Sharing Christmas, page 8
Even my own parents were embarrassing. Although they were always late to sacrament meeting, they breezed through the door at the front of the chapel and headed straight for the family pew instead of sitting circumspectly in the cultural hall stealing Cheerios from babies with the rest of the stragglers. “You guys never come on time,” a friend once whispered to me.
“And why does your mother wear those black sunglasses in church, anyway?”
It was true. My mother, after arriving late, proceeded to sit through church meetings looking like Jacqueline Onassis avoiding the press at the airport. It didn't matter that she was the most terrific-looking mother in the whole ward, not to mention the universe—I still wanted to slip like so much loose change through the cracks of a sofa.
And now I was supposed to do something embarrassing, too.
Dr. Wanship called a practice the Saturday before the program so we could rehearse our parts. We met in the chapel and took turns reading our parts from the podium while Dr. Wanship sat on the front pew and flapped directions at us.
“It's your turn, Sister Edwards.”
I schlepped over to the microphone like any self-respecting fourteen-year-old girl, plopped open my mostly unused Bible, and began to mumble.
“I am the light of the—”
Dr. Wanship leaped like a toad. “NO! NO! NO! Listen to the words you're saying.” He placed his hands over his heart. “Feel the words you are saying.”
I stared at Dr. Wanship. Putting too much Dippity-Do in my bangs was something to get worked up about. Reading scriptures wasn't.
“Try again.”
I did. He flew at me again. And again and again.
“He wants me to make a total fool of myself,” I wailed to my father that night.
My father looked like Job would have looked if the Lord had sent him a fourteen-year-old daughter along with the rest of the plagues. “Just do the best you can,” he said patiently.
So the next afternoon I stood before the congregation, tossed my hair, and routinely read the words,
“I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” (John 8:12.)
When I sat down, I saw a look of profound disappointment cloud Dr. Wanship's round little face.
Well, Dr. Wanship, that was more than twenty years ago, and it has taken me that long to understand why those words once made the night glad. So I want to apologize for letting you down and to tell you that I would try to read those words for you now the way you hoped I would then. I would make those glorious words ring from the chapel walls. I would make them crack stone.
Merry Christmas, Dr. Wanship.
THE NAMING OF THE LORD
Richard Tice
Isaiah gave him names before his birth:
Wonderful, he called him.
Shepherds, seeing only a baby,
would not have known him otherwise,
but they marveled at the promise in him,
for they had heard the heavenly choir,
the messenger's words, and seen glory.
Thus the angel's saying turned
to shepherds' words, “and all they
that heard wondered at those things.”
Counselor, he called him.
So the priests counseled to kill
Peter and the others. But one stood
in council, Gamaliel, to talk of men
of no account, whose words, and works,
and lives had perished. “Refrain,”
he said, “for if this counsel
or this work be of men, it will come
to naught. But if it be of God,
ye cannot overthrow it.”
The mighty God, he called him.
Like a trumpet, the voice that John heard.
He turned to see, and behold, fiery eyes,
but the hair was white, like snow,
and his feet burned as if in a furnace,
his right hand holding seven stars,
his words as a sharp two-edged sword,
his face as the sun in its strength: “
I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning
and the ending, which is, and which was,
and which is to come, the Almighty.”
The everlasting Father, he called him.
In the Garden, before his bitter agony,
before the angel strengthened him,
before the sinful burden of all
fell on him, before his blood fell
as sweat, he prayed for all believers,
for glory to glorify his Father.
Having power over all flesh, eternal
life to give, he prayed, “Holy Father,
keep through thine own name
those whom thou hast given me,
that they may be one, as we are.”
The Prince of Peace to be his name.
The storm of wind beat waves full
into the hull, and they cried, “Lord,
save us, we perish!” Rising, he rebuked
wind and said to sea, “Peace, be still.”
Calm settled through air and water,
and they asked, “What manner of man
is this?” Peter answering three years later,
“The prince of life, whom God has raised
from the dead”; John answering in old age,
“he is the way, the truth, the life,”
commanding our hearts to be untroubled,
to be unafraid, leaving with us his peace.
