They quietly left Jerusalem, found the star again, and continued until they came upon the Child who had once been born in a manger, the one they had been seeking.

         They say that what you put at the top of your Christmas tree says a lot about your own spiritual journey.  One blogger I read this week described it this way.  If you are an Angel person, that angel perched at the pinnacle represents those who had been patiently waiting for the Messiah, for a sign from God, for a long time, like the Shepherds.

In contrast, if you are a Star person, you are still searching, maybe have questions.  You are still on a quest to find out about this mystery and message from God wrapped up in human flesh and swaddling clothes.  For you, it is not black and white.  There are still a million shades of gray.

On the Foran family Christmas tree, over many decorating decades, we have come to a spiritual consensus or compromise.  Though an angel tops our tree and the heavenly host of other smaller angel ornaments surround her, right below are the stars – lots of them, made from fabric and folded paper and metal and glass. 

And so, I like to think that, though we, like the shepherds, are not surprised to discover that someone like Jesus was born and grew up to embody all that God ever hoped for in humanity, we still, like the magi, seek him.  We seek his light.  We seek all that he stood for.  We continue to hitch our wagon to his star – and try our best to follow where he leads us.  In short, our spiritual journey is far from over.

And so it is in the church as well.  After Christmas, when the tree is taken down, the crèche is put away, the pageant costumes hung up for another year, and even the candles in the windows are no longer lit, we come to Epiphany, that season of the church year when Jesus and all he stood for is revealed to us once more – but in a concurrent sense revealed to us for the very first time.  One blogger I read wrote this about epiphanies:  they “are those times when something calls us, moves us, to a new place and we see the face of God in a new way; so human that it almost seems ordinary, maybe too ordinary to be believed.”

If we remain true to the Gospel stories of Jesus’ birth, we meet the magi not on Christmas Eve, but on Epiphany.  Their arrival marks the beginning of this season of light, when Jesus, the Light of the World, is revealed to us. And each year, we hope and pray that this time he will be revealed in a new way that can bring us out of these tumultuous times in which we live.

These travelers we know virtually nothing about lead the way.  We do not know where they came from, who they were, or what they did for work. We do not know if they were kings or philosophers or astrologers.  We do not know if they hailed from India or China or the darkest parts of Africa. 

However, we do know that they were wise: wise enough to keep traveling toward what was most important to them, wise enough to recognize that following the light of a star was better than walking in darkness, wise enough to know that they were stronger when they were drawing on their courage rather than on their fear when it came to facing the unknown.

I like it that we have so few details about these travelers.  I like that, as one blogger I read this past week wrote, “this anonymity and lack of historical information is a reminder that this story, this Epiphany journey, is not just the wise men’s journey; it is everyone’s journey. The truth of sacred scripture is never limited to or contained only in the past.”

         And so, my hope for us in this coming year is that we will be like the magi, that we will be seekers, that we will follow stars and travel great distances if need be to find the one we seek. There is nothing wrong, of course, with being like the shepherds who did not have much distance to cover to find the Christ Child and who knew that something big had happened and only needed the angels to confirm it.  No – there is nothing wrong with being like the shepherds – unless you believe that the mere sight of the Child is enough, that going back to your same old life is enough, that being content to only live with a bunch of sheep is enough. 

         I hope we will be like the magi because their story challenges us to see our lives and our world as bigger than before.  Their story has the potential to stir in us a desire to understand ourselves as part of a much larger story and to get us wondering if the light of that star might just possibly burn like a divine spark in each one of us, even now, even today.

         I hope we will be like the magi because they lived their lives day to day grounded in what they believed.  They traveled confidently by something as ephemeral as the light of a star no less because they believed that a star would lead them to the one they sought. In other words, they were willing to – literally - put feet on their faith.

         I hope we will be like the magi because they brought gifts – maybe not ones that a baby would enjoy, but they brought gifts anyway.  It is like the time some kindergarteners in Great Britain were asked about the visit of the Magi.  One young boy said that the magi brought Jesus some gold stuff “but Legos would have been better”! We too come with our gifts.  We too may wonder if something else would be better, but, trust me, each gift we bring is appropriate in its own way if it is a gift given freely and with love. 

         I hope we will be like the magi because they were travelers and not aimless wanderers.  They had a plan.  They had directions.  Though they did not have all the details, they knew generally which way they were headed.  More than that, they were not fearful about what they might find around the next corner because they trusted that, in some mysterious and mystical way, God was leading them.

         In the end, no matter how you look at it, the magi’s story is really our story. The magi were seekers.  They did not know all the answers, but they knew whom they were following and whom they were seeking.  May we this year – this year especially but really in all the years ahead – may we be seekers too.

John 18:33-37, Revelation 1:4b-8 "What is Truth?"

John 18:33-37, Revelation 1:4b-8

         In no way did he look like a king.  His tunic was ripped, and his back was bloody from a few swipes of the cat-o-nine tails.  His wrists were tied together behind his back, and it looked as if his shoulders might pop out of their sockets at any minute.

