The Stars We Follow

Some fragmented thoughts on the Epiphany, the gods to whom we offer our gifts, names, gentleness, and clear blue mornings

Thursday, January 6
East Sandwich, Massachusetts

Greetings, dear reader.

Today is the Feast of the Epiphany. The word “epiphany” is rooted in a Greek word that means “manifestation” or “appearance“—or, more poetically, “shining.” Sometimes we use “epiphany” to proclaim a burst of insight or name a spark of enlightenment. On the church calendar, it commemorates the attentiveness of wise ones who came to pay homage to the baby Jesus.

Scripture tells us that the Magi had followed a rising star. I wonder sometimes what it might have been like to gaze upward back then. Their heavens were not as cluttered with manmade debris as ours are now. Today, we have so many false stars, shiny objects that gleam in the nighttime sky and compete with the ancient constellations for our eye.

The Magi’s journey couldn’t have been an easy one. But so much is left unwritten in the record that we have: Where were they coming from, and what road did they take? The Gospel of Matthew simply says “from the East,” and some scholars have speculated that they traveled from as far away as China. Who were they? Educated guesses include Zoroastrian priests or astrologers or mystics. How many were there? Western church tradition, not the biblical text, tells us that there were three. But in Syriac Orthodox storytelling, there were twelve.

Detail from an 17th-century Ethiopian icon. Artist unknown. In the collection of the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art, Washington, DC.

Regardless, the arrival of this delegation from afar was enough to shake King Herod. And what was in their luggage was interesting enough for Matthew to note. The Magi’s attentiveness, their recognition of the birth of someone special, their awe at an epiphany, took physical form in the gifts that they brought to Jesus: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 

Nothing on that inventory was the stuff of instant gratification. In these gifts, we can read a story of Jesus’s holy stature. But we can also find symbolism that speaks to the reality of life and death.

Gold, which has been linked to power and wealth since time immemorial, is often read as recognition of Jesus’s kingly status. But it has traditionally also represented security. In both symbol and substance, it was an insurance policy. For a poor family such as Joseph and Mary’s, the precious metal would have been stashed away for when you needed it.

Frankincense, which was burned in religious ritual and perfumed the temple, was said to point to Jesus’s priestly significance. In many ancient cultures, the resin of the boswellia tree was also recognized as a potent anti-inflammatory as well as an antiseptic. It cleansed, and it healed.

Myrrh—bittersweet myrrh: Like frankincense, this tree resin was used as a religious perfume and also infused into anointing oil, for marking those set apart as holy. But it was also historically used to embalm the dead as well as to help the living—to stop bleeding, to relieve pain.

Security, cleansing, healing: These are all things humans still seek, sometimes in the sacred, occasionally in the profane. These are all things we still try to attain, sometimes in good and peaceful ways, occasionally in a harmful and more violent manner.

In the Eastern church, the Epiphany is also sometimes called the Theophany—a more literal word that means the appearance of a god. I wonder if that might feel uncomfortably on the nose, given recent events that have come to be identified with the date January 6th. The questions remain the same: Whom do we love? What do we serve? To what do we pay attention? To whom do we offer the things that we count as significant—our bodies, our voices, our hearts, our energies, our lives, our gifts?

What I’m Reading: This Washington Post piece on Chinese names resonated deeply. Like the author, I learned Chinese first, then English at school, except in my case, it was Cantonese, not Mandarin. My Chinese name, 朱天慧, is my legal name only on one side of the Pacific; it’s listed on my Hong Kong ID, but not on my US passport or my birth certificate. I don’t know why, but I’ve never asked my parents why they gave me an English middle name, Brian, rather than using Chinese names, as they both do; I’m guessing it was a reflection of their desire for me to assimilate well into American society. Anyway, the first character of my full name, 朱, transliterated “Chu,” is my family name. The next two, 天慧, form my given name. In Chinese tradition, given names often express the hopes and aspirations that one’s parents and/or grandparents have for the newborn child. Mine was chosen by my paternal grandfather, as is the custom in many families. 天 means “sky” or “heaven,” and 慧 is the second character in a pair that means “wisdom,” so taken together, it means “heavenly wisdom.” Those who know me well can speak to the ways in which I have or have not lived up to my name at any particular moment in time. I’m still trying!

