Something in the very act of journey transforms those who push through resistances, who weather obstacles, and who persevere through the fatigue and relentless dailyness of staying on the path.
In the world of spiritual journeying, there really is no firm destination. If you do arrive at what you think is a destination, it will look much different than you envisioned. And then, once you feel you have arrived, the destination changes, always stretching out before you.
Here is T. S. Eliot’s poem, “The Journey of the Magi.”
The Journey of the Magi
T. S. Eliot
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
[T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962, p. 99.]
Eliot uses the Magi’s journey as a metaphor for a spiritual journey, a journey which deepens and rearranges all of life, including one’s relationships and stance in the world. Those who know Eliot better than I do claim that he was rediscovering Christian faith when he wrote this poem. The poem very well could be Eliot’s spiritual journey. It resonates with my life’s pilgrimage, as well.
Eliot’s poem is darker than Mary Oliver’s “The Journey” (yesterday’s post). Eliot doesn’t flinch at the difficulty of the journey, and the ongoing resistance the traveler faces at every turn.
In the first stanza, Eliot introduces the challenges in a number of different images . . . “a cold coming” . . . “the worst time of year for a journey” . . . “a long journey” . . . “the ways deep and the weather sharp” . . . “the very dead of winter.”
The journey is not for the faint of heart, for “a hard time we had of it.” Resistance to moving onward comes in a number of forms: “night fires going out” . . . “lack of shelters” . . . “cities hostile” . . . “towns unfriendly” . . . “villages dirty” . . . “charging high prices.”
As Mary Oliver noted in yesterday’s poem, the most formidable obstacle to our exploration is often summarized as “the voices singing in our ears.” Mary Oliver wrote that those voices are “shouting their bad advice.” For T. S. Eliot, they are saying, “This is all folly.” The voices sometimes come from family, friends, co-workers, or those who find journey a waste of time. And just as often, they come from within us, our own interior, whispering voices that seek to convince us to stop, go back, stay safe.
In Eliot’s vision of the Magi-journey, the road is long and full of obstacles. The arrival at the end of the second stanza is, well . . . underwhelming.
“And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.”
For me, the crux of the poem comes in the third stanza, Eliot’s reflection on the experience of journey. In Matthew 2, the Magi were led by a celestial light to the birth of Christ. But Eliot, imagining a journey that is more interior, suggests that at the end of this journey there is both birth and death. While he had thought they were different, this journey draws the two experiences together, two aspects of the same life-experience which are both necessary for a complete life.
This is a birth and death that changes a person deep within, that alters his or her fundamental stance toward all of life. This death (letting go) and birth (new life) shifts one’s relationships, attitudes, and loyalties.
Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, wrote this about Eliot’s poem:
What happens when a birth – Jesus' 'birth', as the poet starts re-discovering Christian faith – changes everything? The bizarre fact is that it can feel as if nothing has really changed, except that you have a sense that no one else has noticed what has happened – because something certainly has. 'Birth or death?' A new start that is felt only as the death of all that has been familiar; and yet the old world goes on, galloping aimlessly like the old white horse. Eliot never wanted to present religious faith as a nice cheerful answer to everyone's questions, but as an inner shift so deep that you could hardly notice it, yet giving a new perspective on everything and a new restlessness in a tired and chilly world.
When Williams says, “an inner shift so deep that you could hardly notice it, yet giving a new perspective on everything,” he is writing about the nature of a life that is becoming, growing, and evolving deeper into God in a way that makes a difference in relationships with God, self, others, and the world.
In Eliot’s poem, that deep inner shift is noted by the Magi returning “to our places” but “no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation.” So deeply has life shifted that upon returning home to their families, friends, and neighbors, they feel surrounded by “an alien people clutching their gods.”
By the end of the poem, though the journey is over, it’s not yet over. “I should be glad of another death.” To journey onward will lead to other deaths and other births. In truth, the invitation to journey and growth never ceases. We will not arrive . . . not until our last breath.
