The First Christmas

by Marcus J. Borg

  LIGHT IMAGERY IN MATTHEW’S STORY

  Matthew uses the symbolism of light in his story of the star of Bethlehem that led the wise men to the place of Jesus’s birth. The most widely known episode from Matthew’s birth narrative and a centerpiece of Christmas pageants, it is part of the larger story of Herod who, like a new Pharaoh, seeks to kill the infant Jesus. As one born to be “King of the Jews,” Jesus is a rival king in the conflict of kingships that runs through Matthew’s story, which we treated in Chapter 6.

  Here we focus on the use of light imagery in the story. In the relevant portions of Matthew 2:1–12, references to the star are italicized:

  In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born King of the Jews? For we have observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”

  Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy.

  Virtually every year in the weeks before Christmas, stories appear in the media that seek to identify the star of Matthew’s story with some natural phenomenon. The most common suggestions are a comet, a conjunction of planets, or a nova.

  But attempts to identify the guiding star with a natural astronomical event are misguided. The star in Matthew’s gospel does not simply shine in the sky; it moves. It not only leads the wise men westward to Jerusalem, but then turns and moves south to Bethlehem. There, “it stopped over the place where the child was.” It leads the way to the place of Jesus’s birth with the precision of a global positioning device. This is no comet or conjunction of planets or nova. The story of the star does not make a statement about an astronomical phenomenon, but a statement about Jesus: his birth is the coming of the light that draws wise men of the Gentiles to its radiance.

  The Christian tradition has commonly spoken of three wise men and called them kings. Matthew, however, as mentioned earlier, does not say how many wise men there were or that they were kings. The notion that there were three comes from the three gifts they bring: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Subsequent Christian tradition even gave the kings names: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar.

  This notion that they were kings comes from an echo of a passage from Isaiah, one of the “light” texts cited earlier in this chapter. Recall that its opening words are addressed to postexilic Jerusalem: “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you…. Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn” (60:1, 3). Those who come to Jerusalem as the light are kings. Then gifts of gold and frankincense are mentioned: “They shall bring gold and frankincense, and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord” (60:6).

  We do not know if Matthew had Isaiah 60 in mind when he wrote his story. Did he derive the notion of “the nations” coming to the light and two of the gifts (gold and frankincense) from this passage? Was he deliberately echoing Isaiah 60? What is clear is that later Christian tradition has elaborated Matthew’s story by deriving the notion of kings from Isaiah 60.

  What else can be said about the wise men, beyond the negative point that Matthew does not say they were three kings? Given that we do not think of the wise men as actual historical figures but as characters in a parabolic narrative, it may seem idle to speculate about who they were. But we can nevertheless ask who Matthew imagined them to be, just as we can ask such a question about characters in a parable.

  They are magi (translated into English as “wise men”; the singular is magus), a word from which we get “magician.” But they were not magicians in the modern sense of the word. Rather, the word refers to a kind of religious figure: magi had wisdom by being in touch with another reality. Their wisdom was a “secret wisdom,” a kind not known by ordinary people. No doubt some were astrologers in the sense that they paid attention to “signs in the heavens,” but to think of magi as primarily astrologers is misleading. Rather, magi were people with a more than earthly wisdom.

  The magi in Matthew’s story come “from the East.” It is idle to speculate about what more specific geographical area they might have come from—this is sacred geography, not physical geography. What matters for Matthew is that they are Gentiles. As Gentiles, they are from “the nations.” Wise men from the nations are drawn to the light of Jesus, kneel before him, and pay him homage. The nations acknowledge one born “King of the Jews”; he is their king as well.

  The uses of light and darkness in this parabolic narrative are thus many and rich. Jesus’s birth is the coming of light into the darkness. But the darkness seeks to extinguish the light (Herod’s plot to kill Jesus). Drawn to the light, wise men from the nations pay homage to Jesus. Jesus is the light of the nations. Thus Matthew’s story makes the point made in only slightly different language in John: “Jesus is the light of the world.”

  Of course, no concise set of sentences can capture all the meanings of this story. It cannot be reduced to statements. The narrative retains its evocative richness and metaphorical power. Like metaphorical narratives in general, it has a surplus of meaning. But we do think Matthew’s story of the star of Bethlehem means at least as much as what we have suggested.

  For a moment, we return to the truth of parable and the question of historical factuality. We do not think Matthew’s story is historically factual. In our judgment, there was no special star, no wise men, and no plot by Herod to kill Jesus. So is the story factually true? No. But as parable, is it true? For us as Christians, the answer is a robust affirmative. Is Jesus light shining in the darkness? Yes. Do the Herods of this world seek to extinguish the light? Yes. Does Jesus still shine in the darkness? Yes.

