The Gifts of the Magi
By Tom Reiber
December 1, 2002
Matthew 2: 1-12
day marks the first Sunday of Advent and that excites me because I love Christmas. In lots of churches over the coming weeks there will be sermons criticizing the secularization of Christmas, but you won't hear that from me today. I mean, what's not to like about beautiful lights, presents and a little good will toward all?
That's not to say that I'm opposed to exploring the
deeper meanings of Christmas, and for that we turn to the story of the three
“Wise Men” or the Magi. Scholars who
have investigated the historical underpinnings for these literary figures have
unearthed a priestly class tied to the Parthian empire with roots stretching back
700 years before Christ. This mysterious caste of priests came to be known for
their ability to interpret dreams and to decipher the language of the
stars. While we have nearly lost all
contact with this ancient way of being in the world, we still have our subtle
threads connecting us to it. We change
the colors of our stoles and the paraments to mark the beginning of Advent, a
sacred season the church has been cycling through for centuries. Beneath that many-layered span of history
lurks the still more ancient pre-Christian rites tied to the cycles of the
seasons and the celebrations surrounding the winter solstice. Over time the
early Church co-opted those rituals, seamlessly incorporating the importance of
the stars through the introduction of the wandering Magi.
Standing
on this side of the scientific revolution, it's hard for us to appreciate the
extent to which ancient civilizations felt themselves at one with the
world. Ancient China is but one
example. Thomas Berry, a one-time monk
and modern day mystic who lived for a time in China, gives us this window into
their ancient ways:
“Human activities throughout the year were coordinated with the
cycle of the seasons. …The robes of the
emperor, the palace rooms…, the music and the ceremonies were all carefully
coordinated with the seasons…. The
supreme achievement of the human personality in this context,” Berry explains,
“was to experience one's self as ‘one body' with ‘heaven and Earth….' In the vast creative processes of the
universe the human was ‘a third along with heaven and Earth' as a primordial
force shaping the entire order of things. …A sense of the sacred dimension of
the universe is evident here, a type of awareness of the natural world that
seems to be less available from our modern Western religions” (The Great Work,
p. 23).
Berry's description of ancient China helps us
appreciate the gulf that separates us from the world-view of the Magi. We no longer have that sense of
belonging. We have, for the most part,
stopped listening to our dreams. And
the movements of the stars have become the purview of specialists. One of the
great ironies of modern times is that we know more about the physical universe
than at any previous time in history, yet we've never been so alienated from
it. Like Adam and Eve eating from tree
and being expelled from the Garden, the cost of our knowledge is a profound
sense of alienation.
The Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky knew
something about this sense of alienation and the struggle to lift up a vision
of Christianity strong enough to withstand the ravages of modernity.[1] That may sound like hyperbole, but trust me;
it's not. The eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries witnessed a revolutionary spirit sweeping Europe, and Russia, with
its outdated feudal economy, was threatened by the winds of change. A rising tide of socialist thought produced
a heated ideological debate concerning the nature of justice, the relevance of
Christianity and the plight of the poor. It was a time to take a stand if ever there was one. Dostoevsky's faith prompted him to join a
revolutionary group sympathetic to the peasant class, which eventually got him
arrested and sentenced to death. Blindfold and standing on the scaffold, Dostoevsky whispered to a
friend, “Today we will be with Christ.” His friend, responded with a more Earthy spirituality, saying that today
they would return to “a handful of dust.” The execution was called off in the final seconds, a vicious ploy worthy
of Herod, but carried out by Nicholas I to intimidate the liberal
intelligentsia. That experience,
coupled with a subsequent four-year stint in a Siberian prison, deepened
Dostoevsky's insight into the human condition and formed the seeding ground for
his great, world-shaking fiction.