My friend Sarah Bessey has a characteristically thoughtful essay in her newsletter, Field Notes, this week in which she quotes a line from the poem “For One Who Is Exhausted, A Blessing,” by the Irish writer John O’Donohue: “Be excessively gentle with yourself.” Pastoral and compassionate to her core, Sarah encourages us to take that line to heart—to be “gentle with your words to yourself. Gentle with your expectations. Gentle with your demands. Gentle with your soul. Gentle with your plans, your time, your hours, your sleep. Gentle with your partner, your kids, your people. Gentle with your needs, your wants, your desires. Gentle with your mind and your body.”

Forgive me for my excessive etymological geekery this week, but “gentleness” and “gentle” are such funny words. For those of us who grew up hearing about the fruits of the Spirit, gentleness comes next to last in the list in Paul’s letter to the Galatians, just before everyone’s favorite, self-control. I always thought it had an air of softness, even weakness, about it. I’ve said in the past that I’d like to show up in this world, full as it is with aggression, as a gentle person. Candidly, I wonder sometimes whether I might use that to rationalize my conflict aversion or explain away my timidity. 

Earlier today, when I looked at the Greek word in Galatians that’s translated “gentleness,” the word studies I read offered some correction. In fact, “gentleness” doesn’t mean soft or weak at all; it means “the right balance between force and reserve” and “avoiding unnecessary harshness, yet without compromising.” And in the Old French, from which the English word “gentle” comes, gentil can mean “courageous” or “valiant,” as well as “good” and “fair.”

So yes, let’s be gentle, not just with ourselves but also, and especially, with our neighbors. That’s a good word.

What I’m Listening to: During our long drive back to Cape Cod from Grand Rapids, we were listening to the wireless, and we heard this segment by NPR music critic Ann Powers. She was sharing a couple of forthcoming albums that she’s excited about. One was “Life on Earth,” from a New Orleans-based band called Hurray for the Riff Raff. What a name! Powers described lead singer Alynda Segarra’s voice as “a voice of yearning... a voice of self-questioning. This is a voice that lives inside me and inspires me every time I hear it.” You’ll have to listen to the segment to hear the song “Saga”; because the album isn’t out yet—it’s due February 18—I couldn’t find it anywhere else online. But I did love “Halfway There,” from Hurray from the Riff Raff’s 2017 album “The Navigator.” It sounded to me like a moody modern take on an old spiritual.

On Tuesday, Tristan, Fozzie, and I were doing our morning walk by the water. The bay near our house is usually calm, but in the winter, the wind can really kick up, and that day, there were plenty of whitecaps. To the northeast, a thick bank of cloud hugged the horizon. But above us, it was just the most beautiful blue—or, to be precise, so many vivid shades of blue, deepening as the eye ascended.

Of course I thought of Dolly Parton’s “Light of a Clear Blue Morning,” which I adore. I mentioned this song ages ago, and one of you—I’m sorry! I can’t remember who!—suggested the Wailin’ Jennys’ cover version. I finally got around to it, and while I’m still partial to Dolly’s original—because Dolly—this one is also so beautiful.

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That’s all I’ve got for you this week, other than a reminder to please, please, please wear your masks, consider your movements carefully, and stay safe, not just for your own sake but also for everyone else. This COVID-19 thing continues to rage, and several people very dear to me have come down with this wretched disease in just the past week. I get that we’re exhausted and we just want things to be normal. But they aren’t. And the only way we’re going to get through this is by loving our neighbors better than we have been.

I’m so glad we can stumble through all this together, and I’ll try to write again soon.

Yours,
Jeff