(Isaiah 9:6; Matthew 8:23–27; Mark 4:36–41; Luke 2:8–18; 22:39–45; John 14:6, 27; 17:1–11; Acts 3:15; 5:33–40; Revelation 1:8–19)
THE STORY OF THE OTHER WISE MAN
Henry van Dyke
You know the story of the Three Wise Men of the East, and how they traveled from far away to offer their gifts at the manger-cradle in Bethlehem. But have you ever heard the story of the Other Wise Man, who also saw the star rising, and set out to follow it, yet did not arrive with his brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of the great desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yet accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probations of his soul; of the long way of his seeking, and the strange way of his finding, the One whom he sought—I would tell the tale as I have heard fragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart of Man.
THE SIGN IN THE SKY
In the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kings and Herod reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among the mountains of Persia, a certain man named Artaban, the Median. His house stood close to the outermost of the seven walls which encircled the royal treasury. From his roof he could look over the rising battlements of black and white and crimson and blue and red and silver and gold, to the hill where the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered like a jewel in a sevenfold crown.
Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of flowers and fruit trees, watered by a score of streams descending from the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds. But all color was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late September night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, save the plashing of the water, like a voice half sobbing and half laughing under the shadows. High above the trees a dim glow of light shone through the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where the master of the house was holding council with his friends.
He stood by the doorway to greet his guests—a tall, dark man of about forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad brow, and firm lines graven around his thin lips; the brow of a dreamer and the mouth of a soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but inflexible will—one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are born for inward conflict and a life of quest.
His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his flowing black hair. It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the Magi... .
“Welcome!” he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another entered the room— “welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and Tigranes, and with you; my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome, and this house grows bright with the joy of your presence.”
There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the richness of their dress of many-colored silks and in the massive golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and in the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of the followers of Zoroaster... .
“You have come to-night,” said [Artaban], looking around the circle, “at my call, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster... .
“Hear me, then, ... while I tell you of the new light and truth that have come to me through the most ancient of all signs. We have searched the secrets of nature together, and studied the healing virtues of water and fire and the plants. We have read also the books of prophecy in which the future is dimly foretold in words that are hard to understand. But the highest of all learning is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their courses is to untangle the threads of the mystery of life from the beginning to the end. If we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us. But is not our knowledge of them still incomplete? Are there not many stars still beyond our horizon— lights that are known only to the dwellers in the far south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and the gold-mines of Ophir?”
There was a murmur of assent among the listeners.
“The stars,” said Tigranes, “are the thoughts of the Eternal. They are numberless. But the thoughts of man can be counted, like the years of his life. The wisdom of the Magi is the greatest of all wisdoms on earth, because it knows its own ignorance. And that is the secret of power. We keep men always looking and waiting for a new sunrise. But we ourselves know that the darkness is equal to the light, and that the conflict between them will never be ended.”
“That does not satisfy me,” answered Artaban, “for, if the waiting must be endless, if there could be no fulfilment of it, then it would not be wisdom to look and wait. We should become like those new teachers of the Greeks, who say that there is no truth, and that the only wise men are those who spend their lives in discovering and exposing the lies that have been believed in the world. But the new sunrise will certainly dawn in the appointed time. Do not our own books tell us that this will come to pass, and that men will see the brightness of a great light?”
“That is true,” said the voice of Abgarus; “every faithful disciple of Zoroaster knows the prophecy of the Avesta and carries the word in his heart. ‘In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of the number of the prophets in the east country. Around him shall shine a mighty brightness, and he shall make life everlasting, incorruptible, and immortal, and the dead shall rise again.'”
“This is a dark saying,” said Tigranes, “and it may be that we shall never understand it. It is better to consider the things that are near at hand, and to increase the influence of the Magi in their own country, rather than to look for one who may be a stranger, and to whom we must reign our power.”
The others seemed to approve these words. There was a silent feeling of agreement manifest among them; their looks responded with that indefinable expression which always follows when a speaker has uttered the thought that has been slumbering in the hearts of his listeners. But Artaban turned to Abgarus with a glow on his face, and said:
“My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place of my soul. Religion without a great hope would be like an altar without a living fire. And now the flame has burned more brightly, and by the light of it I have read other words which also have come from the fountain of Truth, and speak yet more clearly of the rising of the Victorious One in his brightness.”
He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of fine linen, with writing upon them, and unfolded them carefully upon his knee.
“In the years that are lost in the past, long before our fathers came into the land of Babylon, there were wise men in Chaldea, from whom the first of the Magi learned the secret of the heavens. And of these Balaam, the son of Beor, was one of the mightiest. Hear the words of his prophecy: ‘There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall arise out of Israel.'”
