Nightlights

After their audience with the king, they set out. And behold, the star that they had seen at its rising preceded them, until it came and stopped over the place where the child was. They were overjoyed at seeing the star, and on entering the house, they saw the child with Mary, his mother. . . And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way. (Matthew 2.9-12)

Humans, by and large, are not nocturnal creatures. Or, they were not until artificial means of lighting allowed them to produce the semblance of day even when the sun was down. Before then, humans avoided the night, allowing night creatures–dangerous and malevolent–control of the darkness, while they sought shelter behind walls and doors.

It is almost instinctual, this fear of the dark, so long have we humans protected ourselves from it, encoding into our DNA an aversion to the night, believing it to pose a mortal threat to us, invisible and inhospitable creatures of the night, two-legged and four-legged, lurking in the dark corners, ready to pounce upon us as soon as our scent or presence comes near.

Even now, with street lights and electric lights and car lights, we have not fully adapted to the night, our preference still for the day, pitying others who must work the graveyard shift, avoiding ourselves the darkened streets and eerie sounds of the night. Our safety, we believe, is found in the daylight, removing ourselves to safe quarters when the sun sets, away from the sinister forces prowling in the dark.

Aware of this reality, we find the story that Matthew shares with us all the more intriguing and disquieting because it is a story about the night, not about the day, although we have domesticated the story through its retelling so much so that we forget, at first glance, that it is not a story, as most Biblical stories are, about events in the day, but is a story that takes place in the darkness of the night.

Inarguably, that fact is certain because the magi from the east follow a star, not the sun, and–as we know well–stars are seen in the night sky, not in the day sky. So, these men from the east make their way in the darkness, searching and stumbling, unsure and unsteady as they slowly move ahead, led to an unknown place by the light of a star that seems to stay with them, or slightly ahead of them, urging them on.

And it is there, alongside those men surrounded by the darkness, that we may find the most important message for us daywalkers, people who want the light, but who often find ourselves lost in the dark. Their long journey through the night becomes a metaphor for our own dark night of the soul, when we are forced to find our way, somehow, through the blackness and murkiness that seem to surround us, even if the sun shines above us.

 As Matthew relates their journey, it is clear that they do not travel with certainty, the gift of the day hours, but not of the night. The first word spoken by them is a question, “Where?”, indicating that they do not know for certain where they are going, only that they are searching for someone whom they call the newborn king of the Jews. They are being led by the light of a star, but they do not know where it is leading them.

And for that reason, they stop in Jerusalem, during the day hours, seeking answers from people who should know, but who do not. Hearing their search for this mysterious newborn, Herod, the king presently on the throne, is “greatly troubled,” as Matthew says, adding, “and all Jerusalem with him,” making clear to us that the leaders of Jerusalem don’t have a clue.

Searching ancient tomes and playing with puzzle pieces, the chief priests conjecture that the child might be found in Bethlehem, a safe bet, all things considered, since David, the greatest king of Judea, had been found in Bethlehem when he was no more than a boy looking after his father’s flock of sheep. So, it made sense, they supposed, that another king–unknown and unrecognized–might be found in the same place.

Matthew is not telling us a bedtime story, one to comfort and to console us as the night comes. Already here, he is setting the stage for the dark elements that will soon enough appear. Herod, rattled by the possibility of losing his throne, initiates a murderous campaign against all newborn babies, resulting in Joseph and his family fleeing to Egypt to escape Herod’s reach, and returning to Nazareth, rather than Bethlehem, when Herod dies.

But first Herod duplicitously sends the magi on their way, assuring them that he also would like to meet this newborn king, and, like them, would like to do him homage, urging them to return to him with word of the baby’s whereabouts. Clearly, evil is afoot, as night descends on Jerusalem, and the magi leave the palace in search of the one they seek.

And, no sooner have they left the palace than the star appears again, unexpectedly and unsolicitedly. “And behold,” Matthew writes, “the star that they had seen at its rising preceded them, until it came and stopped over the place where the child was.” Making clear the state of their mind, Matthew adds, “They were overjoyed at seeing the star.”

While Matthew’s intentions in sharing the story of the sojourn of the stargazers from the east are several, we should not hesitate to see it as a story of assurance and reassurance for those of us who, like the magi, find ourselves lost, unsure of our next step, surrounded by a thick darkness that seems impenetrable and impregnable. 

Most, if not all of us, have been there, when uninvited darkness descends upon our day, and we, powerless and petrified, can see no way forward and can find no way out of the fog that makes each footstep uncertain and unsteady. Like the magi, the question at the heart of all our questions is where. Where do we go? Where do we find answers? Nothing seems clear. No pathway promises safety.

Frederick Buechner, always having the right words, describes well this darkness that surrounds us, writing, “If darkness is meant to suggest a world where nobody can see very well–either themselves, or each other, or where they are heading, or even where they are standing at the moment; if darkness is meant to convey a sense of uncertainty, of being lost, of being afraid, if darkness suggests conflict, conflict between races, between nations, between individuals each pretty much out for himself when you come right down to it; then we live in a world that knows much about darkness.”

Yes, we know much about darkness. Trained as we are to fear the night, not only by childhood stories, but by adult experiences, we feel the panic, the dread, the fright of the unknown, willing ourselves to take a step, but unsure which direction to take, our feet frozen in place, as we suffer the dark night of the soul, alone, abandoned, at wit’s end.

When darkness descends, it comes in many disguises –sickness, joblessness, hopelessness–but each brings the same sense of loss, lostness, lightlessness. We see no light at the end of the tunnel, much less light enough to take another step. Is it any wonder that paralysis always seems to be our reaction to the terrors of the night?

But, if that tortuous trip of the magi teaches us anything–and you can believe it had its own tortures–it is this, a bit of light always shines, a small star in the night sky, a glimmer that guides our steps, if not into the far distance, then at least for the next step. Then, step-after-step, we find our way again, led by a flicker, a flash, a tiny flame, just enough to show us that someone walks with us in the night. 

Stars come in all shapes and sizes and they are not always in the sky. Sometimes they are nearby, within reach. Always, they carry a bit of light, perhaps as small as a lightning bug, but big enough to remind us we are never in total darkness. A kind word. A warm embrace. A welcoming smile. These stars appear in the night sky, assuaging our fears, guiding our steps, pointing a way.

Matthew ends his story of the magi with these telling words, “Being warned in a dream that they shouldn’t return to Herod, they went back to their own country another way.” Again, Matthew provides an important lesson to us, even here at the end, telling us that, like the Magi, the way we end up going may not be the expected way, but an unexpected way, different, better, safer. We should not fear the new way, but should follow it. 

When the child in the crib grows up to become the Rabbi of Galilee, he will use the same word that Matthew uses here, hodos, the way, telling his followers that they must follow the narrow way and the way of righteousness, reminding us that the way out of the darkness is not always the easiest way, but it is the right way. Follow the star and we won’t go wrong.

At one point in Jack Kerouac’s epic book, On the Road, a book about finding one’s way almost equal to the magi’s search, he writes this sentence, “As we crossed the Colorado-Utah border, I saw God in the sky in the form of huge gold sunburning clouds above the desert that seemed to point a finger at me and say, ‘Pass here and go on, you’re on the road to heaven.’” 

For Kerouac, it was a cloud pointing the way for him. For the magi, it was a star guiding them on their way. For us, it will be a light, maybe just a sliver, but still enough, to show us the way. Follow it and, if it isn’t the road to heaven, it will, at the very least, point us in the right direction, helping us find our way out of the darkness.

–Jeremy Myers