Sermon: No Minor Stars

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A story is told of Tycho Brahe, the Danish royal astronomer of the 16th century, who took his work so seriously, he would put on the robes of his royal office before he would even approach his telescope. When one of his assistants mentioned one night that they were looking at a very minor star, Brahe corrected him. “There is no such thing,” he said. “There is no such thing as a minor star.”

 

The three wise men in the Christmas story find the baby Jesus by means of a star. It probably looks like a fairly minor one, since no one but the three of them seem to notice it. But they follow that star, traveling on foot from the east to crowded Jerusalem and then to Bethlehem, passing on the way hundreds of people doing the ordinary things that people do, all the way to one particular manger where one particular newborn baby lies, doing the ordinary things that babies do, and they recognize his birth with gifts. The wise men recognize him as no one else except maybe his parents recognizes him – they glimpse his spirit; they glimpse the unique role he will play in history. They say to him, in effect, “I see you.” And the gifts they give him are gifts of royalty – gold, frankincense, and myrrh. “I value you.”

 

Back then it was believed that each person on earth was mystically linked with a star in the heavens. But how did the wise men find this new star as the text says, “at its rising?” The sky is so vast. How were these three wise men able to gaze at this virtually infinite star field and notice that tonight, “see that star, right there? That’s a new one –” and realize its significance? How were they able to see a new star when everyone else around them missed it or dismissed it as a “minor star?” Maybe this is precisely what made them so wise.

 

Now this is myth, of course, but there are real people alive today who can do exactly this. Reverend Robert Evans is an Australian retired minister whose hobby is to go into his backyard, set up his amateur telescope and hunt the heavens for new stars. And he has an uncanny ability to find them. To get a sense of what an extraordinary ability this is, I’ve heard it described this way: imagine 1500 dining room tables covered with black tablecloths and a handful of salt scattered across each one. Reverend Evans wanders among the tables, observing. Now add one grain of salt to one of them and he will walk among the tables again and spot it.

 

Now to be technically correct here, he’s not seeing new stars as they form. When the magi or Reverend Evans or anyone else sees a new spot of light in the sky, it’s actually the explosive, operatic death of a star. It’s called a supernova. For about a month, a dying star’s explosions light up its corner of the universe with the brilliant energy of a hundred billion suns. And when that happens, sometimes the light becomes visible here on earth. It must be incredible to get to see that. Reverend Evans says, “There’s something satisfying about the idea of light traveling for millions of years through space and just at the right moment as it reaches Earth someone looks at the right bit of sky and sees it. It just seems right that an event of that magnitude should be witnessed.”

The birth of Jesus and the birth of each one of us are such events. We are each the most improbable coincidence of time and space, of a cosmic unfolding that placed the earth precisely the right distance from the sun to allow for life, of an evolutionary process that created humans and somehow allowed our particular ancestors to survive wars and famines, of a winding history that brought together our biological great great grandparents. We are the improbable product of all the things that didn’t happen – the disease that didn’t kill our parents because of medicine only available for the first time in their generation; the millions of sperm that didn’t join with the egg in our mother’s womb, allowing for the unique meeting of the sperm and egg that became us. Like the Christmas supernova, each of us has traveled millions of years through space to get here. And, like an exploding star, each of us appears, visible on earth for a month or maybe a century, and then we’re gone. What a blessing, when someone is looking for us, and happens to be gazing in the right bit of sky during the brief moment of our appearance, and sees us.

 

As with a star, the life of each one of us is a miracle – an event of a magnitude that should be witnessed. This Christmas, may we each give the gift of such witness to one another. This Christmas, may we be wise like the magi, recognizing the miracles around us, bearing witness to lives that others may dismiss as “minor.” May we reach out to those who are lonely and give to those who are hungry. May we be welcoming to those seeking shelter and protective of those who are vulnerable.

 

And this Christmas may we each be seen like the baby Jesus, as someone special, someone holy, someone with a unique role in history. May we be recognized as worthy of a long journey and our own star in the sky. Each of us deserves to be witnessed and loved. There are no minor stars, there are no minor births, there are no minor lives.

 

Perhaps the very essence of the three wise men’s wisdom was their ability to see at least one person this way, so clearly, so completely – One baby who got the recognition we all crave and deserve. One baby who received the gifts of royalty of which we are all worthy. This Christmas, let us extend this blessing outward amid the overwhelming, swirling star fields of our world. And when we give our Christmas gifts, let us give them with the intention of the magi. Let them be a way of saying to one another, “I see you. I honor you. I’m glad you’re here. I recognize the remarkable, cosmic journey you have taken to get to this time and place. I have seen your star and I believe in you.”