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The Gospel according to Matthew 2:1-12 

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They finally got to Jerusalem in the late afternoon. They observed the bright star and measured, and calculated, and triangulated, and concluded that it was leading them to Israel, to the birth of a king.

Israel, a strange, stubborn little land to the west. It was a place of odd and strict customs. It was a place where the people were known to be hospitable to foreigners, but visitors felt the undercurrent of Israel’s belief that all foreigners were, after all, unclean heathens.

But their calculations pointed to Israel. So they prepared for their trip. The most important thing was to take gifts fit for a king: gold—very expensive; frankincense—almost as expensive as gold; and, finally, Myrrh, the most precious gift of all—almost seven times as expensive as gold. Gold showed majesty, frankincense was burned to offer prayers, Myrrh was used to purify, to heal, and to bury. These were the finest, most costly gifts anyone could bring. Gifts fit for a king.

So they set out. It was a long journey, and they were tired and relieved when they got to Jerusalem, but puzzled. They had expected to find great celebrations. They had sustained themselves during the last part of the trip, which had been especially tiring, by thinking of the torches and feasting and merrymaking and dancing in the streets they would find in Jerusalem. Now, as they came into this town going about its everyday business, they began to wonder, to doubt. Could they have made a mistake? Surely the birth of a new king would be the occasion for celebration. Could they have been wrong?

Their feelings were amplified by how awkward they felt. They were outsiders. Their clothes and speech and mannerisms screamed, "FOREIGNER," and they knew that the inhabitants thought of them as unclean, as heathens, as damned.

They went to see King Herod the Great and asked where the child was who had been born king of the Jews. They were surprised to see that the question frightened him. They told him the story of the star and their journey, and their concerned rose when it was clear that he, the king, was becoming more and more frightened. (They didn’t know that he held a tenuous grasp to his claim to the throne, that he was constantly afraid of being deposed, that he had already had three of his own sons murdered because he was afraid they were conspiring against him. They only knew that the news they were sure would be cause for celebration was instead cause for fear.)

Herod called on his religious experts to find out where the Messiah would be born. Bethlehem. He sent the wise men on with instructions to return when they had found the baby. But they left uneasy, with a vague feeling that they were being used as bloodhounds in a manhunt.

They got to Bethlehem and the star led them to a house. Still no partying. Still, oddly, no celebration. How odd the response to this birth was. Not like any king they had known. But when they realized they were there, they were overwhelmed with joy.

They went in and saw the child with his mother, and they knelt before him and laid their gifts at his feet. And then, having done what they came to do (although certainly not in the setting they expected to do it in), they left. But they were wise judges of character, these wise men, and each of them had bad dreams about that King Herod. So they went home another way and never saw him again.

That, of course, is one telling of the story of the visit of the wise men, the magi. Most of us are familiar with it. There is not a nativity scene anywhere that does not have the three wise men in it, dutifully presenting their presents, and every Christmas we all sing, "We Three Kings," as we just did.

It seems to me, though, that over the years we’ve asked a lot of questions of this story, (Who? Where? When? What?, and when we didn’t have the answers, we just made them up. It is interesting to look again at the text and note what we do not know.

For example, we don’t know how many wise men there were. The tradition has assumed there were three only because there were three kinds of presents. Some early Christians thought there were twelve wise men. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to imagine twelve men bearing four gifts of gold, four gifts of frankincense, four gifts of myrrh. We just don’t know how many there were.

And we don’t know what they did for a living. Maybe these Magi were Magians, a Persian priestly cast. Maybe they were astrologers. Maybe both. We just don’t know.

We don’t know their names. The tradition gave them names, Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthasar, but we don’t really know their names. The text doesn’t say. In the late Middle Ages, the tradition was created that they represent the three races of humanity, Caucasian, Asian, and African. I love that tradition, but it’s just made up.

We don’t know where they’re from, except that they are from "the East," which doesn’t really narrow it down all that much.

