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. They prostrated themselves and did him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way. (Matthew 1.9-12)
Today is the Feast of the Epiphany, a celebration so old that it actually was observed before Christmas was put on the calendar in the 4th century. In the early centuries, the great holy days were Easter, Pentecost, and Epiphany, a forgotten fact that frequently results in its relegation to secondary importance behind Christmas, at least in the western church. The eastern church–and some European countries–still observe Epiphany with greater solemnity and celebration.
So why was Epiphany of such great importance to the early church, since it does not celebrate the birth of Jesus as much as it recognizes the journey of the Magi “from the east” who traveled to Bethlehem to see the newborn child? There are many good reasons, beginning with an understanding of the word “epiphany,” a word with Greek origins that means an appearance or a manifestation, especially of a divine being.
In the Mathean text, this epiphany or manifestation occurs at the start of his gospel, and, in many ways, highlights not only a singular manifestation, but the first of many appearances of divinity into the humdrum world of humanity. As the first appearance–found in the birth of the child in Bethlehem–it has primary importance, but it is not the last.
And, although Matthew’s gospel is the most Jewish of the four sacred texts, clearly addressing itself to a Jewish audience, the story of the visit of the Magi found at the beginning of his “good news” signals that God’s love extends far beyond the boundaries of Judea, even to non-Jews. The Magi, representing “the nations” or the gentiles, signal the extension of divine love to all peoples, regardless of ethnicity, origin, or practice.
Here, at the start, these gentiles search for the child so that they might pay him homage. At the end of the gospel, the child, now grown and having completed his mission, assigns his followers to “go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations,” the word nations meaning, in effect, the gentiles. With gentiles worshiping the newborn at the start and with the commission to go to the gentiles at the end, Matthew makes it abundantly clear through these bookends that boundaries do not exist in God’s world, his love flowing from east to west, from north to south.
Paul of Tarsus, a learned scholar of Judaism, writing before Matthew, makes the same point when he pens his letter to the Ephesians, telling them, “For Christ himself has brought peace to us. He united Jews and Gentiles into one people, when, in his own body on the cross, he broke down the wall of hostility that separated us” (Ephesians 2.9).
It is a powerful image, then, provided to us on this feast, a strong reinforcement of the central Christian belief that love is the essence of the Divine One; and love, as a consequence, is the essential characteristic of the person who wishes to follow the ways of God in this world. And the central rule of love is that nothing is permitted to separate us from others–no barrier, no boundary, no belief.
Also, already here, Matthew makes clear his intent to reveal Jesus as the King of the Jews, having these magi seek the one whom they call the newborn King of the Jews. As we see, this becomes a trigger for the wicked King Herod who sat on the throne and whose mistrust and paranoia were legendary, resulting in his killing one of his wives and three of his own sons. Fearing a rival to his throne, he orchestrates a massacre of small boys, hoping in this way to annihilate the one whom the men from the east have sought.
Then, at the end of Matthew’s gospel, we find Pilate posing this question to Rabbi Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?” The soldiers stationed at the cross as executioners and as henchmen speak to the Crucified Jesus these words of mockery, “Hail, King of the Jews.” And, were that not enough, Pilate instructs them to nail a sign atop the cross that reads, “Jesus, the King of the Jews.”
So, there is a juxtaposition in the text with the magi recognizing the newborn child as the King of the Jews, while Pilate and his henchmen, including the priests and leaders of Jerusalem–want to destroy the one they call the King of the Jews, much the same as Herod did at the start. Neither Herod nor the Jerusalem elite are successful. For Matthew, Rabbi Jesus is indisputably the King of the Jews, as the magi recognize, even if he is in a humble abode at the beginning of the gospel and is nailed to a cross at the end of the gospel.
These are some of the clearest and truest lessons presented in this feast, clarion calls for inclusion rather than exclusion, for finding in the child of Bethlehem the long-promised King of the Jews, recognized by men from afar, even if unrecognized by men nearby, a reminder of the blindness to the divine presence that is always a challenge to peoples of every age.
For my part, I find another lesson in the text, more often than not overlooked and underappreciated, but worthy of our attention, at least in my mind, if we truly want to fully appreciate the beauty and the bounty of the Epiphany. That lesson is found tucked into the text close to the end after the magi have left Herod’s palace, continuing to follow the star that has led them to this point of their long journey.
Matthew says that “after their audience with the king they set out.” A more literal translation might read, “They, having heard the king, went their way.” By itself, the statement seems unimportant, something meant to move the narrative along. But anytime we hear “the way,” we want to pay close attention because, more often than not, it can be seen as a subtle allusion to Rabbi Jesus’ words, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.”
And, as we know, after the resurrection, believers in the Easter event were called “followers of the Way,” the name “Christian” not ascribed to these earliest believers until several decades later. For the first decades, they were simply those who followed the way of Rabbi Jesus, meaning their way of life adhered to the way of the Galilean Rabbi, a way of living formulated both in his words and by his deeds.
Given this fact, it is important to see that Matthew already alerts us in these early pages to those who choose to follow the path that leads to Rabbi Jesus, these men from the east being the first of those who stay on the way, find that the Lord Jesus truly is the way, the truth, and the life, allowing nothing and nobody to deter them from the way, not the Herods of the world, not the power brokers of the world, not those who see the world only in terms of city blocks, or county lines, or the borders of a country.
So it should be no surprise, then, that Matthew concludes this story of the magi with a sentence that encapsulates the whole of his gospel. He writes, “And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way.” Having found the child in Bethlehem, these men now choose “another way,” a way that leads away from evildoers and egomaniacs and extortionists.
This other way, Matthew subtly points out in this statement, leads to physical safety, not only for the magi, but also promises salvation of souls to those who choose not to return to Herod, the epitome of those who choose perniciousness, who crush the poor, and who condemn the powerless. It is the proverbial fork in the road, or as Rabbi Jesus spoke of, the narrow road or the wide road.
We find here the constant challenge for the Christian believer, the person who espouses the way of Rabbi Jesus: to stay on the narrow path, a way of life that seeks to find the Lord Jesus, or to return to Herod, a well-trodden and worn road, a way of life that shuns the teachings of Rabbi Jesus in favor of the ways of the world.
Matthew tells us that the magi were “warned in a dream not to return to Herod,” their decision to heed the warning earning them the name “wise men.” The same warning is offered to us by way of their story, our wisdom dependent on our decision whether to choose wisely or to choose foolishly, to walk the way of Rabbi Jesus or to walk the way of Herod.
Too often, we treat this feast of Epiphany as we do a drive-through, grabbing a bite to eat and hurrying on to the next thing. After all, Christmas is done and we’ve packed away our decorations until next year, our energies expended on pageants and parties and the presents of that holiday, leaving little to nothing for this stepchild of a celebration.
But the early followers of Rabbi Jesus understood something about Epiphany better than we do. They found in the story of the magi the arc of their own lives as believers, seeing themselves as seekers of the way as the magi were, restless if they were not on the road, their days spent in search of the one who assured them that he was the way, the truth, and the life.
And the joy that the magi found when their travels were done and their brush with evil had been averted was the joy that awaited them when their steps also would bring them face to face with the King of the Jews, the Word of God made flesh in a world often deaf to the divine voice. Until that day arrived and until the star came to rest for them, they stayed faithful to the way, trustful, hopeful, faithful.
So, today, we allow that same message of promise to enter our hearts, strengthening and supporting us on our sojourn of life, offering us a roadmap to the One who saves as surely as the star led the magi to Bethlehem, where, after many miles, they also found the One they sought, the One we also seek to follow as we make our own way to Bethlehem.
–Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 