Wise Men Still Seek Him

Today the Church celebrates the Epiphany, the time when the Three Magi (wise men from the east) followed a star to pay homage to the newborn Messiah. In many homilies, priests will reflect on the wisdom of those men, how they traveled from a far off place to meet the Christ child. Maybe they'll talk about the gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh or the significance of these wise men's studies and how science led them to faith. There may be some priests who go even deeper and talk about conversion, how the magi couldn't go back the way they came after they met Jesus.

As I sit here with my own reflections, I can barely remember what my priest talked about during his homily. All I can think is "It's over. Christmas is over." It sounds incredibly desperate, like the yearning is over. The excitement is gone. Now the magic is over and we go back to our usual daily lives. Dare I say we return to "ordinary" time?

I look at the arc of my life and I see many ups and downs. I see my faith life take turns and unexpected curves, spirals and treacherous roads. There are times when I feel alone and abandoned. But there are also times when I've felt like Christ not only walks right by me, so close that nothing can come between us. In those moments I couldn't be happier. The inevitable happens, and something happens to make him feel far away again. And I feel like that joy that I once experienced. It is gone. It is over. I wonder and I pray. I become breathless as I question, "Where did he go? Why would he leave me?"

As I sit at my dining room table with this very feeling in my heart, I am also confronted by the simple phrase "Wise men still seek him."

St. John of the Cross provides some of this wisdom in his Spiritual Canticle:

Why, since you wounded

this heart, don't you heal it?

And why, since you stole it from me,

do you leave it so,

and fail to carry off what you have stolen?

Extinguish these miseries,

since no one else can stamp them out;

and may my eyes behold you,

because you are their light,

and I would open them to you alone.

Reveal your presence,

and may the vision of your beauty be my death;

for the sickness of love

is not cured

except by your very presence and image.

It's beautiful. The way St. John yearns for Christ even after he seems to have gone away. He still yearns for him even though the moment appears to have passed. He doesn't try to be fulfilled by the world or other things around him. He continues to seek Christ because wise men still seek him.

I think that's what we miss about wisdom. We can study the world and make empirical observations and draw conclusions about how things work. We can look to prudent decision making and the stories of King Solomon about splitting a baby in two in order to determine the love of the real mother. But if we really want wisdom, we will seek Christ first.

But somewhere between those studies and observations and gaining of experience, we will fail. We'll get to the point where we feel like the magic is gone, and we'll enter into a season of "ordinariness" again. I know that's what will happen to me. One of my peers will say something enlightening and inspiring, and I'll ride that wave for some time. Or one of my kids will make it through class without having to get up out of his/her seat and I'll be over the moon at that accomplishment. But eventually that, too, will go away. I'll enter a darkness of hopelessness and despair when someone disappoints me or my heart gets broken. I'll falter and I will think once again, "It's over?"

A woman from my prayer group showed me something this past Thursday that I think will help me in those times when I feel discouraged. I wrote it into my planner as a reminder:

Those wise men travelling through the desert had to have some hope. Otherwise, why would they have packed up their camels and hit the road? Sure, they believed in the signs and symbols, the stars and the skies, but somewhere, they had hope. And hope came from the God who created them. This is what made them wise. And this is the kind of wisdom I want. Even after the last ornament is put away and the last Advent candle has been burned down, I want to be aware that there is something still worth hoping for.