Word to the Wise
“The Magi, as you know, are three wise men—wonderfully wise men who brought gifts to the babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents.”
The day Balthazar lost his head has become something of a family legend.
Every December 1 without fail, my mother lovingly arranges her plaster crèche somewhere in the house. Wherever she decides to place them, the three Wise Men are always on the opposite end of the table from the other characters until January 6; the Magi didn’t arrive at the stable until Epiphany, and it would be unthinkable that their tiny doppelgangers would do things any differently.
The little figures have been an institution for as long as I can remember. The paint is chipped in places, and one of the Magi’s heads—Balthazar’s—is slightly askew from where it was glued back on. No one’s ever owned up to how poor Balty got decapitated, but I recently unearthed photographic evidence of my middle brother dangling him just out of my four-year-old reach—his head still intact. I can’t imagine December without the Wise Men. At our house, they, even more than Santa Claus, were responsible for the best part of Christmas—the presents.
Ah, yes, Christmas presents. I remember lying awake at night, clutching my blankets, watching the crack at the bottom of my bedroom door for changes of light in the next room and listening for any sound that would confirm that Christmas had come to our house. I remember not being able to sleep for the excitement over What was under the tree?! Large or small, the once-a-year Christmas windfall was—with few exceptions—a guarantee, and nothing was off-limits. You could put anything on a Christmas list and live in hope that you just might get it. Somehow, surprises (even if they weren’t exactly what you wanted) always managed to happen. And there was an eager magic to it all, the kind that can only be felt through hunger.
It wasn’t just the anticipation of Christmas Day, but the entire season that kicked off at Thanksgiving and ended when the decorations were returned to their storage boxes on January 6 that seemed to make everyone glow. Waking up to brisk winter mornings, starry skies at night, mugs of hot chocolate with excessive amounts of marshmallow were treasured treats. There were the special holiday television programs that, if you missed them—a real tragedy, this—you had to endure a grueling 365-day wait until you had the opportunity to see them again. And lastly, and most importantly, there were the people, the ones I only saw at the waning of the year. This was the most magical, the most hallowed part of the holidays.
Like many folks, I came to my path from Christianity, so my Winter Solstice celebrations are still very much steeped in Christmas and the traditions of my childhood. This includes the Magi-inspired gift exchange even though there’s nothing particularly Pagan about it.
The Magi’s primary accomplice—and rival—for holiday gift giving is St. Nicholas, known eventually as Father Christmas and Santa Claus. The Magi definitely have seniority over the saint. Before he was canonized, the Bishop Nicholas did his good works in the third century, only about a hundred years before the official dates for Christmas and Epiphany were set into the calendar. While Nicholas did have his own day for veneration (December 6), he didn’t begin to transform into Father Christmas-cum-Santa until the sixteenth century. Christmas presents as we know them weren’t exchanged on December 25 until Queen Victoria started the tradition by giving a locket with a childhood portrait to her beloved Albert in 1841. Prior to that, gifts were generally given on January 1 (a bit closer to the Magi’s arrival at the stable, for what it’s worth) as a means of ushering in the New Year on a positive note.
Christianity does not have a monopoly on December gift-giving; the custom spans many traditions and cultures. “Oseibo,” gifts of gratitude, are given in Japan in the month of December. Bodhi Day, celebrated around December 8 by various Buddhist sects, honors the day that Buddha achieved enlightenment. While there are no specific gifts given on this occasion, it is customary to celebrate by performing kind acts for others. The Hindu Pancha Ganapati is a modern-day festival purposefully aligned with other winter celebrations that honors the Lord Ganesha with five days of prayer and parties. And, of course, presents are exchanged on each night of Hanukkah and on Imani, the last day of Kwanzaa.
There was at least one Pagan precedent. During the Roman celebration of Saturnalia, gifts of fruit and candles were given in the week leading up to the Winter Solstice. These weren’t the line-up-outside-a-shop-on-Thanksgiving-at-midnight-to-get-a-good-deal kind of gifts, but symbolic (not to mention useful) tokens of the return of the sun.
Most solstice celebrations revolved around just that—celebrating. Celebrating the fact that one made it through another cycle of seasons; celebrating that inside, there was fire, food, and fun no matter what was going on outside; celebrating that the days would steadily become longer and longer—all of those aspects of the sun’s return that were vital to survival. Gifts, even if they were exchanged, were not a centerpiece. For Pagans, it was—and is—a time to look backward and be grateful, and forward, with hope.
