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In Christian tradition the gifts of the Magi have always been seen as perfect gifts that have the ability to bear and communicate spiritual realities, and this in two ways. On the one hand, the gifts show—manifest (epiphany!)—that the Magi know who this child really is. Their gifts are an acknowledgment of his humanity, his divinity and the sacrificial love of his eventual death. The Magi know this child's identity and mission. On the other hand, the gifts also symbolize—manifest—the Magi's own inner dispositions: gold reveals their virtues; frankincense shows them to be men of prayer; and myrrh expresses their willingness to sacrifice. I would say we have here, in these symbols, a rather succinct summary of the tools of the spiritual journey. The outer gifts tell what is happening within their hearts. What is hidden is revealed. And their gifts are perfect because they become the means of real communication between the hearts of the Magi and the heart of this Child. The perfect gift always carries one person into another. In this sense, the perfect gift, or at least the gift that is moving toward perfection, gets its meaning and importance from the relational flow between people. In our culture, gift-giving often runs into certain attitudes that work against this relational flow. Gifts are so often seen as objects that are located on a continuum ranging from excellent to poor, from expensive to cheap. The gift as an object is so often taken out of the relational flow between two people and looked at solely or primarily in relation to other gift-objects. If a gift is of high quality or costs a lot, it's a "good" gift. If it's of inferior material and inexpensive, it's a "poor" gift. What we end up doing here is not receiving gifts but rating them. And, depending on how we rate them, we infer how the giver feels about us. The gift has then become a love substitute rather than a symbol, a manifestation, an epiphany, of a loving relationship. And I see a parallel with our three Magi. It says that, after offering their gifts, they returned home: home to the ordinary, the usual, the "chops for dinner"…. It's like the Zen story that says: "Before enlightenment I washed the dishes, brushed my teeth and took a nap. Now, after enlightenment, I wash the dishes, brush my teeth and take a nap. Nothing has changed and yet everything is different." Of the Magi, too, the text says something very similar: "They returned to their country by another way" (Mt 2:12).
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We are about the celebrate the Eucharist at this altar. How often have we done this? It can become a lot like washing dishes, brushing one's teeth and taking a nap. Today why don't we, in our imaginations at least, put our hands behind our heads, lean back, smile and "put on the chops", realizing that, although nothing has changed on one level—a piece of bread and a sip of wine—everything has changed. Because this insignificant piece of bread and sip of wine have become the perfect gift. The gift that carries one person into another. Jesus Christ, truly God and truly human, becomes one with us and we become one with him and with one another. Two stories come to mind here that break through this rating system of gift giving. One is that told by the carol of the "Little Drummer Boy", who has nothing to give to Jesus except his drum playing, and this turns out to be the gift Jesus prizes most highly. The other story is that of "A Charlie Brown Christmas". Charlie searches for a magnificent tree for his Christmas party, but ends up bringing home a broken-down tree with only one sagging ornament. But it is this tree and no other that succeeds in bringing the kids together in the real spirit of Christmas… There is yet another story that, to my mind, powerfully cuts through this gift-as-object-to-be-rated mentality. It's called "The Gift of the Magi" and comes from the pen of O. Henry, a writer famous for his surprise endings. It's a story about a married couple named Jim and Della. Although they are poor, they each have a proud possession. Della has beautiful long hair and Jim has a watch that is precious to him. As Christmas nears, Della cuts off her beautiful long hair and sells it in order to buy Jim a platinum fob chain for his watch. When she gives it to him, Jim reveals that he has sold his watch in order to buy her a set of "pure tortoise-shell" combs for her hair. I am deeply moved by the sadness bordering on joy, the emptiness at the edge of fullness, that strike us at this point. This could be considered the first ending of the story. You are sort of stopped short in your tracks. You feel like there's nothing left to hold on to. Where do you turn now? But the story continues. When Jim realizes what has happened, he plops "down on the couch and puts his hand under the back of his head and smiles". He tells Della the irony and ends with, "Now suppose you put the chops on!" The smile and the almost comic return to their need for food reveal that both Jim and Della know what O. Henry makes explicit in the second ending: "Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest." Jim and Della are wise because, although their gifts are objectively useless, they carry both of them into each other. The gifts strengthen their relationship, assuring them they know and are known, love and are loved. In a way, you could say that it took the uselessness of their gifts to bring them home to themselves. And objectively nothing had changed. How often had Della put on the chops for dinner? Something tells me that those chops never tasted so good!
Feast of The Epiphany, January 8, 2012 - Dom Damian Carr, O.C.S.O.
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