Advent Calendar – 21 December
Nativity Stories: Magi
The star, at least, didn’t lie. Of Herod, we could not be sure – our expertise is with things far distant from us, the lights of heaven, the guardians of day and night. People eclipse their meaning in the words they say. But the star kept shining and as we left Jerusalem it was moving, not far but far enough to bring us to the town of Bethlehem. Then as suddenly as it had appeared to Balthazar that first night, it stopped, still shining but unmoving, a guide which had gone before us and now waited for us to catch up. Herod had been truthful about this at least: it was Bethlehem that we would encounter the new king. Caspar slapped me on the back. “Melchior, we’re here,” he said. “Our journey’s end.” He doesn’t often smile but he grinned at me and Balthazar, and I’m sure I saw him leaning forward to hug his camel’s neck. She was not best pleased.
A word or two with passers-by and we found the simple house where a child was newly born. We’d come so far and yet we saw a scene which could have been a mile or two from our own home, a young woman plainly dressed, tired, proud, holding her baby to her shoulder, patting him on his back. How could this be the king the star had led us to? Our own clothes were finer, our possessions grander than any he would enjoy. And yet the girl said, “Come in, whoever you are. Isn’t he lovely!” Which seemed to be his cue to wriggle and whimper and draw breath into his lungs for an almighty wail. We could only trust the star which stopped and stayed above this son and mother, and felt compelled to kneel, much as our camels kneel, lurching to the floor.
The others stayed inside while I fetched in our treasure-chests. We felt inside the folds of our velvet robes for keys, unlocked the chests and lifted out our gifts. We couldn’t blame his mother for her puzzled look, her giggles as she took them in her hand. The books had specified, after all, what was right and proper, not what was immediately useful. Let others give shawls and cherries and a bat and ball. Caspar brought out gold, heavy, polished, ready to be made into a crown. “This is for your son, the king.” Balthazar lifted out his gift of myrrh, the amber-coloured granules catching the candlelight. “This is for your son, the mortal.” And I took out my velvet bag filled with frankincense, precious resin hardened and powdered, ready to be burnt for its aroma. “This is for your son, the divine.”
She took them simply, and placed them on the ground. “Thank you,” she said. “Would you like a little wine, some bread, before you find some lodging?”
We made camp later but our dreams were uneasy. I saw Herod lifting his boot as if to stamp on the child we’d seen in his mother’s skinny arms. “Come on,” I said, “the star has shown us whose reign has just begun. Let Herod, if he be true, find the boy some other way, and kneel as we have knelt.” And so we mounted for the journey home, doubting that the skies would reveal another gift like this so long as we were spared.
Brian Whelan, Adoration of the Magi