Wise Men
Following an Elusive Star
‘Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.
… and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense and myrrh.’
Matthew 2:1–2; 10–11 (King James Version)
It’s Christmas time and I’m not feeling it. I mean, that’s probably understandable; I have a lot on with looking after my mum right now and it’s not exactly as if I haven’t heard the story before. It’s hard to make a familiar narrative sound fresh and inspiring, and harder too when one considers that it is probably a narrative that has no historical truth to it whatsoever. Jesus lived and taught on this earth, most historians would agree with that, and that he died on the cross in a manner not dissimilar to that described in the Gospels — particularly the minimalist, paired-down version of the Passion told by Mark — is also agreed upon. But Christmas in Bethlehem with shepherds, stars and a virgin birth in a manger? Nah, written off as myth by all but the most literal of believers.
Why then, this year, whilst the story itself fails to grab me, do I find my thoughts continually returning back to one aspect of it: the narrative quoted above, available only in Matthew, of the Magi, the wise men, who came from the east following a star, to pay homage to the King of Kings?
Of all the elements of the Nativity story, the Magi are the most fantastical, the most unlikely and yet, for decades now those three — or twelve, or more… or less — wise men have niggled at me, excited my imagination, intrigued and perhaps, even, inspired me.
So, what do we know? My favourite hymn as a child at primary school was ‘We Three Kings’ and I always wanted to be one in the Nativity Play (probably because they had the best outfits and I had a latent urge for cosplay even then) but was always cast as something else and, besides, despite the crowns and gowns, they weren’t kings at all, but, instead, magi.
‘Magi’ is the plural of ‘magus’ which is how we know there was more than one of them. We assume there were three because they bore three gifts — gold, frankincense and myrrh — but there could have been more or less. The Syriac Church lists twelve, for example, a nice prefiguration to the Twelve Disciples and nod to the Twelve Tribes of Israel, but the Catholic Church decided to focus more on Trinitarian symbolism and even named them — Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar.
The term ‘magus’ denotes a Zoroastrian priest which tallies with them coming from “the east”. Zoroastrianism was the predominant religion in Persian and much of central Asia for millennia prior to the advent of Islam and its priests were said to be great astrologers — cue stargazing and star-following — and also the originators of magic, which is where the word comes from. Of course, these paltry details have left us with plenty of scope to fill in the gaps. Traditionally, one of the Magi has been depicted as black, hinting that he comes from Ethiopia (one of the first places to embrace Christianity) although that is hardly the east, at least so far as residents of Bethlehem are concerned, whilst a weird and wonderful array of occult and fantastical stories have gathered around these wise seekers of the truth. Seek out Adrian Gilbert’s ‘Magi: the quest for a secret tradition’ if you fancy learning more.
But why were they niggling at my mind, and why this Christmas in particular. Last year, on my walk to Jerusalem, it had, understandably, been all about Christ, but why them this year? I couldn’t say except that, months previously, knowing that I’d need a break from caring come Christmastide, I’d booked myself a few days away. Not wishing to go too far but still to experience somewhere new, I’d decided on a short break in Germany’s Rhine-Ruhr region, to check out the wonderful Wuppertal metro, visit a Sufi friend of mine who lives in Bochum and to explore those cities which, aside from Köln, were all new to me.
But I was flying into Köln and staying there, it being the most central and, then I realised, could I have booked anywhere else? No, as Hakan Mengüç teaches, no encounter is by chance and it was no quirk of fate that I was being guided to that august city on the Rhine.
Köln was founded by the Romans — its name is derived from ‘Colonia’, the Latin for “colony” — and became a Christian centre early on. However, it’s holiness rating went stratospheric in 1164 when the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa sacked Milan, stole the relics of the Magi and had them transferred to Köln which, for the next six and a half centuries spent its time building a cathedral worthy of housing them.
Köln Cathedral truly is a wonder of the world, the greatest of all the Gothic masterpieces of Europe. Begun in 1248 and completed in 1880 it houses the exquisite gold reliquary that contains the bones of those three wise men, Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar.
And, as if all this needed any confirmation, on Christmas Eve I took my mum to the children’s crib service at our parish church. As I walked in, I was approached by one of the organisers who declared, “You look like a wise man!” Humbly, I tried to defer stating that my wisdom was no greater than any other member of the congregation, but then she made her meaning clear by thrusting a costume into my arms and declaring that they had a Magi shortage for the service. Finally, almost forty years after leaving primary school, my Nativity dreams were fulfilled.
And if that isn’t a sign, then what is?
I entered the cathedral a full forty minutes before the Mass began with the intention of paying homage to the Magi before then partaking in the Liturgy. But my way was barred by an official in a red cloak who informed me that the shrine, which I could see glistening tantalisingly in the distance beyond the altar, was off-limits until one o’ clock the following day. With time to kill, I retired to a café and tried to gather my thoughts on the Magi.
My affinity to them is natural if you think about it. First and foremost, they are pilgrims, journeying from afar to seek the Unknown God in an unknown way. And that is important. They did not know what they were going to find in Bethlehem, or even that their pilgrimage would end up there. They merely knew that they had to travel and to trust.
