An Epiphany Meditation on Matthew 2:1-12

I like astronomy, or rather I would do if it were not for having to wander outside after dark for it. Not for me, this sentiment of poet Sarah Williams:

I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night (Sarah Williams, From The Old Astronomer (To His Pupil)).

It is not fear of the night that keeps me from the stars, but love of soft bed, warm blanket, and dear wife dreaming beside me. These have I loved too fondly to be gazing idly at the night sky.

I am no magi. I would not have marked the rising of his star in the east nor forsaken comforts of hearth and home for an uncomfortable journey to who knows where, at “just the worst time of the year / For a journey, and such a long journey” (T. S. Eliot, Journey of the Magi).

I would not have arrived at Jerusalem — confounded, foolish — searching for a new king in the old king’s palace — and such an old king — showing the gaps in my wisdom and depending on foreign priests with their foreign books to point the way. And the way to where? To a town — to a hamlet — of little note, to the house of bread. To a house, just one ordinary house among a handful of other ordinary houses, not even postcard worthy: Having Fun. Wish you were here. Not much, not really.

I would not have entered the house — rude to drop in unexpectedly! — would not have seen the mother and child — wouldn’t want to disturb family time — would not have been driven to my knees in worship and with offering — old age and arthritic knees, you know.

I am no magi.

But, what if I were? What wonders, what signs — what stars — might I see if I were to venture outside in the dark and look upward?

[In this post I mention the T. S. Eliot poem “Journey of the Magi.” I commend it to you. Following is a link to an audio recording of Hugh Laurie reading the poem: https://youtu.be/qyas4QpWM-E?si=WPAuyCf1l8U_inaa .]