Seeking. It’s one of our fascinations, the foundation
of so many of our most treasured stories: the hero who seeks. Whether it’s a movie in which Susan is desperately
sought, a novel about a boy seeking his treasure with the aid of an Alchemist,
or songs by a band who still hasn’t found what it’s looking for, we admire
protagonists who let themselves be known as seekers, who admit to their
audience that they have a deep need which makes them restless and who spend
their restless energy searching. We value
their attentiveness to every possible clue, the ways in which their eyes open to
the world around them and thank them that we start to see it more keenly
through their inquisitive gaze. We root
for their success, because we want to see these characters find their missing
piece so as we can finally see them whole, and so find a little of what we’re
looking for. We’re fascinated by these
characters because they put into action what we can’t help but wonder about:
how can I seek the place my restless heart can rest?
I think
that’s why the Magi hold such a place in our imagination, why the figures of
them have been making their way around our church since the Christmas
decorations went up, why we come here today to celebrate at long last their
arrival at the feet at the one born King of the Jews. They’d noticed curious happenings in the sky,
which doubtless most people had missed.
Given how strange the happenings on earth had been, that God who created
the universe and holds the heavens in his span had been born in a Jewish
backwater, that all-powerful God had embraced the vulnerability of babyhood; it
should be no great surprise if the heavens themselves declared with ripple
effects this divine irruption into the human world. The next time Matthew’s Gospel will narrate a
celestial event it won’t be so hard to miss: when the God of Life consents to
death on the cross out of love for us, his last breath will be accompanied by a
complete eclipse of the sun! But, for
now, he comes in obscurity and hiddenness, a baby, and only experts can see the
sign.
They
can’t understand it all, though. The
Magi are masters of the highest Wisdom of their age, devoted to painstaking
observation and calculation of the position of the stars, but they don’t have
the advantage of divine revelation through the scriptures. To find what they seek, they must first go to
Herod, who consults with the Jewish sages, who consult their scrolls. In this encounter, we meet the tale’s first
non-seeker: Herod. Herod refuses to
seek. Herod, who became king by
political machination, is confronted with talk of one born King of the Jews and is threatened. It’s almost laughable: he’s threatened by a
baby. It would be laughable if we didn’t
know the rest of the story: that the reason Herod wants to know the exact time
the star appeared is so as he can have every baby boy in Bethlehem of that age
killed. Herod is not a seeker. He thinks he has everything he needs to
satisfy him – he has the kingship! He
deludes himself that he can rest secure content fulfilled, only occasionally
dispatching others to do his dirty work for him and eliminate any threat to his
position. He thinks he has it made, so
he feels no need for his Maker.
The Magi
will keep seeking though. And they
find. Amazed and overjoyed by a miracle
with a star, they follow and find a more mundane scene: a small child, with his
mother, in a house. What a humble
scene! Disarmingly simple. The heavens had moved to show them
this!? Their joy doesn’t allow the Magi
time to question, they are spontaneously moved to adore. They have finally found what they were
looking for. They have found what (whom!)
their gifts were meant for.
That’s
not just their quest, it’s the quest: to find what our gifts are meant
for. It’s the realization that in all of
our restless anxiety, all of our searching for just what question we’re even
meant to be asking, there’s a question trying to draw an answer from us: the
God who seeks us out, who asks: “Won’t you come and rest awhile with me?” Church, we’re on pilgrimage. It’s not a neat orderly pilgrimage, but it’s
a holy one. We are all seekers
participating with the God who seeks, and there is an end point to our journey:
we will rest secure, not in our own achievements, but in the God of grace who
invites us to experience His presence as we give the gifts we have received
from Him. That’s how we finally find
ourselves, find God: gazing at that organ tells us very little, we can only
hear it by playing it. We can only know our
gifts in giving them; we only know ourselves by knowing our maker; we only know
the God who has nothing but gifts to give, by giving our own.
Friends,
at your baptism, you were probably given a candle, lit from the Easter candle,
the light of Christ’s resurrection, to light your way. That’s the light we hear of in Isaiah. It’s the light of God’s glory given us to
light our way as we journey together; it’s light given as light for all the
nations as they journey to give their gifts.
Even the chaotic sea will discover itself as a giver of gifts, lain at
the feet of our Lord. It’s a light given
us to share. It doesn’t dim a candle to
light another candle. Bathed with gospel
light, we will discover the mystery we heard read from Ephesians: that we are
all members of the one body. We’re all
in this together; we’re all fellow needy seekers, the recipients of star light,
given to share, not to be hidden under a bushel basket, but to set the world
ablaze with. We seek. We will find rest.
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