But trust in what? God, of course, but then what does that even mean? In God we trust is a phrase that trips off the tongue easily, yet its meaning is lost on most people. Particularly religious ones. They say they trust in God but then lament the fact that He isn’t guiding the world in the way that they want Him to. They fixate themselves on certain ideas — converting heathens to the True Faith (whatever their “true faith” may be), banning abortion, homosexuality, modern liturgies, ancient liturgies, stained glass, female priests, female bodies, idols, icons, even certain dishes or drinks, does it even matter what? — and then get angry when He fails to follow their will. They long for Him to find them this life partner or make the life partner that they’d prefer love them or whatever else and go grumpy when He has other plans. Rarely, I have noticed, are they simply prepared to just be, to follow the example of the wise men and just follow that yonder star or, to echo the prayer of one of my favourite saints, St. Brendan the Navigator:
Shall I abandon the comforts and benefits of my home,
seeking the island of promise our fathers knew long ago,
sail on the face of the deep where no riches or fame
or weapons protect you, and nobody honours your name?
Shall I take leave of my friends
and my beautiful native land,
tears in my eyes
as my knees mark my final prayer in the sand?
King of the mysteries, will You set watch over me?
Christ of the mysteries, can I trust You on the sea?
Christ of the heavens,
and Christ of the ravenous ocean wave,
I will hold fast to my course
Through the dangers I must brave.
King of the mysteries, angels will watch over me,
Christ of the mysteries, when I trust You on the sea.
I too have suffered from such blindness and, I guess, I still do and always will. It’s part of the human condition. But I am trying to get better at it and part of that trusting seems to being able to be both aware of your intuition and also, crucially, having the wisdom to discern it fully and then the courage to take that leap of faith and follow it.
By chance — or, perhaps design…? — I am reading a book by one of my favourite authors, Philip Pullman. It’s called ‘The Rose Field’ and is the final book in his trilogy ‘The Book of Dust’ which, along with his earlier trilogy ‘His Dark Materials’ is all about a parallel universe inhabited by humans like us who are accompanied by their daemons — visible animal representations of the soul.
Pullman is not religious. Indeed, he is an avowed atheist and has been a Patron of the Humanists UK for many years. But his works are intensely spiritual and one of the main themes of ‘The Book of Dust’ is that the main character, Lyra Silvertongue, must learn to trust her imagination, her intuition.
To first perceive and then follow that yonder star.
But what is this imagination that she must rediscover (for we all know it as children) and then heed? Perhaps we should ask Lyra herself as she muses on the subject in the novel?
‘Was that what the imagination did? See connections between things, connections otherwise invisible, and find a meaning in them? The connection between the shepherd and his flock who held up the coach in the picture and the ones she’d seen a few minutes before on the real road: the meaning of that lay in the fact that she saw the similarity, not in the things themselves, which, unless she saw them, might as well be contingent and meaningless. She had to be part of the process for the meaning to exist at all.’[1]
When I was a small child, I lived in a house at the foot of a straight avenue in a village. At the top of the road was a T-junction and beyond that fields sloping upwards. On the crest of the hill stood a dramatic and majestic tree that my dad christened the Half-Moon Tree for the shape of its branches resembled a half-moon. For me that tree was — and is — significant. In my mind it is the north, for as soon as I knew about the cardinal directions, then I knew that the half-moon tree lay to the north. And to me, the north was hills and then mountains — the Peak District and then Scotland — a wild realm of empty moor and magic. And beyond Scotland the north was the lands of the Vikings — Noggin the Nog’s domain “in the lands of the north where the black rocks stand guard again the cold sea…” and beyond that, snow and ice, polar bears, Santa Claus…
Except that, rationally, actually, the tree wasn’t any of that. It was just a tree, standing at the edge of a field near to a village. There was no magic or significance to it just as there is no magic or significance to any tree or other object for that matter. What gave it all those qualities was me and where I was at the time. Had I been living above the tree in a house situated in the field north of it, then it would not have signified north at all. Nor too, I imagine, would it have had such prominence in my mind since, viewed from above, its dramatic silhouette was lost among the scenery beyond, crowding it out. It was only when it stood at the top of my visible world that it came to symbolise all the magic and mystery of the north.
That is the power of the imagination. Trust in it and you may glimpse God, just as the Magi did.
With these thoughts in my mind, I went to Mass. Entering the church, there was an Indian lady looking confused. “I can only find books in German,” she confessed, “and I need one in English.” Since the service was in German, there were no English service books, but we got chatting and she asked me to guide her as she didn’t know what to do but really wished to attend the Mass. “Are you Hindu?” I asked, to which she replied in the affirmative, adding, “But God is God, any religion.” I told her about my pilgrimage to Varanasi, and she clapped her hands in delight. “Kashi! Such a powerful place! When I am in India, if I have a problem, I always go there and my prayers are answered!”
Her prayers this time were about her father. He was ill, recovering from a life-threatening operation. Worrying about him was affecting her work, she confessed, trying to hold back the tears. That was why she ad sought out the holy place of this alien land that she now found herself in.
Like a magus in Bethlehem.
