Sermon for the 1st Sunday after the Epiphany, January 11, 2009
" And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh ..."
What have you to offer the King? gold, frankincense, or myrrh? Are those precious enough to please your king, or does He seek something more of you?
I've heard a story about the Epiphany, and although it's a fictional story about the three wise men, I'd like to relate it now, this imaginary story about three magi, and perhaps a story about us:
You have all heard of Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, those mysterious three men who rode in from the east, giving their wondrous testimony of a star they had seen and followed, and of its portent of a king for all people born to the Jews. You have heard of the gifts that they brought: precious, rare and costly gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
But that is not the whole story. Now you will know all...
These men approached the place where the Christ child lay, that much we know, bearing three precious gifts, fit for a king. All that is true—but there is more.
The first to approach was Gaspar , a man vastly wealthy, rich beyond imagining. Fine gold and jewels adorning his richly encrusted belt and brooch, a turban of finest silk spun with gold sitting upon his proud head. He came to the door of the stable, and then abruptly stopped. His fellow travelers saw his mouth moving, and they thought perhaps he was reciting a prayer. But they couldn't see what he saw, nor did they understand what it was he was saying.
Gaspar beheld a bright angel: Gabriel, standing guard at the stable door and challenging him:
“Do you bring a gift? For a gift you must bring to enter here.”
Gaspar answered, “ Yes, of course I do! I bring gold, the finest in all the world!” And he held aloft a small ebony casket, bound with iron, so heavy that his arms could scarcely lift it up.
"What you must bring here and give is the essence of your soul.” said the angel.
“I do,” replied Gaspar.
“We shall see,” said Gabriel.
The angel then stepped back and Gaspar then entered in. He came to the side of the manger where he knelt down and began once more bringing out his gift. The oxen and the donkeys behind the Holy Family bowed their heads low as the rich man raised his head with pride and held out his gift. But look! Instead of an iron-bound box, his hands held out a hammer, heavy and crude, with a battered handle and a large iron head. “What madness is this? I've been robbed!” Gaspar cried, and he turned toward Gabriel.
“This gift is the essence of your soul,” replied the angel, “and is the hammer of greed with which you have pounded out the lives of many others in pursuit of wealth.”
“I cannot give this... I, I... I must go now.”
“But you haven't given your gift. You must now lay it at his feet, or you will not leave this place.”
“But it is too heavy! It may bring a danger to the child!”
“That may be, but you must leave that to heaven.”
“I cannot leave it here.”
“This is the only place where you can leave it. You must do it now.”
Sadly, Gaspar set the hammer at the foot of the manger, and slowly he arose, but as he did so, it seemed that a tremendous weight was lifted from his shoulders, and as he left the stable to rejoin his companions a new light shone in his eyes.
Next came Melchior, a man of letters, whose austere visage had frequently sobered all the travelers, and whose overwhelming knowledge and high learning had levied a debt the world now owed him. His palid gray beard, and dark solemn cloak completed a picture of endless hours pouring over ancient scrolls and acquiring out of the way knowledge with a lust for understanding what other men do not. Again, as he came to the stable door he stopped, and others wondered why his lips moved, but they concluded that he was praying, as had Gaspar. But now hear what he saw. A bright angel, Gabriel, barred his way, demanding again that he brought a gift.
“Naturally! I bring this!” and he held aloft a gilded jar. “ Frankincense! the wonder of ages! Scent of kings.”
“What you must bring is the essence of your soul,” said the angel.
“That I do as well,” replied the sage.
“We shall see. You may enter and leave your gift.”
Melchior entered the stable, and began at once to lay down the jar, but lo! Instead of the precious spice, he brought forth a dingy old glass bottle! In a flury of curious wonder he pulled out the cork stopper and, sniffing slightly, he recoiled. “Ugh! bitter vinegar! What deviltry is this?”