I lift up Dostoevsky as a modern day Magi, a
literary magician whose works function like great myths, consolidating the
foundational human conflicts and hinting in the direction of their
resolution. Take, for example, his
highly charged and deeply symbolic short story, “The Dream of a Ridiculous
Man.” In the story, the ridiculous man
has reached an existential crisis in his life. The character confides to the
reader, “…I suddenly felt that it made no difference to me whether the world
existed or whether nothing existed at all” (p. 718).[2] We can hardly imagine a more concise
expression of meaninglessness. It
didn't matter to him whether or not the world existed. The ridiculous man is a symbol for the
ailing zeitgeist of modern times.
Gripped by despair, he decides to take his
life. Symbolically Dostoevsky is saying
that we've exhausted the resources available to our current mode of being and
must dig down deep if we are to find new sources of strength and
inspiration. Though utterly despondent,
the ridiculous man is briefly animated by his decision to take his life. He leaves work at the end of the day and
walks briskly in the direction of home. He's so consumed by his resolve that when a little girl runs up to him
on the street, begging urgently for some sort of help, he yells at her to leave
him alone. She clings to his sleeve,
sobbing, and tugging, caught up in some sort of dire situation and desperate
for help. He's unable to shake her off
until another pedestrian appears on the other side of the street and the girl
darts off in the direction of the other man.
Freed from the meddling interruption, he arrives at
his apartment, sits down at his desk, loads his pistol, and prepares to
die. But though he made his escape from
the little girl, thoughts of her plight begin to nag at his mind. What had been the matter? How could he have acted so callously? While he sits at his desk, pondering these
questions, he falls asleep and has a dream.
Now we might gloss over the importance of the dream
in the narrative, just as we might overlook it in this morning's Gospel text
(in which the Magi are warned via a dream not to return to their homeland by
way of Herod), but if we were to do that we would miss a profound insight into
both great literature and sacred scripture. Both suggest that the healing of the human condition requires guidance
and sustenance from realms beyond our rational, conscious minds. If we are to make the religious connection,
we must connect with that which is rooted beneath the surface layer of things. In modern terms, we can say that we have to
step beyond the realm of the conscious ego, opening to the depth of the
unconscious and the luminous power of symbols. This is the function of great literature and drama. They connect us to this realm. When we open to it, we stretch ourselves by
faith, seeking to follow the shining star that gleams in the dark night of the
soul, promising to guide us.[3]
In the ridiculous man's dream he is sitting at the
table with the loaded gun—but he's dreaming now. He picks up the gun and shoots himself in the heart, symbolizing
that it's his heart that's failing him, not his mind. He dies and is taken to a
beautiful place, one much like the world that he knows except it is totally
uncorrupted by human evil. There is no
lying, no greed or envy or lust. There
is nothing but love, a love so powerful and profound he never forgets it, even
upon awakening.
But before he wakes up, something curious happens
within the drama of the dream. He
begins to talk to the people who inhabit this perfect world, telling them about
all the troubles in the world he had left behind. To his dismay he finds that his ideas slowly begin to creep into
the minds of the others, spreading like a spiritual virus and corrupting their
perfect world. Their corruption is so
complete that when he begins to plead with them to return to their previous way
of being, they threaten to put him in an insane asylum. The perfect world has been brought down to
the world the protagonist left in desperation. But all is made right when he wakes up. The power of the dream lifts him out of his despair, and he proceeds to
live out of the memory of the world's loving perfection. He's seen what the world could look like,
and that vision is sufficient to carry him forward.
But what about that strange turn of events in his
dream in which he corrupts the perfect world? Was that really necessary? And
if so, why? Working with the story as
myth, we could say that the ridiculous man is on the hero's journey. After having exhausted the rational way of
life offered by the reigning zeitgeist, he ventures down into the depths of the
psyche and the soul. What he finds
there is beautiful, almost painfully so. Yet he has a corrupting influence on that beauty. This turn of events touches on the modern
spiritual challenge facing us all and the ultimate meaning of the Gospel for
this age. If the gift of the Magi is a
gift of hope that there may in fact be underlying meanings to this vast,
evolving cosmos, then the inescapable human reality looming over us all like a great
Russian postscript is that we are at odds with these deeper purposes, we are
harming the Earth and hurting its inhabitants.