For Reflection:
Take a few moments to reflect on your own experience of being changed by a spiritual journey in a way that causes you to feel like an “alien” among family, friends, and neighbors. Has that experience caused you to take a different stance toward your own spiritual journey? Does it make you reticent to move onward?
If needed, take a moment to touch and embrace the Magi within you again . . .that spirit of exploration and adventure . . . the courage to move beyond what you have seen and what you know . . . the part of you not afraid of mystery and the unknown.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Magi: Journeying Deeper into the Heart of the World
The spiritual life lends itself to the image of journeying. Early Christians were called "people of the Way," which in itself is a path or journey symbol. Movement on a path signifies growth, becoming, and exploration.
In the narrative of Christ's birth, the Magi represent those who embark on a significant journey, following a mysterious heavenly light, though they begin the quest without knowing the particulars of the pathway, nor what would await them at the destination.
In my experience, a few stars have appeared in the outer world, inviting me to go, to follow, to explore beyond the edges of what I had known. More often, though, the stars arose within me, and I was drawn to follow. In fact, most of the time I would describe the experience as "I HAD to follow" . . . as if I really had little choice . . . as if this prompting was so compelling that I had to honor it.
As I have thought of the Magi in the narrative and the Magi within me, Mary Oliver's "The Journey" has come to mind.
The Journey
Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
[Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, p. 114.]
For me, the poems contains a couple of pivot points. The first comes in the opening lines: "One day you finally knew / what you had to do, and began."
I've had occasional flashes in which I suddenly knew what I had to do . . . "one day . . ." But more often, the sense of "finally knowing what I have to do" has come over time, through life's lengthy wisdom. And that sense usually arises not because of something I read, something I hear from another person, or anything else that comes from the outer world. The impulse to go, to journey, to take the next risky step most always comes from within me.
And yet, I can go long days, even years, knowing what I have to do and still not doing it. The pivot for me in these opening lines is, "and began." She starts. She moves. She takes the first, most difficult step.
And the journey begins. It does not begin as long as the Magi study the star from their rooftops in Persia. It does not begin as long as they are pulling out books from shelves to study the meaning of new constellations. It does not begin as long as they sit in the coffee shop discussing with other wise persons the meaning of new stars and their alignments. The journey commences when they step onto the path . . . when they actually take off in pursuit of they-know-not-what.
"though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice . . ."
I've never met someone who wasn't familiar with the "voices of bad advice" that shout from around us . . . the voices that call our journey folly, that tell us to "get real," that remind us of all the ways were are disappointments, that not-too-subtly express confidence that we'll fail or have to turn back, that try to shame us into getting in line.
But the more insidious voices have always come from within me in a doubting, even accusing tone.
"What if you fail?"
"Can you deal with the uncertainty?"
"Wouldn't you like to know how the story ends?"
"You've never done this before."
"You're crazy!"
"What gives you the right to do this?"
Still, in the landscape of Mary Oliver's poem, you go on, despite the voices. "But you didn't stop. / You knew what you had to do."
"It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones."
You go onward because it is "already late enough." Enough of life has passed. You press forward, even though the storms of the many years have left your path littered, blocked, and cluttered with "branches and stones."
"But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own . . ."
Stars burn through clouds and appear finally, within eyesight, to help navigate the trek. And a new voice arises from within us, but only as we leave the old voices behind. We recognize slowly -- "little by little" -- as we walk away from the old and stale that this new voice is our own, the voice that has always been within, but which we now slowly recognize.
This, for me, is the second pivot point in the poem . . . the leaving behind -- of voices and terrible melancholy -- and the discovery -- of a previously unnoticed voice.
The poem, it seems to me, describes the Magi-journey. I know it describes the journey I have been invited to make.
