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Originally published by Faith and Family magazine, December, 2004 Star of Wonder By Jennifer Graham Normally, I welcome any endeavors to marry science and religion, or at least to get them engaged. As a proud member of a faith tradition that includes Thomas Aquinas, William F. Buckley and Richard John Neuhaus, I figure there's plenty of room for rigorous questioning and analysis, as long as I nail nothing to a church door. But, as much as I value the intellectual tradition of the Church, at this time of year, I say we give it a rest. Consider the star of Bethlehem. In the southern city where I grew up, one of our bizarre Christmas traditions — along with dusting off the fruitcake and ironing the tinsel — was a visit to the local planetarium. There, we would sit uncomfortably for an hour or so, necks bent and heads craned toward the darkened ceiling, while a solemn narrator explained away the star of Bethlehem. Now, without being too specific about the number of years I've been on this planet, this was more than 30 years ago. Maybe even 40. But last I checked, the same old planetarium still offers the same old program with the same old goal: to "take us back to 3 B.C. to see what sky events could possibly explain the mysterious star of Bethlehem." And planetariums in other cities do this, as well. My question, however, is not: from whence the star? It's not even: Who, really, has TIME to spend an hour sitting down in December? It's this: Why would anyone want the star of Bethlehem explained? What part of “miracle” do we not understand? Alas, it's not just planetariums obsessed with the subject. A fellow named Ernest Martin wrote 200 pages on the topic in a book called "The Star That Astonished the World." He concluded that the "star" wasn't a star at all, but a rare pairing of Jupiter and Venus in 2 B.C. According to Martin, the planets were millions of miles apart, but because of their positions, they appeared as a single twinkling "star" in the western sky. "What is needed," he writes, "is a serious scholarly consideration for this scientific approach in identifying the star of Bethlehem." Oh, spare us. When it comes to a magnificent star hovering over a newborn in swaddling clothes, we can do without the serious scholarly consideration. I much prefer the footnote in my husband's Bible (albeit, an inferior Protestant New International Version), which says, simply, "Probably not an ordinary star, planet or comet." No kidding. I wasn’t there in the manger, but I think I can safely assert that there was nothing ordinary about that night. And why would God recruit an ordinary star, or even two ordinary planets, to herald such an extraordinary event? We believe that a virgin gave birth, that angels sang for bewildered shepherds, that an omniscient and omnipotent savior consented to be brought forth on soiled straw. Not everything -- on this planet or off it – needs a plausible explanation, and certainly not at this time of the year. "Scholars, and often the clergy ... are peculiarly reluctant to concede the innate human capacity to accept the marvelous, to delight in wonder and respond to the strongest claims made on the imagination," wrote Rachel Trickett in an essay in "God Incarnate: Story and Belief." This Christmas season, may we delight in wonder.
We may still visit the planetarium; after all, why should
I deprive my kids of the traditional stiff neck of Advent? But maybe it would be
more meaningful to spend a few minutes, as a family, looking up at the real
stars in the sky. To our mortal eyes, they are tiny. But their energy is
immense, and it's easy to envision the enormous star once in their midst: a
glorious spot of white that still beckons us
to a baby. Westward leading, still proceeding, guide us to thy perfect light.
©2003-2007 Jennifer Graham
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