When All The World Is Persuaded To Rejoice [Epiphany 1]
Matthew 2:1-12
On Epiphany Sunday we remember that Jesus is the Light of
the World. He’s not a Jewish light. Not a light only for people from ancient
Middle Eastern cultures. Not a light
just for religious people. He’s not a
light for people who like going to church.
He’s not a light for people who obey the rules and keep their noses
clean. This holy one born to Mary is light
for the world; light for everyone, everywhere.
Though we sang “We Three Kings” this morning, we have no
reason to assume that there were three magi, nor that they were “kings.” More likely, this was a traveling band of
astrologers accompanied by their servants and supplies. They were likely from Babylon (or what is now
Iraq). They may well have been of the
Zoroastrian religion. But the point of
the story is that they weren’t Jewish.
They represent all of us who wonder whether there is a new light being
born in us too.
So the caravan of Eastern astrologers makes its way to
Jerusalem and asks for an audience with King Herod. They ask Herod where the “King of the Jews”
is to be born. Herod was familiar with
foreign delegations bowing to his authority. He was not used to travelers appearing to ask
about other powerful figures in his Roman territory.
We know that Herod was rattled by this delegation because he
later orders the murder of all the young male children in Bethlehem. But in the presence of this delegation, Herod
gathers himself, plays it cool, and manages to disguise his fear long enough to
summon the Jewish scholars. Their study
of the Scriptures reveals that the Christ child is to be born in
Bethlehem. So Herod sends the caravan on
their way, with instructions to return with a report on their way back to
Iraq.
When the caravan of astrologers approach Bethlehem, they see
the star again and are “overjoyed.” And this
time it leads them to the home where they found Mary with her child Jesus (who
is probably a year or two old by this point).
Upon entering the house, they fall facedown in front of the toddler and
his mother Mary – their bodies expressing their reverence and respect. And then they presented the child with gifts. Because they were spiritually open, God was
able to speak to them in the depths of their dreams to warn them to bypass
jealous, fuming Herod on their way back home.
What an odd scene.
And what an odd way of telling it.
Here we have a large, traveling caravan of astrologers and attendants
from Babylon. They travel for weeks on end in order to worship this newly born
light. They fall down, give gifts, then
leave. Did the foreign travelers even
speak the Aramaic of Mary and Joseph?
What was said or communicated between them? Did the travelers try to explain why they had
come? How long did they stay? Did they have lunch before they left? Of these and other questions Matthew’s gospel
shows no interest.
The gospels as we have them are not the eye-witness accounts
of journalists. They are, instead,
something much better. They are artful
and inspired invitations to imagine ourselves caught up in the attraction to
God’s new light, beckoned to our own adventures into unknown but exciting territory.
This gospel story offers us the graceful possibility of
seeing our own lives in a new way. We
too are caught in the tension between the pull of power politics and the
attraction to this new and joyful light.
There will always be a king Herod, demanding, threatening, and
afraid. Yet the caravan of seekers did
not find Herod’s agenda all that interesting.
They represent for us the possibility of a life that is centered not on
raw power but instead on hope and joy.
This Jewish story reminds us that Jewish frameworks cannot
contain the light. This holy birth is
the birth of light that bursts any narrow limits and illumines the whole world,
even those who seem to us foreign, exotic, and different. Put differently, the magi remind us that
there isn’t anyone who doesn’t live within the intense, gravitational pull of
the Christ light.
That’s why Jesus says to his followers at the very end of
Matthew’s gospel: “Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them
to obey everything I have commanded you” (28:19-20). I believe that that all people want to be
persuaded to rejoice. Not all people
like the idea of being “religious.” Not
all people want to sign up for all the expectations that come with organized
and institutional religion. But all of
us share an intense, passionate search for what it is that will bring us joy.
There is a book on my shelves with the title, Persuade Us to Rejoice: The Liberating Power
of Fiction. Sometimes I buy books
simply because the title knocks my socks off.
And that’s why I bought this one.
“Persuade Us to Rejoice.” The
book explores how good fiction and artful storytelling can lead us out of our
deadness and into the pulsing joy of life.
And it suggests that artists are primarily in the business of “persuasion.” Any work of art – be it a book or a painting
or a poem or a song – has as its truest task to “persuade us to rejoice.” Stories and movies and music and buildings
call to us, beckon us forward, luring us into an infectious joy.
An “epiphany” is a revelation, a manifestation, or an
appearance of light. And on Epiphany
Sunday this gospel story awakens us to the light in our own lives. The warmth of this light, the illumination
that makes new discoveries possible, the intense pull of its attraction – all
of this now has a name for us: Jesus Christ.
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