What I’d Give You

Andrea Vertel, Hungary, 1969

Happy New Year!

Merry 10^th Day of Christmas!

And blessings this Epiphany Sunday, the day in the church year when we celebrate the mysterious magi and their gifts, and remember that the forced journey of Mary and Joseph extended on to Egypt as King Herod assassinated baby boys in an attempt to thwart God’s plan.

I’ve been thinking of magi, gifts and migrants this Christmas season. Thinking of what we give, what we wish we could give, not just to those we know and love, but to those beyond the reach of our own human agency.

This Christmas eve our family reenacted the story found in Luke and Matthew: the narrative of Mary and Joseph, innkeeper and stable, shepherds and angels, magi and Herod.

We’ve reenacted that story for thirty years now, almost every Christmas eve. Some years there’s a baby to take the place of Jesus; some years we use a baby doll.  Some years the innkeeper is apologetic and gentle; some years indifferent and brusk.

Most years I’m an angel, draped in a white sheet, singing “Gloria.” My husband Whitney is invariably the narrator; his Bible is marked with spots to pause and sing, and he’s the one who organizes the cast, while my assistants and I gather props and costumes.

Our little pageant is a gift we give ourselves: a reminder that we’re part of a larger story. It’s a prayer that that story will take root in our youngest members. And it’s an opportunity to step away, for just a moment, from the focus on things and wrappings.

It’s an attempt to give what is never ours to give.

Those magi, traveling miles across dangerous terrain to greet an unknown king, brought gifts listed in Matthew’s gospel: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  We’ve all heard those words together, but most of us have no clue what frankincense and myrrh really are: tree saps, from two trees I’ve never seen. Frankincense comes from the deciduous trees of the genus Boswellia, and myrrh from some species in the genus Commiphora, both species native in northeastern Africa and the peninsulas of the Middle East.  

Frankincense and myrrh were burned in religious ceremonies, used for medicinal purposes, valuable in trade.  They’ve been found in tombs of kings. They were also used in embalming.  Not exactly an appropriate gift for an infant born in a manger.

Joseph Eugene Dash, 1925, Chicago

Did the magi bring them to signify the royalty of the one they came to find? Did they bring them to be used for healing, or worship? Were they given for their monetary value? Scholars have suggested that the gifts funded the family’s travel into Egypt as they fled Herod’s slaughter of the male infants of Bethlehem. 

Thinking of the magi’s gifts, thinking of my own gifts given and received, I’m conscious that our gifts are in many ways place-holders, or symbols, of what we’d most like to give.

The magis’ gifts signified honor, royalty, health and wealth, realities far beyond their reach.

My own gifts signify love, interest, affirmation, warmth, health, joy, peace.

That sounds a little grand. Yet, that’s what I’m thinking as I wrap a book about young scientists for a granddaughter interested in bugs and dolphins.

And what I’m praying as I mail off boxes of cookies to brothers far away.

The world is a needy place and what I have to offer is small.

A friend and her son were in a terrible car crash just days before Christmas. The call from the hospital as I gathered Christmas groceries reminded me how little I can do in the face of life’s realities.

Yes, get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Yes, drive my friend home while her son was moved to a larger hospital downtown.

Yes – after some prayer and a few deep breaths – loan her my car so she could get to work, go see her son, somehow navigate Christmas with her four other children.

But what I most wanted to offer is light years away: complete health and recovery. Financial security. The knowledge that even in trauma, God is right there, closer than air, loving her, her injured son, the rest of her grieving family.

This past year I spent time helping launch an initiative in our state League of Women Voters to address injustice in our criminal justice system. I offered time, advise, research, creative energy. Others I know and respect offered more of all of those. Yet what we’d most like to give is far out of reach: real justice. Second chances for first time offenders. Restored families and communities. Equitable schools that make productive citizenship more attainable. 

In that effort, as in so many other arenas, what I have to give is very small, what I’d like to give is infinitely larger.

Milen Litchkov

I’ve posted about the park where I spend time, leading bird walks, hacking away at invasive vines that strangle native trees and shrubs. Our group put in two hundred hours this past year: a substantial gift, yet just a small fraction of what’s needed,  symbol and signifier of what we really would like to give: restored habitats for bird and bugs on a scale far beyond our reach. A globe set free from man-made hazards.

Some days I listen to the news and pray. Some days I leave the news off, and rest in the knowledge that the world isn’t mine to save, that the gifts most needed aren’t mine to give.