For Reflection:
Reading poetry, REALLY reading poetry, is a contemplative exercise. You can't rush through a good poem. The poem invites you to slow down, to listen to words, phrases, and lines with your heart. It invites you to make connections. In a really good poem, you will have the sense that "I could have written those words." (This is one reason I've always loved this poem . . . I know Mary Oliver wrote it, but it is also MY poem for the way it describes my own journey.) Good poetry offers the reader many doors through which to enter the landscape of the poem.
So I invite you to read "The Journey" again slowly. Notice words, phrases, and images that speak to you. Sit with it for awhile without trying to make it say anything in particular. Let the poem find you.
Finally, you might consider one or two ways the poem parallels your life experience. What real-life experience do you have of the journey Mary Oliver describes poetically?
In the narrative of Christ's birth, the Magi represent those who embark on a significant journey, following a mysterious heavenly light, though they begin the quest without knowing the particulars of the pathway, nor what would await them at the destination.
In my experience, a few stars have appeared in the outer world, inviting me to go, to follow, to explore beyond the edges of what I had known. More often, though, the stars arose within me, and I was drawn to follow. In fact, most of the time I would describe the experience as "I HAD to follow" . . . as if I really had little choice . . . as if this prompting was so compelling that I had to honor it.
As I have thought of the Magi in the narrative and the Magi within me, Mary Oliver's "The Journey" has come to mind.
The Journey
Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
[Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, p. 114.]
For me, the poems contains a couple of pivot points. The first comes in the opening lines: "One day you finally knew / what you had to do, and began."
I've had occasional flashes in which I suddenly knew what I had to do . . . "one day . . ." But more often, the sense of "finally knowing what I have to do" has come over time, through life's lengthy wisdom. And that sense usually arises not because of something I read, something I hear from another person, or anything else that comes from the outer world. The impulse to go, to journey, to take the next risky step most always comes from within me.
And yet, I can go long days, even years, knowing what I have to do and still not doing it. The pivot for me in these opening lines is, "and began." She starts. She moves. She takes the first, most difficult step.
And the journey begins. It does not begin as long as the Magi study the star from their rooftops in Persia. It does not begin as long as they are pulling out books from shelves to study the meaning of new constellations. It does not begin as long as they sit in the coffee shop discussing with other wise persons the meaning of new stars and their alignments. The journey commences when they step onto the path . . . when they actually take off in pursuit of they-know-not-what.
"though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice . . ."
I've never met someone who wasn't familiar with the "voices of bad advice" that shout from around us . . . the voices that call our journey folly, that tell us to "get real," that remind us of all the ways were are disappointments, that not-too-subtly express confidence that we'll fail or have to turn back, that try to shame us into getting in line.
But the more insidious voices have always come from within me in a doubting, even accusing tone.
"What if you fail?"
"Can you deal with the uncertainty?"
"Wouldn't you like to know how the story ends?"
"You've never done this before."
"You're crazy!"
"What gives you the right to do this?"
Still, in the landscape of Mary Oliver's poem, you go on, despite the voices. "But you didn't stop. / You knew what you had to do."
"It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones."
You go onward because it is "already late enough." Enough of life has passed. You press forward, even though the storms of the many years have left your path littered, blocked, and cluttered with "branches and stones."
"But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own . . ."
Stars burn through clouds and appear finally, within eyesight, to help navigate the trek. And a new voice arises from within us, but only as we leave the old voices behind. We recognize slowly -- "little by little" -- as we walk away from the old and stale that this new voice is our own, the voice that has always been within, but which we now slowly recognize.
This, for me, is the second pivot point in the poem . . . the leaving behind -- of voices and terrible melancholy -- and the discovery -- of a previously unnoticed voice.
The poem, it seems to me, describes the Magi-journey. I know it describes the journey I have been invited to make.
For Reflection:
Reading poetry, REALLY reading poetry, is a contemplative exercise. You can't rush through a good poem. The poem invites you to slow down, to listen to words, phrases, and lines with your heart. It invites you to make connections. In a really good poem, you will have the sense that "I could have written those words." (This is one reason I've always loved this poem . . . I know Mary Oliver wrote it, but it is also MY poem for the way it describes my own journey.) Good poetry offers the reader many doors through which to enter the landscape of the poem.