His face was bruised, and he had one serious black eye.  His upper lip had been split open and was bleeding too, probably the result of a haphazard kick from one of the soldiers when he had tripped and fallen on his way out of the garden.  He looked more like he had been in a major car accident – or maybe on the losing side of a boxing match. 

         And there he stood, looking small and beaten – not just physically small and beaten, but small and beaten both inside and out.  There he stood before Pilate, the provincial governor, who was trying to figure out just what the hubbub surrounding this man was really all about. 

Reformed pastor Scott Hoezee described Pilate this way: “Pilate looks the role of a king-like figure. And as such, he’s vaguely bored with this little sideshow that the Jews were foisting upon him. Pilate’s schedule was probably chockfull of appointments and meetings and P.R. appearances as it was.

The last thing he had time for was this pathetic little man who was alleged to be a royal pretender, a usurper of Roman authority, a would-be “King of the Jews.” 

For some reason this man from Nazareth (who looked about as threatening as Murray the Grocer) had his compatriots all stirred up. They did see him as a threat but couldn’t quite bring themselves to get rid of him on their own and so were looking for a little outside (Roman) help to make it all official.

It was the last thing Pilate needed that day. So there Pilate was sitting behind his marble desk, idly drumming his fingers on his ink blotter. He barely even looked up at Jesus as he distractedly asked, ‘So, are you the king of the Jews or what?’. He stifled a yawn while awaiting the man’s response.”

         Pilate, of course, saw the situation in starkly political terms – not surprising since he was a politician after all.  Pilate wants to know, of course.  He needs to know because “king” is a political term, and his governorship rests on his ability to keep the Jews in check and the Roman hierarchy in place and undisturbed.  Status quo at all costs: He knew what side his bread was buttered on. 

Pilate scratched his head absentmindedly because it really made no sense.  I mean, how could anyone claim to be king – even King of the Jews - if he did not live in a fortified palace, if he had no an army to back him up, if he did not traipse around with burly bodyguards on either side of him, their handguns tucked away in concealed carry mode, if he did not impose his will on an already beaten down and unwilling populace, if he did not grind the poor into the dust from whence they had come and surely to which they were meant to return?  How could anyone who was clearly from the other side of the tracks claim to be king - especially this wreck of a human being?

         “So, are you the king of the Jews or what?” he had asked, not in the least expecting Jesus’ startling – and rather cheeky – response. 

“Is that your own idea or did someone else tell you that about me?”

         Now, that was worth a laugh, a big enough laugh that a couple of tears oozed out of the corners of Pilate’s beady little eyes.  Of course, someone else had told him!  Jesus could hardly pass for a king looking the way he did now. 

Pilate wiped his eyes, shook his head, and then queried Jesus further, “OK, buddy, what did you do that that so royally (no pun intended) tick off your peers?” And Pilate chuckled at his own sense of humor, his lips twitching in an almost grin, as he looked at Jesus and awaited his response.

And Jesus answered by not really answering Pilate’s question at all.  “My kingdom is not of this world,” he declared with as much defiance as he could muster given the circumstances. 

What he might have said under his breath was something like….”I alone am no threat to your power, Pilate, and to the powers of this world.  If I were, there would have been a battle in the garden back there when you arrested me. My followers would have been armed to the teeth.  There would have been a scuffle, and someone would have undoubtedly gotten hurt.  However, I resorted neither to violence nor to a pompous display of military strength.  I am not out to displace you or Herod or Caesar.  My kingdom is not of this world.

         And then Jesus took a long and shuttering breath and finished by saying, “People who know the truth listen to me.” 

         There was a long moment of silence, and Pilate got this distant sort of look in his eyes, and he whispered back to Jesus, “And what is truth?” 

And the question hung in the air unanswered – just as it has continued to hang in the air for over 2000 years.  But what more could Jesus say when he and all he stood for was the truth?  When the truth was embodied in this man standing silently before the powers of the world?  When the Word that was the truth had been made flesh, had pitched a tent, and had moved into the neighborhood, full of God’s grace and God’s truth?

“Are you the King of the Jews?” Pilate had asked.  King of Kings?  Lord of Lords?  And he shall reign for ever and ever? Hallelujah?  Hallelujah? Pilate may not have known but George Frederick Handel clearly had it right.

         Is it any wonder then that each year on the last Sunday of the church year, we celebrate Christ the King (or Reign of Christ) Sunday? And on that day we imagine a Christ swooping down from amongst the clouds – victorious, ready to sweep us up to heaven?

However, if we are honest with ourselves, we cannot quite shake a certain sense of dissonance.  We cannot quite forget that conversation between Pilate and Jesus, between the Roman ruler so rich and powerful and well-dressed and upwardly mobile and the small and beaten down man with the torn tunic and the split upper lip. 

And what is truth?

         I always thought that Christ the King (or Reign of Christ) Sunday dated back to the earliest church festivals.  However, I discovered this week that such is not true.  Pope Pius XI established this holy day in 1925 as he witnessed a rise in secularism throughout the world, saw too many nations paying allegiance first and foremost to government dictatorships, and increasingly denying Christ as king. Christians worldwide were beginning to doubt Christ's authority and existence as well as the Church's power to perpetuate that authority and continue Christ’s Gospel mission – not too unlike today, I suppose.