The lips of Tigranes drew downward with contempt, as he said:
“Judah was a captive by the waters of Babylon, and the sons of Jacob were in bondage to our kings. The tribes of Israel are scattered through the mountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant that dwells in Judea under the yoke of Rome neither star nor sceptre shall arise.”
“And yet,” answered Artaban, “it was the Hebrew Daniel, the mighty searcher of dreams, the counsellor of kings, the wise Belteshazzar, who was most honored and beloved of our great King Cyrus. A prophet of sure things and a reader of the thoughts of God, Daniel proved himself to our people. And these are the words that he wrote.” (Artaban read from the second roll:) “Know, therefore, and understand that from the going forth of the commandment to restore Jerusalem, unto the Anointed One, the Prince, the time shall be seven and three-score and two weeks.'”
“But, my son,” said Abgarus, doubtfully, “these are mystical numbers. Who can interpret them, or who can find the key that shall unlock their meaning?”
Artaban answered: “It has been shown to me and to my three companions among the Magi—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. We have searched the ancient tablets of Chaldea and computed the time. It falls in this year. We have studied the sky, and in the spring of the year we saw two of the greatest stars draw near together in the sign of the Fish, which is the house of the Hebrews. We also saw a new star there, which shone for one night and then vanished. Now again the two great planets are meeting. This night is their conjunction. My three brothers are watching at the ancient Temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylonia, and I am watching here. If the star shines again, they will wait ten days for me at the temple, and then we will set out together for Jerusalem, to see and worship the promised one who shall be born King of Israel. I believe the sign will come. I have made ready for the journey. I have sold my house and my possessions, and bought these three jewels—a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl—to carry them as tribute to the King. And I ask you to go with me on the pilgrimage, that we may have joy together in finding the Prince who is worthy to be served.”
While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of his girdle and drew out three great gems—one blue as a fragment of the night sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as the peak of a snow mountain at twilight—and laid them on the outspread linen scrolls before him.
But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes. A veil of doubt and mistrust came over their faces, like a fog creeping up from the marshes to hide the hills. They glanced at each other with looks of wonder and pity, as those who have listened to incredible sayings, the story of a wild vision, or the proposal of an impossible enterprise.
At last Tigranes said: “Artaban, this is a vain dream. It comes from too much looking upon the stars and the cherishing of lofty thoughts. It would be wiser to spend the time in gathering money for the new fire-temple at Chala. No king will ever rise from the broken race of Israel, and no end will ever come to the eternal strife of light and darkness. He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows. Farewell.”
And another said: “Artaban, I have no knowledge of these things, and my office as guardian of the royal treasure binds me here. The quest is not for me. But if thou must follow it, fare thee well.”
And another said: “In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I cannot leave her nor take her with me on this strange journey. This quest is not for me. But may thy steps be prospered wherever thou goest. So, farewell.”
And another said: “I am ill and unfit for hardship, but there is a man among my servants whom I will send with thee when thou goest, to bring me word how thou farest.”
But Abgarus, the oldest and the one who loved Artaban the best, lingered after the others had gone, and said, gravely: “My son, it may be that the light of truth is in this sign that has appeared in the skies, and then it will surely lead to the Prince and the mighty brightness. Or it may be that it is only a shadow of the light, as Tigranes has said, and then he who follows it will have only a long pilgrimage and an empty search. But it is better to follow even the shadow of the best than to remain content with the worst. And those who would see wonderful things must often be ready to travel alone. I am too old for this journey, but my heart shall be a companion of the pilgrimage day and night, and I shall know the end of thy quest. Go in peace.”
So one by one they went out of the azure chamber with its silver stars, and Artaban was left in solitude.
He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle. For a long time he stood and watched the flame that flickered and sank upon the altar. Then he crossed the hall, lifted the heavy curtain, and passed out between the dull red pillars of porphyry to the terrace on the roof.
The shiver that thrills through the earth ere she rouses from her night sleep had already begun, and the cool wind that heralds the daybreak was drawing downward from the lofty, snow-traced ravines of Mount Orontes. Birds, half awakened, crept and chirped among the rustling leaves, and the smell of ripened grapes came in brief wafts from the arbors.
Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake. But where the distant peak of Zagros serrated the western horizon the sky was clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent flame about to blend in one.
As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of the darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple splendors to a crimson sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a point of white radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in every part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in the Magian's breast had mingled and been transformed into a living heart of light.
He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.
