The Magic of Epiphany

A sermon preached at St Martin-in-the-Fields on January 7, 2024 by Revd Dr Sam Wells

Reading for address: Matthew 2: 1-12

We often notice that the Three Wise Men are often called Kings, and in Greek are called Magi. But we seldom ponder the significance of the word magi: it means they were magicians. It’s the same word. Epiphany is a good occasion for reflecting on the relationship between Christianity and magic. Let me start by telling you a story.

Once upon a time there was a young prince who believed in all things but three. He did not believe in Princesses, he did not believe in islands, he did not believe in God. His father, the king, told him that such things did not exist. As there were no princesses or islands in his father’s domains, and no sign of God, the prince believed his father. But then, one day, the prince ran away from his palace and came to the next land. There, to his astonishment, from every coast he saw islands, and on these islands, strange and troubling creatures whom he dared not name. As he was searching for a boat, a man in full evening dress approached him along the shore.

‘Are those real islands?’ asked the young prince. ‘Of course they are real islands,’ said the man in evening dress. ‘And those strange and troubling creatures?’ ‘They are all genuine and authentic princesses.’ ‘Then God must also exist!’ cried the prince. ‘I am God,’ replied the man in evening dress, with a bow.

The young prince returned home as quickly as he could. ‘So, you are back,’ said his father, the king. ‘I have seen islands, I have seen princesses, I have seen God,’ said the prince reproachfully. The king was unmoved. ‘Neither real islands, nor real princesses, nor a real God exist.’ ‘I saw them!’ ‘Tell me how God was dressed.’

‘God was in full evening dress.’ ‘Were the sleeves of his coat rolled back?’ The prince remembered that they had been. The king smiled. ‘That is the uniform of a magician. You have been deceived.’

At this, the prince returned to the next land and went to the same shore, where once again he came upon the man in full evening dress. ‘My father, the king, has told me who you are,’ said the prince indignantly. ‘You deceived me last time, but not again. Now I know that those are not real islands and real princesses, because you are a magician.’ The man on the shore smiled. ‘It is you who are deceived, my boy. In your father’s kingdom, there are many islands and many princesses. But you are under your father’s spell, so you cannot see them.’

The prince pensively returned home. When he saw his father, he looked him in the eye. ‘Father, is it true that you are not a real king, but only a magician?’ The king smiled and rolled back his sleeves. ‘Yes, my son, I’m only a magician.’ ‘Then the man on the other shore was God.’ ‘The man on the other shore was another magician.’ ‘I must know the truth, the truth beyond magic.’ ‘There is no truth beyond magic,’ said the king.

The prince was full of sadness. He said, ‘I will kill myself.’ The king by magic caused death to appear. Death stood in the door and beckoned to the prince. The prince shuddered. He remembered the beautiful but unreal islands and the unreal but beautiful princesses. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I can bear it.’ ‘You see, my son,’ said the king, ‘you, too, now begin to be a magician.’ (John Fowles, The Magus [New York: Dell 1985] 499-500.)

This is an instructive story because it illustrates the key features of magic: the creation of an inner circle of those who know, the cultivation of an ability to manipulate the external world, and the sense of an alternative reality accessible only to an elite. The appeal of the stories of Harry Potter or the activities of Merlin in the tales of King Arthur or C.S. Lewis’ novel The Magician’s Nephew rest on this same thrill of being let in on a secret and becoming a visitor to a parallel existence. It’s the power of irony and the satisfaction of being among those who are on the inside of the joke.

We have to confess that Christianity has often presented itself as a better kind of magic. Particularly in their more cult-like, charismatic manifestations, Christians have often enjoyed the feeling of being part of a secret society, where nods and winks and passwords opened the door to access and belonging. Think of the way the symbol of the fish and the Greek word ichthus worked at the time of the catacombs. Meanwhile prayer has often been portrayed as a way to fix the external world for one’s own benefit. Christians are often heard claiming their having accomplished children or success in the workplace or healing from disease as a simple matter of calling on God and receiving a direct action. Not only does this suggest God is simply subject to their magic wand; it also implies those who pray and don’t get such profitable outcomes don’t have the right magic wand. I remember having a conversation with a man in midlife who’d recently rediscovered his childhood Christianity, who spoke to me in extraordinary ways that I later realised indicated he felt he’d joined a secret world of which I was already a part, which explained his knowing looks and clumsy winks, which at the time I didn’t understand at all.

The New Testament gives us two stories that speak to the relationship between God and magic. The story of Simon Magus in the Acts of the Apostles contrasts the real with the fake. Simon wants to use magic to make himself great, but when he meets the apostles, he sees real transformation and quickly recognises that he’s way out of his depth. Hence he’s baptised. But he can’t resist the desire to manipulate, so he offers the apostles money to learn their techniques. He learns what the apostles are performing aren’t techniques of deception and sorcery – they’re epiphanies of the essence of all things in the midst of temporal earthly existence. He’s in a completely different notion of reality.

But the definitive story about magic is the account of the magi seeing the star and coming to pay homage to the new-born king in Matthew’s Christmas story. This is a much more sympathetic portrayal. Whereas the story of Simon Magus depicts magic as bogus and faith as real, the story of the Magi suggests magic is a pale shadow that can be redeemed and incorporated into the story of Christ. The Magi may begin the story by searching the heavens for portents or signs; but they end the story by trusting the full revelation of the God of Jesus Christ. The Matthew story gives us four approaches to Jesus: the faithful, devoted Mary and Joseph; the brave and truthful witness of the much-maligned chief priests and scribes; the paranoid, violent and manipulative Herod; and the humility, sacrifice and genuine worship of the Magi. We get three versions of God’s activity – discerned dimly and distantly by the Magi at the beginning, definitively and subversively by the scribes in the middle, radically and transformatively by the Magi’s dream at the end.

But here’s the poignancy and tragedy of what the story tells us and how it relates Christianity to magic. The story invites us to be like the Magi: humbled and overwhelmed by the wonder of a baby. It’s not what they were expecting, but they accept their miscalculation and respond accordingly. The baby is not powerful in a conventional way, not manipulative, not a secret, not a creator of a mystery cult. The power of the baby lies in his simplicity and transparency, not his elaborate or magical confabulation. This is indeed a truth beyond magic. Christians are called to see God in this innocent, simple form calling forth their love and devotion. But unfortunately the church has often reacted to magic more like Herod: threatened, insecure, violent, destructive, distrustful. The message of the Christmas story is that the baby will live, despite the flailings of Herod. And that all magic will one day, like the Magi, bring its wisdom to kneel at the baby’s cradle. As will we.