Stargazing—2
of my favorite movies have stargazing scenes in them. In the “Lion King”— Timon the Meercat, Pumba the warthog, and
Simba the lion and are lying on the ground, looking up at the stars in the
night sky. Pumba says, “Have you
ever wondered what they are?” and Timon says “I don’t wonder. I know. They’re fireflies that somehow
got stuck in all that black stuff.”
Pumba disagrees—“I always thought they were great balls of gas burning
millions of miles away,” he says.
And Simba, the Lion King-to-be says, “Someone once told me they were
great kings of the past, watching over us.”
In
“Last of the Mohicans”—the star-crossed lovers, Cora and Nathaniel lying on the
ground, look up at the stars in the night sky. Nathaniel offers these stars as monuments to the brave,
hard-working pioneers who settled the fierce, wild frontier.
Stargazing—do
you have any memories of star gazing?
. . . My first and best memories of stargazing are with Kevin—whose
description of his summer internship at McDonald Observatory (along with his
long, wild-looking hair) first attracted me to him. In the first years of our marriage, traveling from Austin to
Snyder on Thanksgiving eve nights, Kevin would talk about the stars and point
out constellations such as Orion’s belt. Driving in dark, towards desolate west Texas, away from the
light pollution of Houston and Austin, I had my first glimpses of the Milky Way
galaxy.
Stargazing—Looking
at the stars, pondering their distance from us, wondering whether or not they
are actually still burning when their light finally reaches earth—stargazing
places us in the context of a vast universe and reminds us of the omniscience,
the providence, and the power of the One who created it all.
This
story begins with stargazers—not amateurs like the characters in the movies I
mentioned, not even pseudo professionals like Kevin with his astronomy degree. This story begins with professional
stargazers—scholars who studied both the stars and the ancient writings that
related natural phenomena with prophecy and portent. These professional stargazers notice a new, a different star
in the night sky. Researching ancient writings, they conclude it heralds the
birth of a new Jewish king. Some
of them stay where they are, content with their data, their research, and their
conclusion—content with their knowledge.
But some of these scholar/stargazers are moved by the portent of this
new star. They are physically
moved—to travel, to journey to the land of the Jews and lay their eyes on this
new king.
So,
they set out for Jerusalem, the centuries old capital of the Jews. Covering the 500 mile distance . . . a
few miles a day . . . the magi travel days, weeks, months in their caravan of seekers and servants
and gifts. Arriving in Jerusalem,
instead of finding the new king, they are met by an old king, an anxious
king. Reading from different
translations we hear that upon the arrival of the magi, King Herod was troubled,
perturbed, frightened, terrified.
And the anxiety this king is feeling at the arrival of the magi spreads
throughout Jerusalem. Anxiety does
that sometimes, doesn’t it?
One person’s anxiety insidiously spreads and infects the whole community—holding
hope hostage, chipping away at even rock-solid faith. Herod’s anxiety spreads even to the magi—these hopeful
seekers who have journeyed so far and so long.
Consulting
his own Jewish scholars—not ones who gaze at the stars but ones who pore over
the scripture, King Herod sends the magi on their way—away from the Jewish
capital, away to the backwater town of Bethlehem. For Bethlehem had been named when Micah foretold the
birth of a king who would shepherd—who would tenderly care for—his people.
Back on the road again, away from the
too early stop at Jerusalem, away from the anxious Herod, the magi once again
see the star that inspired their journey, the star that heralds the birth of
this almighty and all-caring king. The magi see the star again for the 1st
time since leaving Babylon, and they are overwhelmed with joy[1],
filled with delight[2]; they cannot
contain themselves[3]. Somehow,
the star guides them to a humble house in which resides a young mother and
father and a toddler/baby.
Somehow, the magi understand that within this humble dwelling, to this
peasant family, in the form of this powerless child—they are in the presence of
the king the star foretold.
Somehow, the magi understand that even more—they are in the presence of
God. God is revealed in this child.
Epipahny. So they worship
him. They worship the child—offering him gifts fit for a king but not gifts fit
for a god.
Their
story ends in much the same way it begins—with a journey—a journey back home—a
long, journey with the caravan of seekers and servants, tents and food and a
story to tell. In the presence of
the Christ child, they are changed, and they return home . . . by a different
way. Changed, they return home
with a story to tell, a message to deliver, good news to share.
We
are like these magi. God is
revealed to us—in the small details of this beautiful earth God made, in the
vast scope of the universe God created, in the words which relate God’s
continued activity in human history.
God is revealed to us, and we are not content to sit with this
knowledge, this revelation.
Instead we are moved—physically moved to journey—to journey
together. God is revealed to us,
and we journey together to lay our eyes on and our hands on God’s
manifestation—God’s epiphany—to come to know Christ, the Word made flesh. God is revealed to us, and we are moved
to journey together—looking for signs of God’s presence, studying God’s word,
worshiping with one another, and sharing good news.
We
are like these magi. Too soon, we
may think we have reached our destination—settling in to a rhythm of weekly
worship and study, paying off a debt, calling a full-time pastor. And each time, we think we have
arrived, as we begin to settle in, we are met with some anxiety—infecting us
with doubt, weighing us down with fear, holding hope hostage. In the darkness,
we see the star again, and we realize we need to move on, to continue the
journey. The star hasn’t stopped
guiding us. So we move—we
physically move—our weekly Bible study opportunities increase, we invite our
children to fully experience worship with us, we build intergenerational
relationships.
We
are like these magi. We meet the
Christ—child and king, teacher and healer, community activist and table
host. We meet the Christ, and our
journey continues. We respond to
God’s gift of the Christ—his love and grace—and to Christ’s gift of the Holy
Spirit—her power and fellowship—we respond to God’s gifts with gifts of our
own. We share the good news that
God is here among us. We continue
our traditional mission, we plan for new mission—like collaborating with
Heartland Camps for a day camp here.
We
are like these magi. Moved by a
new star, we find ourselves on a journey—together. Like these magi—may we
hopefully continue this journey, seeking epiphanies. May we hopefully seek the revelations of God’s presence with
us, the revelations of Christ’s work among us, the revelations of the Holy
Spirit’s power sustaining us.
Amen.
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