I received my first pair of eyeglasses in the third grade. There’s something magical about receiving that first pair of glasses, that first adjustment of vision that you didn’t realize was all that bad. I remember leaving the eye doctor’s office and looking up at trees in the distance (it was southern Oklahoma, so trees were typically at a distance). It was in those trees that I really noticed the amazing clarity of my new vision. I could actually see the leaves, the individual leaves, in those trees for the first time. It was a new world.
Every year it happened again. I would revisit the eye doctor and my world renewed. Of course, nothing at all was happening to the world; it was my eyes that kept getting more and more near-sighted. It’s a testament to the plasticity of our brains. They get accustomed to the declining capabilities of our senses, so that their reduced sensitivities become normal.
In this way I came to understand that the world has a clarity that I could not see. Even though I could not see it, I knew that clarity was there, because every year it would reappear the moment I stepped out of that office and looked at the trees. In a larger sense, we humans know this truth all too well, and we have created many tools that let us see things that we cannot see with our native senses, ranging from telescopes that let us observe fantastically distant galaxies to microscopes that let us glimpse individual atoms. There are so many other examples of machines and gizmos we have made that can see, hear, or otherwise detect phenomena that would otherwise go completely unnoticed.
If we think even more broadly, this penchant for seeing things that cannot be seen is something humans have been doing for a very long time. In life, it is a greatly prized skill, this ability to envision things that do not yet exist, to imagine things that are now only possibilities but that could become real and visible. How else is there progress? It’s not only Henry Ford imagining an assembly line or Steve Jobs imagining an iPhone, it’s every person who’s ever had a dream or a goal or simply a desire that they then pursue until they have acquired it. When you think about it, this ability to see that which cannot be seen is part of the very essence of being “alive”, sentient, and fully human.
The other side of this story is that such imaginative thinking is often considered impractical, or at worst, a waste of time. It is very easy for us to become comfortable with what we know, with what is here now, so that any discussion of something new becomes a distraction, or even a threat. Our vision slowly degenerates without us realizing it, and our brains adjust to this reduced clarity, and it becomes a comfort.
Now that Christmas is past, it is tempting and even natural to let the sounds of the carols fade, to let the glow of the candles recede in our memories, to disassemble the singularity of the Nativity and return its pieces to their little places in the box in the attic until we remember them next year. Our brains will adjust to the dimness of the everyday world, to the regularity of our normal lives with all the things we have already seen so many times. Soon Christmas may completely vanish from our thoughts and conversations, shoved aside by the concerns of the new year.
But here’s the good news: Christmas changed the world, but not in a way that we can easily see. The Kingdom is here, but not visible unless we bring it into being. We have been given a gift: a vision of the Kingdom, of what is possible, lying just beyond our present reality.
It’s fitting that Matthew’s account of Christmas features that most sight-giving element: the Star. Isn’t it intriguing that no one else in the vicinity of Bethlehem seemed to notice the star? If it was such a bright and spectacular object, you would expect people to be coming from miles around and lining up for blocks in front of Mary and Joseph’s house to get a glimpse of the child. But no—no one notices it except three strange, foreign astronomers who journey from far in the east. King Herod and his own astronomers are completely without a clue. It is these foreign wise men who can see what cannot be seen, who notice the thing that God is doing that escapes the attention of everyone else. This is, of course, the Epiphany we celebrate twelve days after Christmas, that flash of insight that reveals the answer to that all-important question for the evangelists: who Jesus is.
So who was Matthew? Like we’ve already discussed for Luke and Mark, we will never know for sure. Early tradition holds that the author was the apostle Matthew; however, the text is anonymous and most scholars find that the authorship of this gospel is unclear. What is quite clear is that the author was Jewish, knew Hebrew well, and was very concerned about establishing Jesus’s identity as the Jewish Messiah. Also, like Paul, the author was not from the environs of Jerusalem (he wrote very good Greek), but more likely was from Syria. Another central concern of the author is the struggle within Judaism in the late 1st century over the identity of Jesus and the active expulsion of Christians from synagogues. Given this perspective, perhaps it is not surprising that from the very beginning of his gospel, Matthew portrays the true identity of Jesus as something hidden, something unseen that we must learn to see, something that almost everyone, including the religious authorities, will miss.
In short, Christianity as Matthew presents it is a puzzle that we each need to solve. Being the most Jewish of the gospels, Matthew is full of parables, that ancient method of Jewish teaching that wraps truths in metaphorical stories with no clear answers or interpretations, and requires the listener to discover those truths through sustained reflection. The great Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5-8 is a set of puzzles within puzzles that seem to overturn Jewish law but that leave the details of this disruption as an exercise for the listener to disentangle. Indeed, says Jesus, “The reason I speak to them in parables is that ‘seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.’” Of course, Jesus was not saying anything new here, but simply quoting Isaiah (6:9), as any good Jew would know. Jesus, as Matthew presents him, does not provide answers. Instead, he provides, if you will, eyeglasses. He asks us to learn how to see.
