Wisdom and Love

One of my favorite Christmas stories is O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi." In it, he tells the story of a poor young married couple, trying to buy each other gifts for Christmas though they can't really afford them. The basic story is that the woman had sold her hair to buy a watch chain for the man, and the man had sold his watch to buy beautiful combs for the woman.

I think we can read it and think of how silly these two are, but I really think it speaks to the deep love they have for one another. O. Henry concludes the story by writing:

"The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi."

You see, though their actions were unwise, they were the actions of love. It was love that caused both to give their greatest treasures. It was love that made them think first of the other and put themselves second. And, really, can't we say that it is the seeming foolishness of their actions that speaks the most to their love for one another? When we think about a self-sacrificing sort of love, it often seems quite foolish; it often seems unwise. Think of the father of the Prodigal Son. That sort of love, love for the errant child, often strikes us as foolish. And yet, it is love.

The other day, my friend Alanna wrote a blog, and she talked about the first Christmas. What surprises her, what makes her think that there's something special about that story, is the fact that shepherds came to the stable. That men actually left the fields and went looking for a baby. There must be something to that.

You know, we've heard that story so many times that we forget how amazing the various parts of it are. We know there are shepherds. We know they left their flocks. But, it fails to surprise us because representations of shepherds at Christmastime are about as common as wreaths or trees or any of the trappings of the season. Anywhere you go, you're bound to see a manger scene, and, in it, there will be a couple of guys with staffs standing to the side. No big deal.

But it is a big deal. Because, when we think about it, really think about it, we have to wonder what made them go to the manger. Why did they feel compelled to go? Who compelled them to act?

I agree with Alanna that the fact that shepherds showed up is pretty impressive. But, I suppose what surprises me even more is that a group of wise men followed a star. And, I guess what surprises me is that they were wise men.

These were men who should have known better. They should have known better than to believe that a star was guiding them to the Messiah. They should have known better than to even believe in a Messiah. They should have known better than to take a different route home to avoid the location of Jesus' family becoming known. In short, they should have been wiser men. But they were not. They saw a star. They followed it. And they believed. They believed in it so much that they risked their lives to protect this child.

This doesn't make sense, really. And, I wonder if there were times when they looked at each other and asked themselves why they were doing this, why they believed, why they followed. Did they ever fear looking foolish in front of the other learned men in their community? Did they ever worry that they would no longer be taken seriously because they had some ridiculous belief about a child being the Messiah? Did they ever think about how scary it is to have a belief, a deep belief, that would change their lives and run counter to the current beliefs of their community? I'm sure they did because those are the sort of questions I ask myself. I feel like I should know better.

When is comes down to it, this belief of mine seems pretty silly. It seems pretty silly to think that, though I can't see Him, there is a God. It seems silly to think that this God is a God in three parts--Father, Son, Holy Spirit. It seems silly to think that, many years ago, the Son of God came to earth as a baby so that He could grow to be a man who would be sacrificed, would take the weight of the world's sin on Himself, only to rise again so that we might have eternal life by trusting in this redeeming grace of the crucifixion. If I look, really look, at the Apostle's Creed, I have to admit that most of it seems pretty silly too, because, what is it if not a narrative of my silly beliefs?

But, something makes me believe. Something makes me set aside my own logic and reason to believe this story which, by my own human standards is anything but logical or reasonable. I guess the wise men had to do the same, and I wonder if for them, as for me, they felt in some way a sort of love that compelled them to their belief in this child? A sort of love which gave them hope for the future, a hope in the power of the resurrection? Wittgenstein writes of this sort of love:

"What inclines even me to believe in Christ's Resurrection? It is as though I play with the thought. --If he did not rise from the dead, then he decomposed in the grave like any other man. He is dead and decomposed. In that case he is a teacher like any other and can no longer help; and once more we are orphaned and alone. So we have to content ourselves with wisdom and speculation. We are in a sort of hell where we can do nothing but dream, roofed in, as it were, and cut off from heaven. But if I am to be REALLY saved, --what I need is certainty--not wisdom, dreams or speculation--and this certainty is faith. And faith is faith in what is needed by my heart, my soul, not my speculative intelligence. For it is my soul with its passions, as it were with its flesh and blood, that has to be saved, not my abstract mind. Perhaps we can say: Only love can believe the Resurrection. Or: It is love that believes the Resurrection" (33).

Perhaps that's just it. This love prompts us to believe, not because our minds tell us that it all makes sense, but because God, speaking to our hearts and souls, lets us know that salvation comes only through this faith. It is this faith that fills the hole in our hearts, that satisfies the needs of our souls, that adopts our sad selves out of this orphaned state and gives us the hope and blessed assurance of salvation.

Perhaps this redeeming love is what allows us to see that it really is not our speculative intelligence which needs to be saved but our flesh and blood. And, perhaps, these ideas which seem so foolish will become altogether wise to the heart full of redeeming love.