Dostoevsky presumes we need to reconnect with the
deeper meanings of the world. But he
makes clear there can be no increase in consciousness without a corresponding
awareness of our individual and collective responsibility. Without that essential insight, we could
easily escape all accountability. How
easy it would be to think, “It's not us Christians who are responsible for the
world's suffering. No, of course
not. We're all for democracy and free
markets and human rights. We're the
good guys. It's those Iraqis or the North Koreans or the other members of the
‘axis of evil who are to blame.'” To
fall into that trap is to abandon the most profound insight of our Gospel
tradition: the spiritual life begins when we hold the mirror up to ourselves.
Dostoevsky captures this in the strange turn of
events within his character's dream in which the man realizes he bears some
responsibility. Of course in the dream he is solely responsible for the
corruption of the world, an exaggeration typical of dream symbolism. That kind of guilt would be too much for
anyone to bear—and it would be foolish to try. But it's equally foolish to relinquish all sense of moral
accountability. To walk in the path of
Jesus, is to struggle to face one's collusion with the powers that be. This theme finds its consummate expression
at the close of the Gospels, when Jesus' disciples scatter in fear and even
Peter denies him. The story of the Magi
is filled with allusions to this theme. The text says that when Herod heard about the birth of a new King he
grew alarmed, “and all Jerusalem with him” (Matthew 2:3). As much as we'd like to identify with the
Magi, the narrative suggests that they were exceptions to the norm. Herod and
his entourage and all of Jerusalem saw in the birth of Christ, not a sign of
hope, but a threat to the system.
Viewed from this vantage point we can see that
Herod and the Magi are more than mere characters in a religious fairy
tale. They represent psychological
types, symbols for two modes of consciousness that are still very much present
in the world. The mindset of Herod is
the mindset that sees the Earth and its creatures as objects to be exploited
for material gain. Nothing is sacred,
nothing is above the worship of the almighty dollar. It doesn't matter if the Earth is being despoiled, if its oceans
are being over-fished, if its forests are being raped. These things are said to be inevitable, the
cost of “progress.” Those in Herod's
entourage are quick to tell us there simply is no other way.[4]
But what do the Magi represent if not another
way? Unlike Herod, who tried to kill
the sacred, they bowed before it. Like
mythic forebears of Christ, they affirm the dawning of a new era in the sacred
history of the cosmos. Their role in
the narrative is essentially to announce that the Christ child is to be the
culmination of the ancient mysteries. Bearing that foreshadowing out, Jesus' mature message proved to be a
window into the unified depths of reality. His ethic was rooted in an intuitive sense of life's interconnections
that we are still just beginning to understand. John Shelby Spong says in this vein, “I believe that this is a
major step beyond our evolutionary security system, reflecting a call to become
that which we human beings have not yet ever been. It is an invitation to enter the “New Being” about which Tillich
speaks—a humanity without barriers, a humanity without the defensive claims of
tribal fear, a transformed humanity so full and so free that God is perceived
to be present within it.[5]
Just the other day the Science section of the New
York Times ran a cover story about new discoveries from the cutting edge of
cosmology. It now appears that what we
had previously thought to be the limits of the known universe is in fact one
tiny bubble on a much larger, inconceivably vast evolving carpet of cosmic
energy. Trying to grasp that idea
underscores the way our factual knowledge is outpacing our theological and
metaphysical knowledge. It's
fascinating, but what might it mean? Is
all of this just random? Or is there
something guiding this evolving miracle? Our UCC appointment books have a quote on the front cover:
“Don't Put A Period Where God Has Placed A Comma.”
What a daring thought:
that revelation might not be finished, that the dreams and insights we are
having and sharing and struggling to birth may be part of a still unfolding
story in which we each have a part.
If this is true, it would have tremendous
implications for our orientation to the world. We could no longer afford to view a 20 million gallon oil spill as
something far enough away so as not to involve us. Feeling at home in the cosmos and in relationship with the Earth,
we would have to feel saddened by the tragedy and we would have to be mindful
of it when we climb into our cars and turn the key. We would have to think twice about going to war for more oil for
cars that are rapidly destroying the planet.