Does the Star not remind you of the pillar of fire that led the escaped Hebrew slaves through the wilderness? That strange light that led them to the mountain, and the Law, and the promised land of Canaan? Did it not remind Matthew’s listeners that, like the wise men, they were all foreigners to God, estranged from God but seeking God’s presence and the coming Messiah? Does it not remind us that we likewise are all foreigners seeking the same things: God’s presence and God’s revelation? So the Star is a guide, a beacon, and a pointer. If you read Matthew closely, I think many of our Nativity scenes may provide quite a distorted image of the nature of that Star, depicting it as a fixed point of light high in the sky over the manger. No! The Star moves! It is active, leading us ever onward. In my mind’s eye I see it more like a will-o’-the-wisp, flickering and flitting through the air just above the ground, beckoning us ever toward the Christ.
Here, I think, we discover one of Matthew’s core teachings: to contrast a minimalist and a proactive approach to faith, the difference between “just getting by” and a passionate pursuit of a true calling. We all can identify areas of our lives when we tend to ask this: “Just tell me what I have to do to get by.” Our heart is not really in the project, we really don’t want to do it, and we just want it to go away. Probable examples are doing our taxes, renewing our driver’s license, or getting that bloodwork done at the lab. We know we need to do it, but we really would rather not be bothered. Contrast these with projects that you can’t wait to start, that you’ve been eagerly anticipating for months, that make you feel truly alive. Maybe it’s performing a service project in your favorite national park, or singing in a concert, or visiting grandchildren. Whatever it is, you have a big, red circle around that date on your calendar and you count down the days until it happens. In other words, it’s just like how a child anticipates Christmas Day.
Now consider how this contrast applies to Christianity as Matthew presents it. Throughout the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus utters these famous statements: You have heard it said…but I say to you… For example, in brief, you have heard it said, do not murder, but I say to you, do not be angry. The first clause is the minimalist approach, the easy path, the “do just enough to get by” option. Don’t kill people. For most of us, that’s a pretty easy box to check, and we may not even need to change anything about how we live. We can meet that target, thank you very much, and get on with the rest of our lives that we enjoy more and where our passions lie. But the latter clause is profoundly different: it describes a person whose passion it is to improve their relationships with others, to actively identify and eradicate anything that will damage their networks, and become more loving in doing so. It requires constant involvement and awareness along with a continual openness to change.
The minimalist approach lets us relax into a simple, legalistic, and ultimately selfish version of faith: just tell me what to do so God and I can be on good terms and so that I can get into heaven or whatever other reward I get at the end of the game of life. It focuses on what I will receive, as opposed to what I can give. This is so clearly evident in this story in Matthew 19:
Then someone came to him and said, “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” And he said to him, “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is one who is good. If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments.” He said to him, “Which ones?” And Jesus said, “You shall not murder. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not steal. You shall not bear false witness. Honor your father and mother. Also, you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” The young man said to him, “I have kept all these; what do I still lack?” Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When the young man heard this word, he went away grieving, for he had many possessions.
—Matthew 19:16-22
Just tell me what to do to get by. Just tell me what boxes I need to check. This is not faith; this is merely following rules. (For those keeping score at home, this is why Paul was so passionate about salvation being a free gift of grace that we accept through faith and not by keeping the works of the law.)
That is our Jesus, the teacher in that story, as Matthew presents him. Jesus never says “Yep, that’s good enough. You can stop now.” Or “Well, I suppose that’s all we can expect. It is what it is.” No! Jesus, the Star of Christmas, calls us ever onward, ever deeper into a life of passionate, loving ministry. There is always more to do, more people to love, more oppressed to set free.
I would also offer that when you read the story above, do not be fixated on the idea that you need to give up wealth. Maybe. But that is simply what the rich young ruler needed to give up, because that was where his passions were misdirected. This is the puzzle you need to solve: how well directed are your passions in life? What do you need to give up so that you can pursue Christ as a true passion? Where is the Star leading you? What epiphany awaits you when you ponder that shining singularity of the Nativity, full of infinite possibilities for growth and renewal?
This is Matthew’s great and good news. Christianity—and I’ll say it—real Christianity is a life-giving, joy-bringing, passionate pursuit that you anticipate every day as if you were a child anticipating Christmas. Indeed, you are a child of God, not anticipating but actively experiencing Immanuel, God with us, every day. So for us, the good news is that Christmas is not a one-time event, but a state of being. As Christians, God’s gift to us at Christmas is the opportunity to experience Christmas every day.
So how do we make this real in our lives? Consider the messages of these three great evangelists: Luke’s vision of the radical openness of God, always seeking out the outsiders, those who most need to hear about God’s love for them; Mark’s plea that we see that the Kingdom is available now, that a new life is open to us now; and Matthew’s guiding Star, always seeking us to lead us onward into deeper and more meaningful ministries. What are the activities that bring you the most joy? What are those pursuits that make you feel most like yourself, your true self? Where are those dark places where your light can shine? Now, as you make your list, if you have any questions about whether an activity can truly be a Christian ministry, use Paul’s simple test: does it build up the body of Christ? In other words, does it increase and deepen loving relationships between people? Does it care for and uplift those in need? Does it make God’s presence more known, and usher in a bit more of the Kingdom?
So this Christmas, and in this new year, imagine that God’s gift to you is a new pair of spiritual eyeglasses that bring a new clarity to the world. What is that vision that you can see but that remains unseen? What steps can you take to bring it into the world? For Christ, our Immanuel, stands at the very doorstep, waiting to lend a hand.
Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. —Matthew 7:7
That is perhaps one of the most dangerous prayers ever conceived. And when you open that door and let Christ in, then there will be the true Christmas, your eternal Christmas, one that returns each and every day.
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