For the past few Yuletides, when I’ve looked back, it was with a rush to reach out to people with whom I’d promised to keep in touch. And as I looked forward, ready to make the same promises again, I found myself turning to tokens as a replacement of unfulfilled promises.
Throughout my adult life, I’ve tried to replicate that eager, magical feeling about winter that was so much a part of my childhood. I’ve succeeded a few times, but rarely has it been the result of something that came wrapped in a package, given or received. A gift is a token of affection, and while an object can’t make up for time unspent, it can serve as a reminder of our presence in the lives of others. The magic of the season is captured in the present moment: in a walk down a city street with a favorite cousin, in a shared cup of spiced cider, or in the evergreen ornaments I exchange with the same friend year after year over afternoon tea. I’ve learned that the best Yule gift is that of time.
I think I will always be reconciling my Pagan present to my Catholic past. I love making connections; the discovery that something I was taught in childhood has older roots is grounding for me. Does the journey of the Magi have a Pagan backstory? The star and Three Wise Men predate Christianity. Three wise men attended the birth of the Egyptian god Horus, and are immortalized as the three stars of Orion’s belt—but as in the Christmas story, they play only supporting roles.
Tack a few more letters onto “Magi” and you have the word “magician.” In Greek, Mai’goi translates to “astrologer,” in Persian, the word refers to a scholarly caste who studied astrology and divination. Another translation suggests that the Magi were “men who prayed silently.” Depending on which version of the Bible you’re reading, they’re called the “Magi” or “the Three Wise Men.” They’ve also been called “the Three Kings,” though it was more likely that they were advisors to kings rather than kings themselves—they were, after all, wise. Whatever version you choose, they all suggest that the mysterious, star-gazing trio with their camels and coffers of treasure and incense sought knowledge through esoteric means.
Their star, by the way, is also questionable. The Magi followed “a star in the east.” Is it the same star that appears at the top of Yule and Christmas evergreens far and wide? The Sun, reborn at the solstice, is, of course, a star—but was the bright object that caught the Magi’s eyes and captured their imaginations a star, or something else? It’s been theorized that the timing of the story coincides with the appearance of Halley’s Comet, believed by many to be a harbinger of great events. Recent scholarship suggests that the star wasn’t a star at all, but another astronomical anomaly, perhaps the moon eclipsing the planet Jupiter—this is a theory with symbolic value that begs to be played with. Did the Wise Men see the birth of an important person played out by the moon eclipsing the planet named for the chief of all gods?
It is all conjecture. The Bible, from which the Christian tale is taken, is predictably cryptic. The only reference to the Magi can be found in the book of Matthew—who didn’t name names. Documentation of any identifying details came hundreds of years later. Art and the providence of the Western Church have given the Wise Men all sorts of designations, the first being that there were only three. This is a significant number on many levels, but probably determined by the individual gifts that were brought. The Magi were given names, ages, and possible ethnicities: Caspar is seen as an elderly man with a white beard offering a chest of gold. Middle-aged Melchior (often depicted as Arabian) brings a gift from his homeland, frankincense. Balthazar is young. His dark skin and his gift, myrrh, suggest that he could be from Africa. The portrait fits our little crèche set and so many others like it, but is it accurate? Later writers and different branches of the Eastern Church offer different names for the Wise Men. What is correct? The fact is that there are no facts, only many guesses and questionable resources mixed with a large dose of faith—not the best formula for uncovering the truth.
In his story “The Gift of the Magi,” it is the wisdom of the Wise Men that the writer, O. Henry, infused into the characters of Della and Jim, a husband and wife who sacrifice their personal treasures to give each other gifts. Beneath the plot of their story is a universal truth, the spirit of the season revealed by a foolish mistake that was ultimately wise:
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. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
If indeed the Wise Men invented the art of giving Christmas presents, it’s the feeling they inspire at this time of year that transcends their story, real or imagined, and consequently, any material gift: To be selfless is to be wise—the spirit of the season.
Whatever your beliefs, whatever your path, whatever your family traditions, this December, cherish your loved ones. Surprise people with generosity if it is something you can do. If you cannot, exchange wishes and tokens of good will, and even more importantly, share your time—a commodity that is gone once it has passed.
Bright blessings on your celebrations, and may the light of the Winter Solstice touch you with its gifts, always, and in all ways.