So I invite you to read "The Journey" again slowly. Notice words, phrases, and images that speak to you. Sit with it for awhile without trying to make it say anything in particular. Let the poem find you.
Finally, you might consider one or two ways the poem parallels your life experience. What real-life experience do you have of the journey Mary Oliver describes poetically?
Monday, November 28, 2016
Magi: Drawing the Outsider into Christmas
In the Christmas story, the down-to-earth and the heavenly keep getting intertwined. The earthy ordinary gets mixed together with the cosmic. The everyday realities of relationships, politics, work, and child-birth get thrown together with the other-worldly, heavenly realm.
Shepherds are at work, earning a living . . . while a chorus of angels sings a birth announcement, proclaiming peace to the entire world.
A child is born in a cattle trough to peasant parents . . . as a brilliant celestial light illumines the place of Jesus' birth.
Mary and Joseph are humble, devout Jews who will be visited by strangers, Magi, traveling from an Eastern land.
The scene is both rooted in the local -- Nazareth journey, Bethlehem census, hillside flock-watching -- and also includes the rest of the world -- seers from a far-off land who notice a star and set out to worship the child.
The story is earthy, including donkeys, sheep, and cattle. It is also cosmic, including stars and angels.
It is, at the same time, humble and glorious . . . all held together in God.
All these seeming contradictions are held together in this single story of a birth of one who would come to be known as both "Son of Man" and "Son of God."
It seems important to me as I locate the Christmas story within me, that I not only find the earthy and ordinary within my inner landscape, but also realize that there is something expansive and "made-in-God's-image" within me.
Both the local and cosmic are held together, even in me.
The familiar and the other-worldly are both part of my spiritual DNA.
I am a child of a particular place, with ordinary parents named Dorothy and Jerry, who is a citizen of a particular country . . . and as well, I am a child of the world, God's child who is part of a global human family that transcends national borders and belief systems.
When I seek to live in only one of these realities, I find myself lopsided, out of balance. For example, if I only see myself (either first or only) as a citizen of the United States of America, I divide and separate myself from the rest of the world's population. Yes, I am a citizen of the United States, but I am a God-person first, identified more by my God-endowed personhood than by my national origins. I belong to a kingdom "not of this world".
One function of the Magi in the narrative of Christ's birth is to remind us that the story does not belong only to one people or another. Christ is not only for insiders. The Christmas story belongs to everyone of every race, gender, orientation, state of life . . . as does Christ.
For that reason alone, it is important to touch the Magi within us. For the Magi represent not only exploration, openness, and adventure . . . they also represent the foreigner within us, the part of each of us that stands outside and looks in, that does not belong to the status quo, that gets left out.
As even the Magi are invited into the birth story, so too is this alienated part of our lives invited to join the birth of Christ. The story belongs, not to one group or one belief system. The birth of Christ belongs to the everyone, to the world, to the cosmos . . . always and everywhere.
The inclusion of the Magi in the narrative says that every part of us is invited into the story . . . and that every part of the story lives within us.
For Reflection:
Consider some way in which you feel like an outsider or a stranger . . . some setting, perhaps, in which you feel you don't belong. Where in your body do you feel the sensation of being an outsider? Where does it ache? This may be one place where the Magi live within you. Sit still, in touch with that part of your being. Open yourself as much as possible to God's invitation to that part of you, including you into the birth of Christ. You don't have to force anything to happen, simply take what God brings to you in the silence.
Shepherds are at work, earning a living . . . while a chorus of angels sings a birth announcement, proclaiming peace to the entire world.
A child is born in a cattle trough to peasant parents . . . as a brilliant celestial light illumines the place of Jesus' birth.
Mary and Joseph are humble, devout Jews who will be visited by strangers, Magi, traveling from an Eastern land.