I told her about my mum’s dementia and how hard it is caring for her and showed her what to do. Her prayers were deep and meaningful, and I managed to explain certain concepts to her in ways that she might understand — the Host, it is like prasad, food blessed by God; if you have a problem pray to Mary to help you; she is like Sita or Parvati, Lakshmi or Radha.
And then afterwards we went for coffee. She beamed and confessed that normally she was not so confident, but she did so need to pray and was glad that she had spoken to me as she now felt much better.
As did I. Like the wise man I had not asked, ordered or desired. I’d just followed and trusted in the direction I was being led and, like it always does, it had borne fruit.
It was a full two days later before I actually got to see the Magi close by. After all, that metro in Wuppertal needed riding and my Sufi friend in Bochum needed meeting. However, I eventually managed to enter the cathedral again and stand before the beautiful golden shrine contained the relics of the Three Wise Men.
I arrived after doing a self-guided tour of five of Köln’s twelve Romanesque churches and so I was footsore and tired by the time I fought through the crowds and reached the shrine. It was a disappointing experience. The magnificent golde reliquary encased in bulletproof glass and then locked away behind iron railings seemed remote and inaccessible. One could get closer if one approached it from the altar, but that area was locked off. And, in the ambulatory that passed it, there were no chairs, no suggested meditations, no facilities for any potential pilgrim. The problem of the Church today was summed up sadly succinctly: this was not a place set-up for prayer and pilgrimage, but instead for visitors, a tourist attraction. There was no stillness or sacredness, merely selfie sticks and donation boxes.
What to do?
I sat myself on a stone step across the way from the shrine and meditated. Between me and the reliquary, as well as the glass and the railings, was an unending stream of humanity, curious, collecting the sights, unaware that this was holy ground despite the architecture screamning it out as loudly as it could.
And, strangely, it was powerful. I was transported far away, beyond even the land of the Magi themselves, to Pakistan where I had visited many Sufi dargahs (shrines). It had been the same there, the shrine locked away, guarded by avaricious shrine keepers, a place of noise and passing, not silence and sacredness. The low vantage point, the keeping still amidst all that motion, the mystery of the saints buried within, that eternal, unknown God that they provided brief glimpses of. Tourist and pilgrim. Which is which? Were the Magi one or the other or both? As I sat there and meditated I felt my heartbeat slow and steady. “I am with you, I am with you, I am with you,” it repeated endlessly and will do until the day I die. Yet I never hear it, never heed it, never recognise that God is closer to me — to us all — than our own arteries.
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And, as I did whilst sitting before those shrines in the east, I then took out my pen and wrote for, somehow, when dealing with mystery, poetry seems to capture one’s thoughts better than prose:
Like at a Sufi shrine people pass, no one ponders
Circumambulating forever, making all the right noises, making all the right moves
Getting nowhere
The endless cycle
There’s no place to sit just as there was no room at the inn
For they are no longer prepared for the believer just as once no one expected a messiah
Unused to prayer, instead it is all merely money, selfies, ticking one more item of an infinite list
Yet another experience to boast about
“Yeah, it was nice, really old, very ornate
Lots of gold…”
But where is the frankincense?
Missing is the myrrh.
Who lies within that gilded tomb?
A traveller or three?
Pilgrims who journeyed from afar for the mystery,
Yearning for a glimpse of that unknown God who
Forever eludes our search?
We shall never know the truth.
Yet stop and breathe.
I am with thee.
I am with thee.
I am with thee.
In the cave Caspar heard
On the mountain Melchior felt
In Bethlehem Balthazar believed.
CMB, blessed trinity
Three that is One
For thou art Caspar
Aye, and Melchior
Yes, even Balthazar.
Europe, Asia, Africa
White, brown, black
Christian, Hindu, Muslim
Mazda, Yahweh, Christ
Allah, El, Baal
All are One and the same
Yet different
Different flavours in the same dish
What makes a Magus?
Grounded in his own tradition
No boat adrift on an endless sea is he
Yet curious for the alien
Not lost will he ever be
And seeking
Not looking to find the truth is he
But to add to it
No exile forever will he be
For he will always return to his home
Student, householder, sage, to be.
Taking time out to be
Endless is the stream
Of the curious and the blind
Of young and old
Of male and female
Of believers and rejectors
Of Christian and heathen
Yet all are one
And three
If they but saw it
Let me follow thy star forever
Until it stands above the stable of my destiny
And then let me pause once again
And sleep deep within the manger of the love of the Lord.
Amen.
And that was that. Did I understand more when I left than I did before I arrived? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Perhaps not understanding but accepting the mystery that the Magi represent is the point. To thrust one’s head into the Cloud of Unknowing and to follow that star.
“People who think imagination is just making things up, they’re just wrong. Even angels are wrong. Imagination is seeing things properly, real things, seeing them fully in all their contexts with all their connections in place, all the things they mean around them.”[2]
Written 28/12/2025–01/01/2026, Köln, Germany and Draycott-en-le-Moors, UK
Copyright © 2026, Matthew E. Pointon
[1] The Rose Field, p.233
[2] The Rose Field, p.433
