If artistic output is any indicator, the story of the magi ranks right up there with the best of them in inspiring the human imagination.  Poets have put pen to paper, trying to capture its wonders through the ages.  William Butler Yeats and William Carlos Williams have each written beautiful poems, recasting this story in verse.  Longfellow even went so far as to name them – Melchior, Caspar and Balthasar.  Sound familiar?  Painters across the years have also found this passage of Scripture inspirational.  Seeing the story unfold in their mind’s eyes, they’ve put paint to canvas in untold numbers.  More recently, Garrison Keillor retold the story on “Prairie Home Companion.”  James Taylor even composed a song based on these verses of Scripture called “Home by Another Way.”

  I think this story has become comfortingly familiar to us as well.  When you hear this reading, what do you see in your mind’s eye? 

  For me, I think of some of the men of the churches I’ve served, progressing down the aisles of those sanctuaries - each one adorned in full king regalia thanks in no small part to the costuming gifts of backstage angles.  To the manger they come, each one carrying their precious gifts to pay homage to the Christ child. 

  But I think it’s interesting to note how little the story actually tells us about these magi.  The Gospel itself doesn’t mention there being just three – that’s something we’ve inferred by the number of gifts they bring but it isn’t necessarily right.  The earliest Christian tradition we know of actually supposes there were 12 of them.

  Nor is it likely they were solitary travelers, three camels riding in the desert like you most often find on greeting cards.  Chances are they journeyed as all wealthy men did at the time – with wives and children and servants and supplies and a healthy company of burly men.  Remember, there wasn’t 911 out in the desert, you’d want to have some tough guys to keep you safe in your tents at night.

  Because the trip they were on wasn’t some sort of weekend jaunt.  Given their profession, it’s likely the wise men were from Babylon, not the Orient as the hymn imagines.  Babylon being the place where you’d find most of the star-gazers.  If that’s the case, then the trip would’ve been about 600 miles, most of it across a vast desert. 

  We’ve called them the Kings through the ages but that isn’t right either.  Magi, that’s what Matthew called them.  They were learned men, that’s for sure.  Astrology was considered important work in the era, it took time and training.  There were certain protocols that went with it. 

  So, when those Magi saw that particular star appear, they knew it told of something important.  We got the chance this year to see a similar star, didn’t we?  The Bethlehem star rose this year, just as it did long, long ago.  And we, like the Magi, knew it was significant.  They just knew they had to follow it.  You see back then, as these star-gazers would’ve known, the occurrence of a star or a constellation of stars was often associated with the birth of a notable person. So, having seen the star, the Magi went to pay homage to the newborn King of the Jews. 

  And if we look at today’s passage closely, we’ll likely see another of our assumptions about this story evaporate.  I’ve always figured that they were following the star’s course the whole way.  But that isn’t the case at all.  What the magi say when they arrive in Jerusalem is simply that they saw the star “at its rising,” suggesting that they left knowing something was going on.  But you know how even the most impressive of stars sometimes fades into the canopy of stars shining in the night sky. 

  So off they go, traveling hither and yon.  They knew something magnificent was out there.  Knew the rough direction but they did a lot of their journeying seemingly without a guiding light.    

  Now imagine just for a second that you were one of these magi.  Long miles and many days you’d travelled looking for a King to pay homage to.  Perhaps your throat is a bit parched, maybe your feet are callused, after all, you’d just traversed 600 miles of desert.  One day, as you near the land where you know this King is, you stand atop a tall hill, gazing into Israel.  

  From your viewpoint, you look out, over the Dead Sea.  You spot two towns.  One shimmers with fires and activity, like some ancient-world equivalent of Las Vegas shining out in the desert.  The other town, well, it’s not quite so busy.  In fact, it seems downright ordinary.  Boring perhaps.  A sleepy little town if there ever was one.

  And remember, you’re looking for the King.  You’ve brought gold, frankincense and myrrh.  The best gifts you’ve got in the entire world.  And you mean to deliver them.