Being There

I have no idea how many times in the course of my life I have witnessed someone come into the presence of a newborn child. But I can say this with confidence: on every such occasion, the adult has said something to the infant.

It was beside the point that the child had no capacity to understand what was being said. It was beside the point that the encounter did not offer much occasion to say anything at all. It was even beside the point that the child may have been sound asleep--this simply prompted a quieter greeting. It borders on a universal and invariable truth: when we meet infants, we talk to them. Go figure.    

The second chapter of Matthew tells the familiar story of the visit of the wise men to the newborn Jesus. We are told about their travels, their encounter with Herod along the way, and their gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But we are not told whether they said anything to the infant Jesus when they met him. The gospel says that they paid him "homage," but it's not clear whether they did this through words. Maybe the homage-making consisted of a bow or the presentation of the gifts--just as the old creche scenes depict it. Or maybe the Magi did what we all do when we meet infants: say hello; exclaim over the child's specialness; show off the gifts that were hauled along.

In the last few months, we have suffered a number of losses. A dear neighbor and friend who was unexpectedly overtaken by cancer. Two beloved, old dogs. A 100-year-old matriarch whose kitchen was the center of our family's universe. A young man who succumbed to a horrible addiction. A treasured father, finally overcome by long-term illness. Over and over again, we have found ourselves in the presence of someone who was moving from this life to the next, or who was grieving the absence of someone who had done so. And over and over again we have been reminded of another universal and invariable truth: in these circumstances, we do not know what to say.

Then, just two days ago, we sat in horror as we learned about the terrorist attacks in Paris. Over a hundred dead. Hundreds wounded, many critically. A senseless and obscene act of violence. And again: we do not know what to say.

This will no doubt seem curious, given that the story about the visit of the Magi is a narrative of awe and joy, but it occurs to me that there may be embedded in this tale a lesson that we can apply during these trying times. The lesson, of course, does not lie in what the Magi said. Indeed, the scripture does not even bother to report their words, if they said any. The significance clearly lies somewhere else.

Perhaps the significance of the visit of the Magi rests in the simple fact that they paid attention. While everyone else was going about their business, they stopped theirs and tried to figure out what was happening and why it was important. Did they fully understand? We don't know--the gospel doesn't tell us. The gospel doesn't give us a set of verses in which the three wise men debrief on their long trip and what they learned, memorandum of expenses to follow. And what a relief that we don't get such a thing, because it seems to me that it would wholly and conspicuously miss the point.

In the most challenging circumstances of our lives, it is often the case that the best we can do is to pay attention. It is good to be physically present when we can, but that is not always possible. We can, however, always be spiritually and mindfully there with those who need us. And we can send messages to let people know that we are paying attention and that we stand with them--even if the best words, if there are any, do not come to us.
 
I suspect that the fact that we're paying attention is actually what matters most to those for whom we are concerned. In my experience, a bereaved friend almost always remembers that I attended a funeral of their loved one but almost never remembers anything I said. I like to think that they remember a bit more if I'm the eulogist, but that may be self-flattery.

And paying attention may also be what matters most to us. Words aside, the simple act of paying attention takes us out of ourselves, forces us into empathic and sympathetic interactions, broadens our vision, reorients our priorities, deepens our soul. When we pay attention, we change that which we observe and with which we engage. And we ourselves are changed in the process.
 
We do not know much about the wise men. We do not know a word they said in the presence of Jesus. For that matter, we do not know, for certain, that they uttered a single sentence.

But we know they were there. We know they paid attention.

And we know that they went home by another, a different, way.

As do we all, after we show up and pay attention.

As do we all.

Amen.