What Does Your Heart Say?

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”

When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; …. [Matthew 2:1-3, a portion of the Gospel reading for the Epiphany of our Lord, RCL, Year C].

You’ve heard my story before. My name is Melchior. Long ago, I was a Zoroastrian priest from Persia. Because my colleagues and I liked to study and write (and cast a few spells), some have called us wise. In my case, that might have been an overstatement.

For many years, I had worked with two others: Caspar and Balthazar (back then we called the latter “B”). You have probably heard the story about our travels. It was Caspar who discovered the new star in the western sky. When he told us about his find, B said he sensed that this discovery was something special. “We should follow it to its source,” were B’s words that night. But I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself.

You see, by that time, Caspar already had quite a reputation as an astronomer. To be sure, B, and I were stargazers as well, but Caspar put us to shame when it came to concentrating on the heavens. His nightly charts were beautiful and, what’s more important, they were accurate. It didn’t surprise us that Caspar was the first to notice the star’s presence.

B’s special skill, you see, was in foretelling the future. Again, since we were all sorcerers, we all dabbled in fortune-telling. But B’s gift was truly special. He had a way of boring into the very being of a person, of getting inside their skin, so to speak. And so, on numerous occasions, he had been able to sit and talk with an individual for just a few minutes, and then disclose to them “secrets” that they thought they had hidden deeply away. B certainly enjoyed the trust that he had accumulated within our segment of Persian society.

At the time the new star first came into view, I suppose I was having a bit of a mid-life. Living somewhat in the shadow of my more skilled colleagues, I think that I must have been, shall we say “unsettled,” for some time. At least, as I now look back on things, I suppose that’s all that could be said. If I were to be honest with my feelings, I’d say at that time I had a deep sense of emptiness. I longed for that which could not be named.

I remember the night that we argued about the meaning of the star. B had allowed that he had one of his “feelings,” that he was certain that this new star stood for something—perhaps for someone. I explained that this new sort of star would only appear at a cataclysmic moment. Caspar, using his fancy stellar geometry—the part that I never understood—said the star seemed to have formed northeast of Egypt, in that crossroads area called Palestine. At our distance, of course, it was difficult to pinpoint the location exactly. Completing some additional research—we had access to all sorts of writings—Caspar said that centuries ago, one or more Hebrew prophets had written that a new king would be born in or around Jerusalem. According to those old prophesies, this new king would draw all nations to himself. Caspar allowed that this new star certainly fit the Hebrew pattern. He concluded, “The star must signal the birth of the new king.”

B said we should trace the star to its source. Caspar seemed excited, as he quickly agreed, but I would have nothing of it. “Leave Hebrew kings to the Hebrews,” I retorted. “What business do we have in Palestine?” I could feel the beating within my chest. Was it excitement or a sense of dread? Yet, in the face of their excitement, I agreed to tag along with them.

And so it was, that just a few days later, the three of us packed up for what you folks call a “road trip.” We made our way West, traveling mostly at night because, well, you know, you can’t see stars in the daytime. We carried with us some writings from that ancient Hebrew prophet, Isaiah, so that we could study along the way. But we had other, more appropriate Zoroastrian texts with us as well. I’ll have to confess that my heart warmed each time one of us read aloud about the king who was to come to Israel. I wish I could adequately describe the deep sense of anticipation that I had—that we all had—as we drew closer and closer to Palestine.

This may sound odd; I’ve already indicated I’m not an expert at celestial geometry, but as we neared Palestine, the star actually became more difficult to follow. That is to say that early in our progress we had decided that a king of the Hebrews would no doubt be born in Jerusalem, the Hebrew capital city. But Caspar’s calculations seemed to indicate that the birth had occurred only near Jerusalem, not actually within the walls of the capital itself. “Wherein lay that mystery,” I said silently to myself. And yet, we trudged on to Jerusalem, for that was the seat of the current king. No doubt one of his wives had recently delivered a new little boy.

Can you imagine our surprise when King Herod—some called him Herod the Great, but he didn’t seem so great to me—appeared to know nothing of a birth at all? Indeed, I remember his face when we were given an audience and Caspar told him that we had come to give homage to the newly born king of Israel, the one whose birth had been foretold by the Jewish prophets. Seeing the redness in his face, I thought, but was careful not to say, “Can a man’s blood actually boil?”

We chuckled to ourselves when Herod, ignorant of his own ethnic scriptures, had to call in his experts for information about what the Hebrew prophets had foreseen. Had this king never heard of Isaiah? The experts seemed almost to laugh as well when they said, “O Great King, the prophets teach that the Son of David isn’t to be born in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem.

We did not believe Herod when he told us that we should go on ahead and find the new king in Bethlehem, that we should disclose the new king’s location to him so that he could then come and bow before the newborn himself. I heard B say under his breath, “What true king will bow to an infant?”

It’s almost melodramatic to tell you the rest of the story, how we made our way the required eight or nine miles to Bethlehem—again at night—so that we’d know exactly where we should stop.

We found them just before dawn. There was a distinct chill in the air, but my, that air was so clean and lovely. The innkeeper showed us where the couple was billeted with their newborn. The man and woman were still asleep, as was “the king,” who lay quietly between them. The parents awoke and cheerfully greeted us as if they had been waiting. They pulled the blanket down so that we could see the baby and I’ll never forget B’s face as he gazed upon the still sleeping infant.

B turned aside to me and whispered, “I’ve seen his face and with it, I’ve seen his future. Death abounds, my friend, death abounds with this little one.”

Caspar seemed enchanted by the couple and, of course, by the child. But I’ll confess that I also sensed some of the dread that B had seen in this child’s future. My heart and mind both seemed as if they were on fire. Somehow, I knew that if we stayed, if we shared our lives with His—as my heart clearly wanted to do—proximity to this little lamb of a child would mean that we would inevitably share in his death as well. My mind—that mind that so many of you call “wise”—cried out within me, “Flee, before it’s too late!”

And so, we paid our respects, wished the child’s parents grace and peace, and near the spot where He was still sleeping, we lay down our gifts—but not ourselves—silently creeping away so as to save our lives.

Only, I’ll confess to you now that I have been deeply troubled since that day. My mind tells me that according to the rules of the world, it was “wise” to leave that stable and that child behind. It was wise to choose “life.” After all, our quest for knowledge had been fulfilled. We had solved the riddle. We knew why the Creator of the cosmos had formed the star.

But my heart still says something different, for it is filled with an intense longing. Throughout all these years, it has cried out to me saying, “It is far, far better to die with Him, than to “live” without Him.

What does your heart say?