The scene is both rooted in the local -- Nazareth journey, Bethlehem census, hillside flock-watching -- and also includes the rest of the world -- seers from a far-off land who notice a star and set out to worship the child.
The story is earthy, including donkeys, sheep, and cattle. It is also cosmic, including stars and angels.
It is, at the same time, humble and glorious . . . all held together in God.
All these seeming contradictions are held together in this single story of a birth of one who would come to be known as both "Son of Man" and "Son of God."
It seems important to me as I locate the Christmas story within me, that I not only find the earthy and ordinary within my inner landscape, but also realize that there is something expansive and "made-in-God's-image" within me.
Both the local and cosmic are held together, even in me.
The familiar and the other-worldly are both part of my spiritual DNA.
I am a child of a particular place, with ordinary parents named Dorothy and Jerry, who is a citizen of a particular country . . . and as well, I am a child of the world, God's child who is part of a global human family that transcends national borders and belief systems.
When I seek to live in only one of these realities, I find myself lopsided, out of balance. For example, if I only see myself (either first or only) as a citizen of the United States of America, I divide and separate myself from the rest of the world's population. Yes, I am a citizen of the United States, but I am a God-person first, identified more by my God-endowed personhood than by my national origins. I belong to a kingdom "not of this world".
One function of the Magi in the narrative of Christ's birth is to remind us that the story does not belong only to one people or another. Christ is not only for insiders. The Christmas story belongs to everyone of every race, gender, orientation, state of life . . . as does Christ.
For that reason alone, it is important to touch the Magi within us. For the Magi represent not only exploration, openness, and adventure . . . they also represent the foreigner within us, the part of each of us that stands outside and looks in, that does not belong to the status quo, that gets left out.
As even the Magi are invited into the birth story, so too is this alienated part of our lives invited to join the birth of Christ. The story belongs, not to one group or one belief system. The birth of Christ belongs to the everyone, to the world, to the cosmos . . . always and everywhere.
The inclusion of the Magi in the narrative says that every part of us is invited into the story . . . and that every part of the story lives within us.
For Reflection:
Consider some way in which you feel like an outsider or a stranger . . . some setting, perhaps, in which you feel you don't belong. Where in your body do you feel the sensation of being an outsider? Where does it ache? This may be one place where the Magi live within you. Sit still, in touch with that part of your being. Open yourself as much as possible to God's invitation to that part of you, including you into the birth of Christ. You don't have to force anything to happen, simply take what God brings to you in the silence.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Magi: A Spirit of Exploration
After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” . . . Herod called the Magi secretly and found out from them the exact time the star had appeared. He sent them to Bethlehem and said, “Go and search carefully for the child. As soon as you find him, report to me, so that I too may go and worship him.” After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to go back to Herod, they returned to their country by another route. (Matthew 2:1 – 2, 7 – 12)
In the landscape of the biblical narrative, the Magi were foreigners, outsiders, and strangers. They were auslanders in terms of their people group (the vividly descriptive word "auslander" in German literally means "outside the land") and auslanders in terms of their relationship to biblical faith. By most all historical accounts, the Magi were gentiles and not God-followers. They likely would have been regarded as pagans by the Gospel writers.
Apart from their religious orientation, they were scientists and astrologers, who believed that movements on earth and in the sky signaled some happening of significance. They were observant ("seers") and inquisitive, carefully searching out the earthly world and the celestial world for signs and wonders. They searched, not merely out of curiosity, but because they believed that the entire cosmos was connected and interrelated. In that sense, they were mystics in the best sense of the word, attentive to the world around them, noticing signs and movements that connected with real-world happenings. Something in the sky pointed them to important shifts on earth. They believed in a coherent world, a world held together as a whole, a world in which one thing, happening in one place, had implications and meaning in other parts of the world.
The world is coherent. Paul wrote of Jesus, “In him, all things were created . . . and in him, all things are held together” (Col. 1:15, 16).