Last year, during Advent, I blogged about Tyler Wigg-Stevenson’s small, deeply encouraging and challenging book, The World is Not Ours to Save. I finished with a post called New Year’s Examen: What Have You Been Given? Reading it over, I’m more conscious than ever that the gifts I have to offer are shaped by my understanding of the gifts that I’ve been given. I wrote then: 

Praying through my own gifts, I find myself thinking of others I know and talk with, friends and fellow-travelers who read this blog or share life with me in other ways. Some have great gifts they’ve never recognized, amazing opportunities taken too much for granted. Some have suffered losses they count as deficits, which seen from another angle could be occasions to know God’s grace more deeply. Some struggle with fear or failures, unclaimed avenues into greater compassion or experience of mercy both received and given. Some focus so sharply on gifts not given they miss completely the gifts received in the unexpected spaces. Even as I think and pray of others, for greater insight into what’s been given, I acknowledge my own lack of sight: what are the gifts I’ve been given I still fail to acknowledge?  What pride, or fear, or misguided self-doubt keep me from fully receiving the gifts so freely given? 

For months now, I’ve been carrying a sentence in my mind: “What I’d give you if I could.”

There’s a practical, political level to that musing:

What I’d give you if I could:

• A new car to replace the one so badly smashed.
• A better-funded school, with smaller classes and more attention to kids with special needs
• Better housing.
• A more supportive, less-oppressive work place.
• A caring community that will hear you and listen.
• An end to the wars and droughts and famines driving so many millions from their homes.

But what I’d most like to give, if I could, goes beyond the practical or political, beyond the possible fix or potential solution.

What I’d give, if I could:

• An awareness of God’s love.
• Foundations in faith.
• Delight in creation
• Wonder and wisdom
• Assets and allies
• Confidence and courage

During this Epiphany season (from now until the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday, February 10) I’ll be blogging about those things I would give if I could.

And praying about the smaller gifts I might give, signifiers, symbols, steps along the way.

May the blessings of Epiphany be yours!

May God's gifts dwell in you richly. 

Vojtech Cinybulk, Czechoslovakia    

Earlier Epiphany posts on this blog:

• January 4, 2015 Epiphany and Filoxenia: Entertaining Strangers
• January 11, 2015 A Jungle Gym Epiphany  
• January 5, 2014 Balaam’s Oracle, Magis’ Star  
• January 13, 2013 Traveling toward Hope and Freedom 
• December 28, 2011 What the Magi Found 

Balaam's Oracle, Magis' Star

The oracle of Balaam son of Beor,
the oracle of the man whose eye is clear…
who sees the vision of the Almighty,
who falls down, but with his eyes uncovered:
I see him, but not now;
I behold him, but not near--
a star shall come out of Jacob,
and a scepter shall rise out of Israel.
      Numbers 24:15-17  

So here’s the question this Epiphany Sunday: 

How did the Magi, from somewhere east of Jerusalem, know the prophecy about a star heralding a new king in Israel?

 And why, knowing that, did they NOT know the prediction that he’d come from Bethlehem?
 And why did the prophetic experts in Jerusalem share what they knew of Bethlehem, with no interest at all in the star the magi saw?

 And what does all that have to do with Balaam, that strange prophet for hire of the early days of Israel? 

Balaam on his talking donkey, Basilica di San Zeno
 Maggiore, Verona, Italy, 12th century 

If you think the whole thing is myth, these questions are obviously not worth pursuing.

But if you read it as part of the most intriguing historic narrative ever constructed, then those questions are worth a journey of their own.

Balaam, son of Beor, apparently a free-lance Aramaic seer, was hired by King Balak of Moab to pronounce curses on the people of Israel, sometime in the late Bronze Age, around the 13^th century BC.  After some misgivings and dialogue back and forth with Balak, Balaam agreed to travel with the Moabite officials toward the place where the Israelites were camped along the Jordan.

Three times, in narrow passes, Balaam’s donkey refused to move forward, despite abuse and beatings from its owner. Ironically, the donkey was afraid to move past the angel of the Lord blocking its way, while Balaam, the “seer,” was unable to see the angel.

Then the Lord opened the donkey’s mouth, and it said to Balaam, “What have I done to you to make you beat me these three times?”

Balaam answered the donkey, “You have made a fool of me! If only I had a sword in my hand, I would kill you right now.”

The donkey said to Balaam, “Am I not your own donkey, which you have always ridden, to this day? Have I been in the habit of doing this to you?”

“No,” he said.

Then the Lord opened Balaam’s eyes, and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road with his sword drawn. So he bowed low and fell facedown.

The angel of the Lord asked him, “Why have you beaten your donkey these three times? I have come here to oppose you because your path is a reckless one before me. The donkey saw me and turned away from me these three times. If it had not turned away, I would certainly have killed you by now, but I would have spared it.”  Numbers 22:28-33

Again – if miracle disqualifies historical account, don’t bother. Just as Balaam couldn’t see the angel without God opening his eyes, those needing verification for anything unusual might as well stop reading now. 

