Text: Matthew 2:1-12 Other texts: Psalm 71:1-7
Not so long ago people thought that science was objective. That is, researchers looked at something—data, the results of an experiment, a phenomenon—and observed something. It was objective because it was about the object—the thing observed. Not subjective, about the subject, the observer. The premise was that all observers would see the same event in the same way. Experiments were reproducible. If you did the same thing, but with different observers, you would get the same results.
Now we know this is totally bogus. It turns out that the subject, the observer, has a huge effect on the results. What the observer sees is irredeemably influenced by what she or he thinks, feels, believes, hopes for, fears, and expects. There is no neutral observer. There is no way to see neutrally. All observation is interpretation. Not only in science but in everything.
Today we heard he story of the three kings. Or the three wise men, as it says in our version. Or better, the three magi—persons who could read the meaning of the stars and other auspicious events. Looking at an unusual star, they have divined its meaning. A child is born king of the Jews. They decide to pay the new king a visit, and to kneel at his feet, a posture of humility that is powerfully respectful of the young infant king. A child is born, not will be born. Jesus is king, it says, not king in the making or king potential. Born king.
The wise men, not so wisely, decide to stop on the way to visit the current incumbent king. He is upset. That’s understandable. If there is a new king, what about the old king? The king is dead, long live the king, and stuff like that. Herod, as we know, was not a nice man. He really wasn’t—not just in the Bible, but from other sources, also. Anyway, he tells the magi that he wants to visit Jesus, too, and kneel at the feet of Jesus, too. He is lying. Wisely, in the end they do not report what they have found, but take the back roads on the way home.
There is something fishy in this story. You might ask, why does Herod need the magi? Why does he not follow the star himself? It is not like stars are local. If I can see a star, then pretty much everyone in my hemisphere can see the star, too, you would think. Either Herod cannot see what the magi see, or Herod cannot interpret what he sees in the way the magi can. Or maybe, as a postmodernist might say, Herod cannot see the star because of the person he is. The star is good news to the magi, who can see it. It is fearsome news to Herod, who cannot.
The magi see with hope. Herod sees with fear. The frightened man does not see what the hopeful ones see. The magi see a new future. Herod sees no future. The magi see in the future the things we just heard about in Isaiah and in the psalm. Justice, joy, defense of the needy and the end of oppression. Good news to many, including perhaps the magi. Not good news to Herod, who is unjust, nasty, greedy, and brutal. Not good news, as it says, to all of Jerusalem. Herod has reason to fear, on the face of it.
Hope and fear are opposing forces. Opposing spirits, you might say. I hope we’ll get a puppy, says the child. I fear we’ll get a puppy, says her father. Exact opposite views of the same act. Hoping for something not to happen is to fear it. I hope we won’t get a puppy is what the father says, using the word hope but not being hopeful, still being fearful. Fear disguised as hope.
Hope by and large looks ahead. The magi look ahead. They are hopeful because they see that Jesus will bring about a new kind of world. They hope that he will. Herod looks back. You might say he looks ahead to bad things happening; but that is a lot like looking backward, holding on to the present or the past, which has the advantage of being predictable. Rather than looking forward, which is bound to be unpredictable, and maybe disruptive. If you are a magi, or poor, or oppressed, then disruptive in a good way.
Christianity is a religion with hope at its base. It fights against despair and discouragement. It proclaims redemption and renewal. Other religions do, too, I’m sure, but Christianity is the one we know best here. In Advent, Mary sings the Magnificat, a song whose center is hope. My spirit rejoices, she says. The proud and the powerful will become humble, and the lowly and the weak will stand up. God will fulfill a long-time promise. At Christmas, the magi carry hopes for a new king, a new realm. And even the death of Jesus in Holy Week is undone by his resurrection at Easter. Our religion is full of promises, which are hopes with clout. Hope should be the default stance of Christian institutions, like churches, and Christian individuals.
So, when Christianity is used as a religion of fear, and when people find comfort in fearful predictions, it is a double betrayal. When Christianity is used as a tool of oppression, rather than liberation—which is just another meaning of the word redemption—and as a way to justify war, rather than reconciliation, and when it is used to scare people into action instead of freeing them to act, it has abandoned hope for fear.
It is the strength of hope that lets people live lives of grace. Things are hard. But fear makes them worse. Fear shrinks the future.
Yesterday I went to a memorial mass for a woman I’ve know for about fifteen years. She was 71. In all the time I’ve know her, she has had cancer. In all the time I’ve known her, she has helped others, has been generous with her time and money, has been a community leader. At her memorial service, people said over and over how full of grace she was. This woman had had a cerebral hemorrhage when she was 27. Then, and every moment after then, she had two ways of seeing her life. She could see as Herod did. A future bleak and narrow. Or she could see like a magi. An abundant life.
You’ve probably heard me quote the passage in Deuteronomy in which Moses gives the Israelites a choice to follow God or not. He says to them “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live.” Moses could just as easily said “I have set before you hope and fear. Now choose hope.”
We make choices constantly. Some are trivial, some momentous. Some require prudence and planning. In any case, here’s a rule of thumb. Take account of and think about all thing things you need to. Tally your worries and expectations. Then ask yourself whether you are deciding out of hope or out of fear. And then choose hope.
Look to the east.
Is there a bright auspicious star, or is there not? What do you see?
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