“It is the bitterness of your soul, the very essence of a life in pursuit of secrets, selfishly desiring knowledge others do not possess, and scowling at your fellow men for what you perceive is their ignorance. This is who you are. Give it to him.”
“I cannot give this! It may harm the child. Such a bitter poison may even kill him. What if he were to touch it to his lips?”
“You must leave that to the mercy of heaven.”
“But I cannot leave such a wretched thing as this here!”
“This is the only place you can leave it. You must do so, now.”
And so Melchior left the bitter vinegar at the foot of the wooden manger and, breathing a heavy sigh, he left. But as he emerged from the stable, a smile broadened his face, and a new joy seemed to take over the once solemn visage.
Now it was Balthazar, the proud warrior, a general in his own land, a master of men and beasts. Balthazar wore the tunic of a captain of men, the leather leggings of a soldier, and in his hands was an oaken box bound in brass, and filled with myrrh.
Again they saw him stand, hesitating at the door, and we know what it was the angel demanded. When at last he entered and reached for his gift, instead of the myrrh he found his hands wrapped around his spear, a sharp and heavy one, notched with the signs of battles engaged, and stained with the blood of his enemies. “What is this, witchcraft?” he cried out.
“It is the essence of your soul, a spear of hatred and enmity you hold against any who are in your way, or who have something that you want. You see all men as your quarry, and treat them as your slaves. This is your essence. Lay it down.” said the angel.
“I cannot lay it down! I must bear it back to my people, to defend them and to fight for the glory of our kingdom.”
“There is no kingdom but the one whose king is this child. Lay down the spear.”
“But what if it should hurt him? It might pierce his flesh.”
“That you must leave to heaven. Lay it down.”
“But I cannot leave this horrid thing here!” he said, beginning to truly feel repelled by this instrument of death.
“This is the only place you may leave it.”
And so Balthazar laid the spear at the foot of the manger, and when he emerged from the stable, a transformation took place in his demeanor, and with a loving gesture toward his traveling companions he entered excitedly into a quiet but animated discussion. No one else knew what they said, but now you know what they talked about on into the night, and what the wise men saw.
AND WHAT happened to that hammer, the vinegar, and the spear? That is another story, but you may have heard it also. They found their way to a hilltop, upon which another wooden structure, quite unlike the manger, bore this same King and presented Him before other men.
But that is not our story for this hour, rather we are to ask ourselves what it is that we bring our king. We may think that it is money, or service, or protection, or whatever it is that makes us feel we are worthy of his approval. But that is just our human pride, a faulty understanding. What we must first truly bring is the essence of our souls. That essence is not beautiful, not as we would have it be. But we must lay it down at the foot of the manger. And we must leave it there. No concern of whether it may endanger the little Saviour must prevent us from giving this gift, this living sacrifice of our souls. We must leave that to heaven. No thought of whether these gifts are enough must prevent us from giving Him all that we are, for flawed though we are, that is the gift he is asking of us, and that is the Gift that He gives us in return.
That is a story of the three wise men. Of course it is only a fictional account, as are the names we have affixed to the unnumbered travelers who factually visited the Christ child, as told in the Gospel of St. Matthew. But it is still a true story, and if not true of them, it is still true for us.
St. Paul calls upon us to be a living sacrifice unto our Lord. Every Sunday we make that offer, through the words of our liturgy before the newly consecrated Body and Blood of our Lord upon the altar: “…here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy, and living sacrifice unto thee.” These are not just pretty words. We are offering up the essence of ourselves, that from this time forward every moment of our lives might be lived for Him, and Him alone. No longer do we belong to ourselves, being self-possessed as is the bulk of our culture, scraping to get ahead, learning secrets, and killing one another. No more can we do these things, nor can we accept them as simply the way it is. We are His people, a sacrifice to Him, servants and citizens of a kingdom that is not of this world. Learn to serve Him. Offer Him your soul. Give up the battle. Live every day, every moment you ever live for King Jesus, the baby Christ in that manger.