Balaam's inscription, Deir Alla

Although, I confess, that’s part of the marvel of this story. Dismissed as myth, Balaam showed up unannounced in an archeological dig in 1967. Workers on an expedition in Deir Alla, in Jordan, uncovered traces of lettering in fragments of plaster. International scholars who gathered to examine the fragments found that one said, in bold letters, “the prophet, Balaam son of Beor.” Other text detailed a time of coming judgment, in prophetic language that mirrors the oracles of Balaam reported in Numbers. The pieces of writing are dated to somewhere between 6 and 800 BC, with general agreement that they provide a record of prophecy passed orally across centuries.

That’s not the only evidence pointing back to Balaam. The Babylonian Talmud offers discussion of his lineage, his influence, the meaning of his prophecies. The Dead Sea Scrolls, discovered in caves at Khirbet Qumran in the West Bank between 1946 and 1956, discuss Balaam repeatedly, with varying interpretations of his prophecies and their meanings.

And somehow, apparently, his prophecy of a star and scepter was passed down in the regions where he had traveled, resurfacing with the Magi in search of the king they believed the star would signal.

Which leads me back to the questions I began with:

How did the Magi, from somewhere east of Jerusalem, know the prophecy of the star heralding a new king in Israel?

 And why, knowing that, did they NOT know the prediction that he’d come from Bethlehem?

 And why did the prophetic experts in Jerusalem share what they knew of Bethlehem, with no interest at all in the star the magi saw? 

Three Wise Men detail, master of Sant'Apollinare,
Ravenna, Italy ,526 AD

Questions one and two: if Balaam’s oracles were passed on orally, and recorded in writing centuries later, they would have passed into the historic record, at least in the region of Jordan, if not in areas beyond. If the Magi had only those oracles to go on, then they had mention of a star and king, words of blessing for the people of Israel, and warning of disaster for anyone who opposed the God of Israel and those he promised to protect.

Other more overtly messianic prophecies, recorded by Israelites in subsequent centuries, would be unknown to them.

Question three is a little harder: If the magi brought news of a star, why were they the only ones to see if?

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.”

When King Herod heard this he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him. When he  had called together all the people’s chief priests and teachers of the law, he asked them where the Messiah was to be born.  “In Bethlehem in Judea,” they replied, “for this is what the prophet has written:

 “‘But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,

are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;

  for out of you will come a ruler

who will shepherd my people Israel.’”

      Matthew 2:1-6

Here’s what I’ve concluded, digging back through Jewish writing about Balaam and his star: no one believed him. He wasn’t Jewish, wasn’t a proper prophet, had questionable motives. What he had to say was dismissed. Along with any mention of a star.

According to the Jewish Encyclopedia (1906), 

“it is significant that in rabbinical literature the epithet "rasha" (the wicked one) is often attached to the name of Balaam (Ber. l.c.; Ta'anit 20a; Num. R. xx. 14). He is pictured as blind of one eye and lame in one foot.” 

As for the donkey, “The tale of the talking ass must be regarded as a bit of primitive folk-lore, introduced into the narrative as a literary embellishment.” 

I find myself back to the question of what we see and don’t see.

Balaam couldn’t see the angel until his eyes were opened.

The teachers of the law couldn’t see the star, or the meaning of the star, because they discounted Balaam and all he had to say.

And we, looking back: so often we dismiss donkey, prophet, star, Magi, angels, story of Christ’s birth. 

As myth? Primitive folk-lore? Literary embellishment? 

We chuckle at the thought of a talking donkey, argue over the physics involved in the description of the star, miss the greater miracle: that God chose to intervene through the birth of a child whose mission of mercy still rattles prison doors and rebuilds broken lives.

Are we really wiser than those early wise men?

Or are we so intent on going where we choose to go we refuse to see what’s standing right before us?

One last thought I take from this story that spans so many centuries:

Truth will bubble up when we least expect it. The story of the Magi’s star draws breath from a donkey, a mercenary prophet-for-hire, an earnest brigade of journeying wise men, disinterested scholars, ancient fragments of plaster.

On this Epiphany Sunday, I pray for myself, for you, for pilgrims near and far: 

That this may this be a year when the truth becomes clearer. 

That the eternal story, strange and wonderful, will seize our hearts and quiet our doubts. 

That the light of Christ, in all its unexpected forms, will shine ever brighter.

That we will know the joy of true epiphany.

The Journey of the Magi, James Tissot, France, 1902,