Thomas Merton said that a hidden wholeness unifies everything.
So they were trained to be observant, to be watchful, to notice shifts, and then to make connections between the observed world and the more numinous personal world or inner world.
For the Magi, the presence of a new celestial light signaled a shift in their inner world. We don’t know how this happened, or why they came to this particular conclusion about a new star in the sky. We only know that they were compelled to chase it. Something within them drew them to follow the star, though they did not know where the journey would lead, though they did not have all the facts beforehand, though they had no guarantee of the outcome. They set out on a journey, trusting . . . going, yet not knowing where they were going.
They set out on pilgrimage, very much in the spirit of Celtic peregrinatio . . . that is, a journey or quest in which the pilgrim does not know the outcome. The Celtic saints would set out in a coracle, or small dingy, without a destination, trusting that the shore on which they landed -- if they landed at all -- would be the place God wanted them to be.
So the spirit of the Magi is the spirit of exploration, adventure, and wonder, a heart of openness to the mystery of the larger world, and the belief that the entire world is held together as a whole -- events in one place have meaning in all places.
I believe that Magi live within each of us. No matter how well-ordered or structured our lives, there is a something within us that longs to press out to the edges of life, that yearns to go beyond the little that we know and believe, and that truly does hunger for a spiritual journey that can shift life. Something within us wants to believe the world is coherent, that amidst the world's chaos, all things are held together.
For consideration:
Think about your own life experiences . . . even if you have to go back decades, consider a time when you followed an inner impulse -- you followed a star -- even when it seemed irrational or crazy to do so. Why did you take that particular path? Did you find it difficult to trust this path that you could not see? What kept you on that part of the journey?
In the landscape of the biblical narrative, the Magi were foreigners, outsiders, and strangers. They were auslanders in terms of their people group (the vividly descriptive word "auslander" in German literally means "outside the land") and auslanders in terms of their relationship to biblical faith. By most all historical accounts, the Magi were gentiles and not God-followers. They likely would have been regarded as pagans by the Gospel writers.
Apart from their religious orientation, they were scientists and astrologers, who believed that movements on earth and in the sky signaled some happening of significance. They were observant ("seers") and inquisitive, carefully searching out the earthly world and the celestial world for signs and wonders. They searched, not merely out of curiosity, but because they believed that the entire cosmos was connected and interrelated. In that sense, they were mystics in the best sense of the word, attentive to the world around them, noticing signs and movements that connected with real-world happenings. Something in the sky pointed them to important shifts on earth. They believed in a coherent world, a world held together as a whole, a world in which one thing, happening in one place, had implications and meaning in other parts of the world.
The world is coherent. Paul wrote of Jesus, “In him, all things were created . . . and in him, all things are held together” (Col. 1:15, 16).
Thomas Merton said that a hidden wholeness unifies everything.
So they were trained to be observant, to be watchful, to notice shifts, and then to make connections between the observed world and the more numinous personal world or inner world.
For the Magi, the presence of a new celestial light signaled a shift in their inner world. We don’t know how this happened, or why they came to this particular conclusion about a new star in the sky. We only know that they were compelled to chase it. Something within them drew them to follow the star, though they did not know where the journey would lead, though they did not have all the facts beforehand, though they had no guarantee of the outcome. They set out on a journey, trusting . . . going, yet not knowing where they were going.
They set out on pilgrimage, very much in the spirit of Celtic peregrinatio . . . that is, a journey or quest in which the pilgrim does not know the outcome. The Celtic saints would set out in a coracle, or small dingy, without a destination, trusting that the shore on which they landed -- if they landed at all -- would be the place God wanted them to be.
So the spirit of the Magi is the spirit of exploration, adventure, and wonder, a heart of openness to the mystery of the larger world, and the belief that the entire world is held together as a whole -- events in one place have meaning in all places.