We would have to look at each other not as random
evolutionary accidents, but as sacred, mysterious beings created from the dust
of stars and called into being from the very depths of the universe
itself. What would the world look like
if we acted out of that kind of consciousness? I bet we'd turn the other cheek more, and be more like the lilies of the
field, not caring so much about what we eat and drink or what we wear. I bet we'd be more giving to those who ask
and more tuned in to the little children. That of course is the lynchpin that holds Dostoevsky's story together,
that little girl that runs up to the ridiculous man and awakens his heart.
Yes, turning the other cheek and giving to those
who ask and loving your enemy all sound like one big pipe dream. That's why Dostoevsky entitled his story
“The Dream of the Ridiculous Man.” He
knew how ridiculous his ideas sounded, and yet deep down he believed they were
true. In the final analysis we each
have to decide for ourselves what it means to be a follower of Herod in today's
world, and what it means, by contrast, to walk in the mystical path of the
Magi. I'd imagine the truth is we all
end up spending time in both camps. But
one thing is clear, when we are in tune with mindset of the Magi, beautiful
things happen, modern day parables emerge that are tied to the heart of this
mysterious, self-generating universe.
Case
in point: just last spring after church one Sunday I walked outside and saw a
group of kids gathered around a hole that had been drilled to get soil samples
for the construction. Chuck's foster
daughter, Jesse, had dropped a plastic bracelet into the hole and was on her
side in the dirt, trying to reach down to get it. Her brother Geo took his shoe off and stuck his leg down the
hole, trying to grab the bracelet with his toes. Being the stuffy minister who didn't want to get his new pants
dirty, I volunteered to go get a flashlight. By the time I got back, Mike and Davis McMillan were walking up. Davis plopped down in the dirt, ruining a
nice shirt and giving his best effort. But his arm wasn't quite long enough. At that point his dad, Mike, got down in the dirt, reached down and
grabbed it. He handed it to Jesse as if
it were gold or frankincense or myrrh.
What
is the Creator of the universe whispering to you in your dreams? Why, of all the millions of life forms
called into being on this vast planet, have you been called into being?
I invite you, in the words of the poet Rilke, to
live the questions. May they lead you on a long and magical journey. Watch out for Herod as you go, listen to
your dreams, and don't lose sight of the stars.
Amen.
[1] Dostoevsky
was well aware of the contrast between ancient and modern civilizations. It just so happened that as he was taking
over as the editor of a Russian weekly (The Citizen), the emperor of
China was married. After noting that
the marriage had been anticipated for centuries, he remarked that, had he been
appointed an editor in China, “Matters
would have been handled differently…. There would have been no need for a new editor to think at about his
future duties because “there, everything has been anticipated and planned for a
thousand years…, while here everything is topsy-turvy for a thousand years”
(Frank, Joseph. Dostoevsky: The
Mantle of the Prophet 1871-1881, Princeton: Princeton University Press, p.
88).
[2] Dostoevsky,
Fyodor. “The Ridiculous Man,” as found
in The Great Short Works of Fyodor Dostoevsky (New York: Harper and Row,
1968).
[3] There's a
curious passage in Dostoyevsky's story, where the ridiculous man says about the
perfect people that they “pointed out the stars to me and talked to me about
them in a way that I could not understand, but I am certain that in some
curious way they communed with the stars in the heavens, not only in thought,
but in some actual, living way” (p. 730). Nearly two thousand years after Christ this great Russian novelist
brushed up against the same kind of mystical worldview modeled by the Magi.
[4]
This is the mindset of the Grand Inquisitor in Dostoevsky's masterpiece, The
Brothers Karamozov. In highly
charged, explosive dialogue worthy of another sermon entirely, Dostoevsky
answers the charge that humanity is ultimately too week to support the ideals
expressed in Christ's teaching.
[5] Spong, John
Shelby. A New Christianity for a New
World (New York: HarperCollins, 2001), p. 133.
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