A reflection for Epiphany, or the visit of the wise.
Like many who grew up in the church, I learned to be wary of different knowledges. We never read our horoscopes, for they were considered to be devilish astrology. We avoided some Asian restaurants, because their shrines of incense and oranges looked like sacrifices to idols. We didn’t learn Indigenous stories, because we suspected they might open us up to demonic forces. We knew that the people of God have an abhorrence for pagans, idols and foreign gods: and we were faithful. And yet every year we set up our nativity scene with wise men from the East.
Who were these people? First, they were not kings; this is a polite fiction not found in Matthew’s story. Matthew calls them Magi, which we translate as ‘wise men.’ From the same Greek root we get the English word ‘magician’, which should give us a clue that they weren’t Jewish biblical scholars.
Instead, they were pagan astrologers who observed signs in nature and gleaned wisdom from them; they read the stars. And they were from the East: somewhere near Iraq in a region formerly known as Babylon. They were exactly the sort of people I was taught to be wary of, using knowledge I was supposed to avoid.
I was to trust prophets like Isaiah, who offered hope to a shattered nation. His city had been destroyed, its people scattered in exile; generations later, they were finally coming home. But what they found was ruins. To these devastated people Isaiah promises newness: a city rebuilt, a people restored, and abundant peace and prosperity. He envisions the day when Jerusalem will become a centre of great power and wealth, the nations will come bearing gifts, and a shepherd will lead the people.
Surprisingly perhaps, the wise men in Matthew’s story also trusted Isaiah. Maybe they had encountered the prophet through the teachings of Daniel, that Jewish seer who was taken captive and rose to prominence in the Babylonian court. Maybe they knew other Jewish exiles. We don’t know. What we do know is that, when they noticed a new star ascendent and with it the promise of a new king, they thought of Isaiah.
Astrology told them a king had been born, but Jewish scripture pointed them to Jerusalem. And something about this story thrilled them. They wanted to be part of it, so they travelled to Jerusalem to find this king, bearing the gifts of gold and frankincense named in Isaiah’s prophecy (Is. 60:7).
Once they arrived, however, the baby was nowhere to be found. They asked around and got zip, nada, nothing. Eventually their enquiries reached the king. When Herod heard, he was agitated beyond belief. A new king meant an end to him and his line, and maybe even his world order. But he hid his fear, instead bringing together religious leaders and biblical scholars and asking where the child would be found.
The religious leaders and the biblical scholars put their heads together and remembered another prophecy. Not Isaiah, with its promise of global wealth and glory pouring into Jerusalem. Not Isaiah, with its forecast of yet more sacrifices of yet more bulls from yet more people. Not Isaiah, with its return to a business-as-usual privileging of urban elites.
Instead, they remembered Micah, who located his prophecy six miles from Jerusalem. For Micah proclaimed that from Bethlehem, a scruffy little village far beyond the city walls, ‘will come a ruler who will be the shepherd of my people.’
Micah is the peasant’s promise. Where Isaiah celebrates the city drawing in wealth, Micah knows the cost to the countryside. And so Micah describes an agrarian peace. In his vision, everyone has their own patch of land and time to rest beneath their own vine and fig tree; weapons of war have been turned into farming tools.
Micah’s vision resists agribusiness and large landholdings and the channelling of wealth to the city. It rejects expensive burnt offerings and other ceremonies only the elite can afford, and instead names justice, kindness and humbleness as the true sacrifices God seeks.
It’s a disruptive vision, treasonous even, to offer to a city-based king. Perhaps the religious leaders and biblical scholars tremble in their boots as they mention it to Herod. But because he wants to destroy the child, Herod passes the information on, and that is how the wise ones end up kneeling before a toddler in the backblocks, offering their precious gifts.
What I notice is this. In Matthew’s story, it’s not religious leaders or biblical scholars but pagan astrologers who are the first to acknowledge Jesus as Christ and king.
More, these wise ones brought together different forms of knowledge: Jewish prophecy and astrology. And they got pretty close: six miles away. But it wasn’t quite enough. So they sought further information. The word from Micah reshaped their vision away from the arrogance of rulers and leaders and urban elites, and towards a small and humble place. And when they accepted this new information and acted on it, they were filled with joy and brought to their knees and set on a different path.
I also notice something else: the religious leaders and biblical scholars didn’t show up. The wise ones had asked all over Jerusalem, ‘Where is the one born king of the Jews? We saw his star in the east …’ The word was out on the street; even Herod heard it.
Yet the religious leaders and biblical scholars seemed oblivious. They didn’t heed the new information gathered from the stars. They didn’t pack their bags with precious gifts, or journey to Bethlehem. They weren’t filled with joy, brought to their knees, or sent home by a different way. Instead they stayed in Jerusalem, business-as-usual, at a tyrannical king’s beck and call.
And I wonder. When we in the faith are wary of outsiders, when we dismiss different ways of knowing and being in the world, what do we miss? When we refuse to engage in conversation with diversity or trust other people’s experience, are we blinding ourselves to God’s presence?
In contemporary terms, what could white Christians learn from First Peoples or Muslims or migrants? What stories are inscribed across the land, or written in the stars? What knowledges do women or queer folk hold that expand the horizons of grace? And are we paying attention?
For the wise ones brought good news that religious insiders disregarded. The wise ones then sought out new information and allowed it to change them. The wise ones shifted their focus from the centre of power to a small, poor and humble place. And the wise ones showed that to seek out this topsy-turvy reality is to discover God’s newness and God’s delight.
This epiphany, then, let us be wise. Let us be humble and curious and open to newness; let us seek Christ in strange and unexpected places; and let us be ready to travel a different way. In the name of the one first revealed in a young woman’s lap, Jesus Christ, our Lord: Amen. Ω
A reflection for Epiphany © Alison Sampson, 2024. Photo by Inbal Malca on Unsplash.
Alison and the whale 