Column: Illuminations
What Star Is This?
Several years before he died, Pope John Paul II added a new devotion to the Catholic rosary: the Luminous Mysteries. These are moments when Christ shows himself for the first time, in a special outpouring of light for us who have walked in darkness. As with the other sets of mysteries, there are five, all related: the Baptism, when first he is first greeted by the mysterious words of John, "Behold the Lamb of God"; the Wedding at Cana, when he works his first miracle; the Preaching of the Kingdom, when he appears to the people as a teacher who possesses his own authority; the Transfiguration, that time-gathering and time-bursting moment of ecstasy; and the Last Supper, when he gives to his disciples the bread of heaven.
Yet in each of these there is also a kind of quiet and fostering darkness. A bruised reed he shall not break, said the prophet, and indeed, Jesus himself is like the invisible leaven or that smallest of seeds, to whom we look in vain for voluble theology or political garishness. Every revelation leads us deeper into the life of his life, where there is more, and ever more, to know and to love and to worship. Jesus is obvious only to those who find him in the way, a stumbling stone. To the Christian, he is ever new, and so we stand as it were in darkness before him, waiting upon his time, and his light.
For he descended into the water, as he will go down into the nether world, and even John seems not to have understood the deed. Only the chosen three saw his raiment dazzle like the sun, while the rest, at the foot of the mountain, tried to heal the mind-darkened boy, and failed. And though many people were rapt by his teaching, there were others whose eyes were blind with envy, or whose hearts were full of dead men's bones. The bridegroom and the waiter had no idea where the wine came from, and its wondrous fermentation took place in the cool darkness of the earthen vessels. And only the mind of God can fathom the infinite depths of the words he uttered in the private room on that night: "This is my body."
Prophecies & Dreams
For the same reasons, the pope could have chosen the Epiphany, the joyous feast that brings our Christmastide to its conclusion. "I see a star rise out of Jacob," said Balaam, prophet on the take, and he did not know what his own words would mean. The wise men from Persia, no doubt familiar with the Hebrew prophecies, followed the path of a light across the heavens—a comet, a conjunction of planets, a nova?—to the house of the baby Jesus, and there they opened their coffers to him, giving him gifts that revealed who he is, as under figures and shadows: gold for his kingship, frankincense for his high priesthood, and myrrh for his most royal and most holy death. The sages themselves could not have plumbed the meaning of their gifts.
And indeed, everything on either side of the Epiphany dwells in a kind of twilight before dawn. The will of God is revealed to Joseph in dreams, four times, and that good man utters not one word. The sages go where there should be light, to Herod the king of Judea, and to his counselors, and these tell him that the Christ would be born in the House of Bread, Bethlehem, the city of David. But the sages seem instead to look again to the silent star for direction, and after they see the child, they too dream dreams, and go home by a secret route, filled with rejoicing.
The Star of Grace
If only the star they saw would shine for us, we too might go seek the young child and do him homage! But it does shine for us. It shines in the dark and quiet working of grace. That is the lesson of What Star Is This, a hymn that urges us to be on our way, best sung to the vigorous alternating quarter notes and half notes of Praetorius' Puer Nobis. The first two stanzas place us with the wise men on their journey, as they treasure the prophecies in their hearts:
What star is this, with beams so bright,
More beauteous than the noonday light?
It shines to herald forth a King,
And Gentiles to his crib to bring.True spake the prophet from afar
Who told the rise of Jacob's star;
And eastern sages with amaze
Upon the wondrous token gaze.
Anthony Esolen is Distinguished Professor of Humanities at Thales College and the author of over 30 books, including Real Music: A Guide to the Timeless Hymns of the Church (Tan, with a CD), Out of the Ashes: Rebuilding American Culture (Regnery), and The Hundredfold: Songs for the Lord (Ignatius). He has also translated Dante’s Divine Comedy (Random House) and, with his wife Debra, publishes the web magazine Word and Song (anthonyesolen.substack.com). He is a senior editor of Touchstone.
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