  LIGHT IMAGERY IN LUKE’S STORY

  Before turning to the most familiar story that uses light imagery in Luke—angels singing in the night sky to shepherds as the glory of the Lord shone round about them—we treat Luke’s use of the language of light in two of his hymns.

  The Benedictus

  The Benedictus, so named from its first word in the Latin version, is sung by Zechariah, the father of John the Baptizer. Struck dumb when he learns from an angel that he and his wife Elizabeth will conceive a son despite their advanced age, Zechariah regains his ability to speak after the birth and naming of John: “Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue freed, and he began to speak, praising God” (1:64). His first words are the Benedictus, whose opening lines are familiar to millions of Christians:

  Blessed be the Lord God of Israel,

  for he has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them.

  He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David. (1:68–69)

  We begin with a comment about the word “savior.” In the first century, it did not yet mean what it means for many Christians today. Because Christians have for centuries spoken of Jesus as saving us from our sins through his death on the cross, many Christians automatically connect Jesus as savior with atonement for sins. But in the Bible, the primary meaning of the term is “rescuer,” “deliverer.”

  For example, Psalms speaks of God as Israel’s “Savior who had done great things in Egypt…and awesome deeds by the Red Sea” (106:21–22). So also Hosea connects God as savior to the exodus: “Yet I have been the Lord your God ever since the land of Egypt; you know no God but me, and besides me there is no savior” (13:4). A song attributed to King David speaks of God as “my stronghold and my refuge, my savior; you save me from violence” (2 Sam. 22.3). Jeremiah addresses God as the “hope of Israel, its savior in time of trouble” (14:8). In none of these instances is there any connection
between “savior” and being saved from sin. To think that speaking of Jesus as savior refers primarily to his death as a sacrifice for sin narrows and reduces the meaning of this rich term.

  To return to the Benedictus: what the “mighty savior” of whom Zechariah sings will do is the theme of the middle part. He is the fulfillment of God’s promise, “the oath that God swore to our ancestor Abraham,” namely, “that we would be saved from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us,” so “that we, being rescued from the hands of our enemies, might serve God without fear, in holiness and righteousness before him all our days” (1:71, 73–75). “Being rescued from the hands of our enemies” is the role of the “mighty savior”; this is what it means to be saved.

  Then, in the hymn’s closing lines, light imagery appears. The lines are climax, not simply conclusion.

  By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us,

  to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace. (1:78–79)

  The passage echoes light and darkness texts from the Old Testament (Isa. 60:1–3; 42:6–7; Ps. 107:10). In archetypal and Jewish language, the coming of Jesus is “the dawn from on high” that gives “light to those who sit in darkness.” The result is “to guide our feet into the way of peace.” As we will see, the word “peace” appears in all three of Luke’s passages about light.

  The Nunc Dimittis

  The Nunc Dimittis, sung by the aged Jewish prophet named Simeon in the temple as he holds the infant Jesus, is probably most well known by Christians, because of its frequent use in worship and devotion, in the words of the King James Version:

  Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word;

  For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people,

  A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel. (2:29–32)

  Simeon, Luke tells us, “was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel,” and “it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah” (2:26). Now his desire has been fulfilled: he has seen God’s salvation—and what Simeon has seen, of course, is Jesus. Jesus is God’s salvation, that is, God’s means of salvation.

  The word “salvation,” like the word “savior,” has a meaning for many Christians much narrower than its biblical meaning. For many Christians, “salvation” is closely connected with postdeath existence, with “going to heaven.” When the word is understood that way, Jesus as God’s salvation becomes Jesus as God’s means of “going to heaven.” But in the Bible, the word has much more this-worldly, here-and-now meanings, including rescue, deliverance, liberation, protection, healing, and being made whole. Psalm 27:1 affirms: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”

  Thus the meaning of “salvation” in the Nunc Dimittis is much the same as the meaning of “savior” in the Benedictus.

  Simeon’s song climaxes with light imagery, just as the Benedictus does. To return to the language of the NRSVnrsv, Jesus is “a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” Light and glory: light to the nations, glory to Israel. In different words, Simeon sings what Matthew says in his story of Jesus’s birth: Jesus is the King of the Jews and light to the nations.

  Glory in the Night Sky

  We turn now to Luke’s familiar story of angels appearing in the night to shepherds:

  In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

  “Glory to God in the highest heaven, And on earth peace among those whom he favors.”(2:8–14)

  The story is filled with light, radiance, luminosity, glory, revelation. As shepherds watch over their flock by night, an angel (a being of light) appears, and the glory of God shines around them. Then, after the angelic message is spoken, the night sky is filled with “a multitude of the heavenly host,” the firmament ablaze with God’s glory.