I believe that Magi live within each of us. No matter how well-ordered or structured our lives, there is a something within us that longs to press out to the edges of life, that yearns to go beyond the little that we know and believe, and that truly does hunger for a spiritual journey that can shift life. Something within us wants to believe the world is coherent, that amidst the world's chaos, all things are held together.
For consideration:
Think about your own life experiences . . . even if you have to go back decades, consider a time when you followed an inner impulse -- you followed a star -- even when it seemed irrational or crazy to do so. Why did you take that particular path? Did you find it difficult to trust this path that you could not see? What kept you on that part of the journey?
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Advent's Coming
Advent is the season that anticipates the birth of Christ, the four Sundays leading up to Christmas. For centuries, the Church has paused during Advent to consider the meaning of this birth, to anticipate the birth of the Savior not only at Christmas, but in every moment of life. This year, Advent begins Sunday, November 27. Songs of longing and anticipation characterize the season, as well as the sprinkling of Christmas songs that begin to engage our hearts in the resounding joy of new life and the birth in Christ to which we are all invited.
This Advent, I'm interested in some of the characters in the traditional nativity narrative. Typically, the characters get analyzed and summarized in stereotypical ways, so that we find a handful of life-lessons in their presence at the Nativity. This year, I want to take a little different track. What if we approached the story of Jesus' birth and the characters surrounding his birth as if they were each alive somewhere within us? The approach reflects my growing understanding that we as humans are much more alike than we are different . . . that all of the foibles and glories of the worst and best among us also live within me. So what would it mean, for example, if I believed that something of the shepherds from the Christmas story lives on in me? What if the spirit of the Magi were also within me? What if there is a part of me that is like the angels, who proclaimed and sang at Jesus' birth? What if I found a corner of my life that was inhabited by the ruler Herod?
The method is akin to what one might experience in a form of Ignatian meditation and prayer. It is a way, I believe, in which we can each personalize the Birth story . . . that is, not hold it at arms length to analyze it, but to allow it close in order to personalize it. Not only, then, do I enter the story, but the story and its characters enter me!
So for the next four weeks, I'll use poetry and scripture to write about some of these characters, in hopes that we will be able to locate them within our own interior . . . and in hopes that we will recognize the Christmas story as our story. I'll post thoughts several times a week here on this A Daily Advent blog.
Tomorrow we begin. We'll consider the Magi, and using poetry and story we'll try to locate and be in touch with the Magi living within each of us. In the following weeks, we'll give attention to the shepherds, the angels, Herod and the innkeeper.
I invite you to make the journey with me.
This Advent, I'm interested in some of the characters in the traditional nativity narrative. Typically, the characters get analyzed and summarized in stereotypical ways, so that we find a handful of life-lessons in their presence at the Nativity. This year, I want to take a little different track. What if we approached the story of Jesus' birth and the characters surrounding his birth as if they were each alive somewhere within us? The approach reflects my growing understanding that we as humans are much more alike than we are different . . . that all of the foibles and glories of the worst and best among us also live within me. So what would it mean, for example, if I believed that something of the shepherds from the Christmas story lives on in me? What if the spirit of the Magi were also within me? What if there is a part of me that is like the angels, who proclaimed and sang at Jesus' birth? What if I found a corner of my life that was inhabited by the ruler Herod?
The method is akin to what one might experience in a form of Ignatian meditation and prayer. It is a way, I believe, in which we can each personalize the Birth story . . . that is, not hold it at arms length to analyze it, but to allow it close in order to personalize it. Not only, then, do I enter the story, but the story and its characters enter me!
So for the next four weeks, I'll use poetry and scripture to write about some of these characters, in hopes that we will be able to locate them within our own interior . . . and in hopes that we will recognize the Christmas story as our story. I'll post thoughts several times a week here on this A Daily Advent blog.
Tomorrow we begin. We'll consider the Magi, and using poetry and story we'll try to locate and be in touch with the Magi living within each of us. In the following weeks, we'll give attention to the shepherds, the angels, Herod and the innkeeper.
I invite you to make the journey with me.
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