Magi: Journeys That Shift Everything

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.

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?