  Whenever angels speak in the Bible, it is time to listen carefully. Their narrative function is to reveal the meaning of what is happening. To cite a classic example from the end of Luke’s gospel, on Easter morning, angels say to the bewildered women at the tomb, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen” (24:5). This is what the story of the empty tomb means.

  So also in this story. The angel tells the shepherds what the display of God’s glory in the night sky means. We italicize the terms that will receive the most comment.

  I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior who is the Messiah, the Lord.

  The words “Savior,” “Messiah,” and “Lord” are early and familiar Christian designations for Jesus. All have meanings within a Jewish context. “Savior,” as noted above, has the primary meaning of “rescuer,” “deliverer.”

  “Messiah” (synonymous with “Christ”) in the Old Testament means “anointed one.” By the first century, it commonly meant the anointed one promised by God, the hope of Israel. We saw in Chapter 3 that there was no unified messianic expectation in first-century Judaism, but a variety of expectations. But when the term “Messiah” was used, it was in the context of the one promised and anointed by God to be the rescuer of Israel (or, in the case of the Dead Sea community, “ones”—they expected two messiahs). In the New Testament, it is one of the most common designations of Jesus, as in the phrase “Jesus Christ.” The phrase means “Jesus the Messiah,” the one promised and anointed by God.

  In the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Old Testament (the version of the Bible most widely known by early Christians), kyrios (Greek for “Lord”) is often used to translate the Hebrew word for “God.” “Lord” thus had connotations of divinity: God was kyrios. It also could mean “master,” in the sense of somebody to whom one is in a relationship of allegiance, commitment, or loyalty. In the New Testament, “Jesus is Lord” is perhaps the most common post-Easter affirmation about him. Importantly, it combines both connotations of the word “Lord”: divine status and our allegiance. Lordship and loyalty go together.

  Thus the angelic message expresses central Christian convictions about Jesus. It is the gospel in miniature. Indeed, the angel actually uses the Greek word for “gospel” (or “good news”): Jesus is Savior, Messiah, and Lord. All have rich meanings within the framework of their Jewish roots. But the angelic message has a second framework of meaning as well; namely, its language echoes and counters Roman imperial theology.

  We have already noted that Roman imperial theology regularly spoke of the emperor as “Lord,” “Son of God,” and sometimes as “Savior.” Moreover, as we saw in Chapter 6, the birth of the greatest emperor, Caesar Augustus, was “gospel,” “good news,” for the whole world. Imperial theology had its gospel, and early Christianity had its gospel.

  The counterpointing of imperial theology goes further. Light is also central to imperial theology. We see this clearly in the stories of the birth of Augustus (born Octavian). Conceived by the god Apollo in his human mother, Atia, he was “Son of God” by Apollo—and Apollo was the god of light (as well as order and reason). Moreover, on the night of his conception, Atia’s husband, Octavius, had a dream in which he saw the sun rising from his wife’s womb. Caesar Augustus as son of the god Apollo was the coming of light to the worl
d. But, according to Luke (and Matthew and John), Jesus is the light in the darkness. The other one claimed to be light in the darkness is not. Indeed, that light is darkness.

  There is one more counterpoint to imperial theology. After the angel in a blaze of light announces to the shepherds the “good news” that “a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord” has been born for them, an angelic chorus filling the night sky breaks into song:

  Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors. (2:14–15)

  We already discussed that closing phrase, “among those whom [God] favors,” in Chapter 6. Here we emphasize the phrase “on earth peace,” or, more commonly, “peace on earth.” As in Luke’s use of light imagery in the hymns, the word “peace” again appears.

  Within Roman imperial theology, as we saw in Chapters 3 and 6, the emperor was the one who had brought peace on earth. In one sense, Augustus had: he brought an end to the civil war that had wracked the Roman world for decades. There was Pax Romana, “the peace of Rome.”

  Of course, the peace of Rome did not mean the end of war. Wars to conquer additional territory and wars to suppress insurrections continued. From the vantage point of the conquered and oppressed, imperial peace looked very different.

  The Roman historian Tacitus, for example, placed the following speech on the lips of the Scottish general Calgacus as he prepared his doomed troops for battle with the legions of the Roman general Agricola in the later 70s or early 80s CE:

  Robbers of the world, now that earth fails their all-devastating hands, they probe even the sea: if their enemy have wealth, they have greed; if he be poor, they are ambitious; East nor West has glutted them; alone of mankind they covet with the same passion want [poor lands] as much as wealth [rich lands]. To plunder, butcher, steal, these things they misname empire: they make a desert and they call it peace. (Agricola 30; brackets ours)