         For Pope Pius, it all came to a head in the plight of Mexican Christians who were being told that only their government was due ultimate allegiance. The Church in Mexico remained faithful, however, holding public parades throughout the land (with significant governmental pushback!) proclaiming “Cristo Rey!,” “Christ is King!”

Pope Pius XI made that declaration the basis of this holy day to be observed throughout the entire Roman Catholic Church, “Christ, The King of the Universe.” After Vatican II, Rome moved the observance of this day from October to the final Sunday of the Christian Year, and many Protestants – us included - have followed suit. (UMC Discipleship.org).

         And so, on this last Sunday before we turn our sights on the baby soon to be born in Bethlehem, one more time we repeat the question that Pilate asked so long ago, “What is truth?”  What does it mean in another era of rising secularism to proclaim that Christ is King, that Jesus and all he stood for lies at the very root of who we are as Christians, in who we are as the Church?  What is truth?

If nothing else, surely truth means that we have had it all backwards for too long.  You see, the truth for us as Christians is that Jesus, that disaster of a human being who was handcuffed and spoke so softly to Pilate, his rich and powerful counterpart, really is the King of Kings, Lord of Lords, forever and ever, hallelujah, hallelujah. 

The truth is that the violence Jesus rejected did not – and will not - have the last word.  The truth is that attempting to amass troops in a display of military might or to deny asylum to refugees at the border is not the way to reform immigration in this country.  The truth is that angry and demeaning tweets and bullying and accusations of fake news will only divide this nation even further at a time when it desperately needs to be healed and unified.  The truth is that if you want to find the King, the truly powerful one, you will find him in places where kings do not often go – the homeless shelter, the free medical clinic, the street corners. 

The truth is that the rich get rich and the poor get poorer – and that is God’s nightmare, not God’s dream.

The truth is Jesus and all he stood for.  The truth is love.

What is truth?  If nothing else, surely it means, as Catholic deacon Kevin Fournier wrote, if “Jesus Christ is King, Jesus Christ is Lord of All, Jesus Christ is meant to become the Lord of our whole lives, and inform the very pattern of how we live them.” 

The truth is that we, as Christians, are meant to tell the truth and to be the truth, and the truth is love.  It is not violence; it is not indifference; it is not apathy.  The truth is love. 

Jesus’ kingdom is not of this world.  How true that is!  Not because it is some once and future kingdom – an ideal, something we aspire to when we are dead and gone – but it is not of this world because it is so different from the kingdoms of this world because it is founded on the truth – and the truth is love.

Will we ever get close to that kingdom in this lifetime?  How will we know if it is just around the corner? Author Caryll Houselander put it this way: “If we are not interested in the minds, the feelings, the hopes, fears, sorrows and joys of everyone with whom we come in contact, we are not interested in Christ.  Whatever we do to anyone, we do to him.  

If we are impatient with the mental suffering, the doubting, the questioning, and the wrestling with the angel of the more sensitive minds, then we are impatient with the mind of Christ bleeding under the crown of thorns.  If we shrink from the broken lives of sinners, then we draw away from Christ fallen and crushed under his cross.  If we will not go to the sick and the poor to help them, we will not help Christ.
         How shall we educate ourselves to face other people’s sufferings?  First, we can start with the physical. … …None of us is so poor that we cannot find another in greater need than our self.  It takes far greater skill to attend to a broken heart than it does to attend to a broken limb.

         “Are you the king of the Jews?” Pilate asked.  “Oh, yes,” we answer on this Reign of Christ Sunday.  “Jesus is the King of Kings.  Lord of Lords.  Forever and ever.  Hallelujah!  Hallelujah!  He is the Truth”

“And what is truth?” Pilate whispered. 

         The Truth is a baby born in Bethlehem, a baby who grew to be a man, a man who grew to be a revolutionary and attempted to turn the world upside down with his ridiculous message, a revolutionary who was eventually and perhaps inevitably brought before Pilate, bruised and beaten with a bleeding split upper lip, his wrists tied behind his back, looking as if his shoulders might pop out of their sockets at any minute who answered Pilate’s first question – “Are you the king of the Jews?” – with a question of his own - and then let Pilate’s second question remain hanging in the air – “What is truth?”

         As we head into the Advent season, perhaps that is the question for us also to answer – as individuals and as the church.  What is truth?  And maybe these lines from “Amahl and the Night Visitors” by Gian Carlo Menotti can point us in the right direction:

“The child we seek doesn’t need our gold.
On love, love alone he will build his kingdom.
His pierced hand will hold no scepter.
His haloed head will wear no crown.
His might will not be built on your toil.
Swifter than lightning He will soon walk among us.
He will bring new life and receive our death,
And the keys to his city belong to the poor.”

         In the end, we know in our hearts what the truth is.  The truth is love.