Explained by John Eames, M.A. - Part One

Explained by John Eames, M.A.
Edited by Amber Moeller

A word from the Hostess: The following was taken from John Eames, M.A.'s book "The Shattered Temple, and Other Addresses to Young People" (1910's?).

The Story of the Other Wise Man - Part One

"Behold there came wise men from the East of Jerusalem" (Matthew 2:1).

Possibly you are saying to yourself that you have never heard of the Fourth Wise Man, and you wonder whether I have made a mistake in the number. You have always understood that there were three. Artists paint them as three, and tradition always speaks of them as of that number, though we are nowhere told how many there were. We have jumped to the conclusion that there were three because of the three gifts named in the Gospel, gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Be that as it may I wish to tell the story of the Fourth Wise Man. It is told us by Henry Van Dyke, though I shall tell it you in my own way. Yes, there was another Wise Man, so the story goes, who started from the East to Jerusalem, but who, unlike the others did not get there in time to see the new-born King, or to make his offering. The reasons for his not getting there are very interesting and instructive.

The story tells us that the names of the three who actually arrived there and presented their gifts to the new-born Christ were Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, and that the name of the fourth who was too late was Artaban. These were all Zoroastrians and lived in the East. They were the learned men of their time and were astrologers. The central thought of their religion was the power and glory of fire and light. "The stars," said they, "are the thought of the Eternal," and so they studied the stars which they believed would reveal to them the mind of God.

These four Wise Men knew that it was written: "There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall rise out of Israel," and they also knew that the time of the star's appearing was near. So they arranged among themselves that directly it appeared they would meet at the Temple of Borsippa and journey together to Jerusalem.

Artaban the Fourth Wise Man had sold all that he had in readiness for the journey, and had bought with the money three precious jewels, a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl; and these he intended to lay at the feet of the new-born King as his offering.

Very soon after to Artaban's great joy the star appeared. He took his horse and his three precious jewels and away he sped, on a journey of several days, to join the others at the Temple of Borsippa. The horse and the rider drank together at the wayside springs, and slept together under the same stars. But haste as he would, he feared that he should be too late to join his companions, and that he might not lose time, instead of resting he rode on through the last night hoping in the morning to be at Borsippa. As he rose in the darkness he passed through a grove of date palms when suddenly his horse showed signs of fear and then stood still. Artaban dismounted and found a man in the swoon of the deadly fever lying on the road. As he stooped over the unconscious form he was thoughtful for some moments; then the question, What was he to do, presented itself. The star which had appeared in the heavens would not wait; his friends who were probably already at Borsippa would not stay; if he tarried with the sick man he would perhaps lose this great chance of a life-time. Yet, could he be so inhuman as to leave the man there upon the road to die? What was he to do?

It is a question we may put to ourselves and to one another. What would you have done? You can enter into Artaban's feelings. He longed with all his heart to see the new-born King who was to rule the world, and he was eager to present to Him the precious jewels he was carrying. Yet here in his path was a sick man, possibly, but for the care and attention he alone could give, a dying man! Could he go on and leave the man to die? So it is sometimes with us; we look forward with great eagerness to some pleasure or privilege, and then there crops up right in our path a sudden duty; something which cries to be done stares us in the face; with the consequence that our hearts pull one way and conscience and duty the other. What would you have done in Artaban's case?

I hope you would have decided to do as Artaban did. He resolved to stay. He did not do this without a struggle; for that is often the price we have to pay in doing the right thing. So he took from his wallet food and drink and remedies, and stayed with the sick man till the morning broke, and then carried him back to the nearest town and saw him safe in the hands of those who would nurse him back to life again, and afterwards hastened on as quickly as he could go to Borsippa.

Whether he found his friends there or not can very well wait for the telling till our next address. Let us therefore break with the story for the time being and consider the first lesson it suggests, for there is something to be said about the cost at which we do the right.

Artaban was no the only one to find a very commonplace duty stand in the way of what seemed a very high and exalted duty. We all know something of that experience and of the struggle it means. Our highest aspirations are often frustrated by the simple demands of life. We want to be missionaries, etc. and we think we wish it all for Christ's sake, but instead of finding the way opened for us we see it gradually closed by much more humble duties. It is then we wonder why God allows these simple things to interfere with our glowing ambitions. Artaban might have asked why one possessed of precious jewels which he was eager to lay the feet of the new-born Christ should be hindered by a sick stranger whom others could nurse. Why should we, we ask, who wish to do such daring things for Christ, have to plod at learning a trade or in preparing for a profession, perhaps even in working day in and day out at lowly duties in the home?

It is all to teach us that God does not look at these matters in the way we do. With Him "there is no great nor small"; it is only we who talk of hidden or prominent things; for as Browning says:

"All service ranks the same with God--
With God, whose puppets, best and worst,
Are we: there is no last nor first."

The patient faithful doing of the hidden duty is as great in His sight as those things which we think more prominent and which we more loudly applaud.

Many an old story comes down to us to illustrate this. To be doing household work many at times be a more necessary duty than coming to offer prayer and praise to His House. Santa Francesca Romana used to say: "A wife and a mother when called upon must quit her God at the altar, and find Him in her household affairs." Tradition relates that once, while at her private devotions, she was interruted no less than five times. She patiently left her Psalm book and her meditations and attended to these calls of duty. On returning to her room she found the whole page of the Psalm Book from which she had been reading, illuminated by an Angel's hand in letters of golden light. It is the way in which the story tries to tell us that the simple duties she rose to perform were more golden and more pleasing to God than had she presisted in her devotions and left those other calls unheeded.

Longfellow tells us a similar story in his poem, "The Legend of Beautiful." A monk was kneeling in his quiet cell, lost in meditation and prayer. Suddenly the whole place was filled with a glorious vision of Christ--beautiful beyond expression. It seemed as if the walls had fallen away and all the splendor of the unseen world had broken upon the kneeling monk; and therein the midst was the gracious Christ Himself. What wonder that the soul of the monk was entranced with joy and awe.

"Then amid his exaltation
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistant iteration
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood."

Whilst he gazed in ecstasy the clanging of the bell broke in upon his rapture. It was his turn that day to be almoner, and to go at once and distribute food to the poor and needy who were at the gate. But was he to leave this vision for such a task--such a vision as he might never behold again!

"The a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear,
As if to the outward ear:
'Do thy duty; that is best.'"

Tearing himself away from the vision he attended to the sick and the poor and the hungry. After the last poor beggar's needs had been attended to he hastened back to the cell wondering whether the vision would have faded. No, to his unspeakable joy the glory was still there; the vision had not passed away because of the lowly duties about which he had been concerned.

"It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the Blessed Vision said,
'Had'st thou stayed, I must have fled.'"

He did not lose the vision through rising to attend to his duties; but because he was ready to attend to his duties first the vision stayed.

No one in all the wide world has ever lost any real blessing through doing the duty which was nearest at hand. The simple things must not be scorned because they are simple. Perhaps those are the very things in which we can most please God and serve Christ. There are doubtless lots of things we should like to be and to do, but when God permits some lowlier task to cross out path and to clamour at once to be done accept it as your duty and as God's will.

Remember the words of the legend: "Do thy duty: that is best."

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