And, interestingly, we don’t know exactly where they went or when they got there. Although every nativity scene in the world has them in it, the text seems to imply that they did not come right after the birth, but perhaps a year or two later. The text doesn’t say they went to the "stable;" it says they entered a "house." Maybe Joseph found work and the young family stayed around those parts. Maybe it seemed like a good idea at the time not to go right back to Nazareth with a newborn (who wasn’t Joseph’s!). That view is supported by the fact that (a little later on) when Herod wants to be sure he kills Jesus, he orders the massacre of all baby boys age two years and younger "according to the time that he had learned from the wise men." (Mt. 2:16). So we can’t be sure when they came.

As you can see, there’s lots about this journey of these wise men that we just don’t know. I hope that doesn’t upset you, because none of that matters. It just doesn’t matter how many there were, or what their names were, or what they did for a living, or where they came from, or what address they went to, or when they went there.

None of that really matters. In fact, asking those questions of the story might be a distraction. Because the story of the journey of the wise men asks questions of us that, it seems to me, matter a lot more than the questions we ask of it.

So lets ponder some questions the story asks of us. And let’s see if they aren’t more meaningful to our lives than whether somebody was really named "Balthasar" or not.

The wise men were guided by a star. Do you look for God to guide you? Do you ever try to lead, to show the star where to go? What would it take for you to let God lead you?

The wise men were on a journey. Are you on a spiritual journey? Do you crave a deeper, more profound, more loving relationship with God? Are you willing to risk the perils of the journey, to go to foreign lands? Are you willing to risk having your convictions challenged? Your beliefs threatened? Your life judged? You can’t take a journey, you can’t be led, and stand still. Are you willing to change?

The wise men brought precious gifts fit for a king. Think of your riches, your talents, your giftedness. What gifts do you bring? Why does that question embarrass you? What do you fail to acknowledge? What do you hold back?

The wise men went to Jerusalem when they needed to go to Bethlehem; they got sidetracked. What sidetracks you on your journey? Business? Weariness? Watching too much television? Impatience? Depression? Anxiety? Drugs or Alcohol? (They don’t really sidetrack as much as they hijack.) Cynicism? Striving for perfection? When you are sidetracked and get to Jerusalem and meet Herod, can you recognize that you’ve met the wrong king? What do you do about it?

The wise men were Gentiles, foreigners, outsiders, "unclean." Their visit prefigures that this "king of the Jews" they seek will be a savior for all of humanity, that in this baby the barriers which include some and exclude others are all torn down.

What barriers are in your mind? Maybe even barriers you wish weren’t there, maybe even barriers you don’t believe in, don’t like, but that you find are mysteriously a part of you, that pop up within you so that you have to tamp them down? Barriers of race? Barriers of gender? Barriers of sexual orientation? How about Afghanistan, that land to the East? When we think of the Taliban and Al Qaeda, does God love them, even them, or are they so despicable that they are on the other side of the barrier? What barrier?

We all like to boo Herod in this story. He’s a classic villain. Herod reacted to the birth with fear and, later, murder. His reaction is contrasted with that of the wise men, who were overwhelmed with joy.

It’s fun to boo Herod. He was rotten. But how does the contrast between the wise men’s joyful reaction and Herod’s fearful reaction serve to symbolize the contrast between the part of our inner selves which willingly and joyfully accepts the Lordship of Christ, and that darker side of our selves which persistently rejects his right to rule, which doesn’t want to be led, which doesn’t want to change, which withholds gifts, which gets sidetracked and does nothing about it, which builds barriers to God’s love, which reacts with fear? Could it be that we should not scoff at Herod until we have acknowledged the Herod in ourselves?

Throughout Christian history we have asked questions of this story—names, places, times— questions intended to nail down specifics about a particular event at a particular time. We should not be asking questions of the story; we should be pondering the questions it asks of us. They aren’t about specific events or specific places. They are about our whole lives, about how we react to this oddest of kings.

Are we wise?