If we can't elect a Garfield, maybe we each can be a Garfield

On Saturday, returning from a daylong meeting with church members, someone mentioned the name of an Ohio town. "Isn't that where Garfield was from?" I asked, realizing in an instant that people would think I was referring to James A. Garfield, America's twentieth president, and not to the orange cat in comic strips.

Garfield doesn't come up often in conversation and the only biography I've read of him wasn't very good.

But most people who know a little about him remember that he was assassinated. (That was the subject of an excellent recent installment of the PBS series, The American Experience.)

Others will know that Garfield was an ordained minister, the only such person to ever be president.

None of that came up during the Saturday drive. But having briefly mentioned Garfield one day, I was surprised the next day to find an article in Christianity Today's The Local Church about Garfield.

According to Brannon Marshall, the writer of the piece, Garfield also exemplified humility, being one of the few people elected president who didn't actually want the job. (I've talked before how much I would love for us to elect people to public office who aren't desperately grasping for power.)

In this, Marshall asserts, Garfield has a lot to teach modern Christians (and, I'd say, others):

Garfield’s modesty would make him seem wildly out of place in today's political arena, but it fits his role as a lay-minister well. Of the church leaders I’ve known, those who have contributed the most to those in their care have achieved their influence as a result of character that’s unseen and humility that’s steady. It’s never been done through declarative muscle; instead, like Garfield, they faithfully followed the humble path and have inspired others to do the same. They’re the pastors who hang around after everyone’s gone, get out the mop, and clean up red Kool-Aid stains in the church kitchen without thought of recompense or recognition. They’re the tired-but-tireless Sunday school teachers who are in their fifth decade of helping children understand what Jesus meant when he said, “Take up your cross and follow me.” They’re everywhere—but rarely rewarded. And that’s probably how they want things to be...

Garfield’s relative anonymity in history shouldn’t surprise us—an assassin’s bullet tragically ended his life less than seven months into his term. His legacy, however, is important because his story relates an enduring lesson: true, dignified influence is often achieved not through force or compulsion, but through quiet humility.

In the midst of this year's wretchedly depressing presidential campaign, as we watch more than a few candidates pander, grovel, assault, and misconstrue the records or beliefs of others, it would be refreshing to be surprised by the nomination of a Garfield, a candidate not seeking the office, but seeking to do the first thing all leaders must do, serve. It's something to pray for.

But barring that miracle, maybe we who follow Christ could pray that, like Garfield, we could learn what it means to humbly follow the crucified and risen Jesus. We probably won't ever be elected president. But filled with the power of our Lord, God may use us to change the lives of the people we encounter each day for the better. And doing that would be a great ambition for each of us to hold.

What was the Bethlehem star?

Tomorrow, we're celebrating Epiphany at Living Water Lutheran Church.

Of course, Epiphany Day, the twelfth day of Christmas, actually falls on January 6. But since it didn't fall on a Sunday, I wanted to focus tomorrow on the events of the first Epiphany, when magi (also sometimes called wise men or even kings) from "the east" (literally, in the Greek in which the Gospel of Matthew tells us about the events, the anatolai, which can also mean rising, certainly a word not used casually by Matthew) followed a star and brought gifts to the newborn King Jesus.

But what exactly was the star?

Lots of theories have been advanced. In a new book, informed by paying close attention to astronomy, New Testament scholar Colin R. Nichol suggests that the star that guided the magi to Jesus was actually a comet.

In an interview with Christianity Today, Nichol asserts:

The star appeared suddenly and was visible for over a year, something that makes sense only if it were a supernova or a great comet. That the star surprised the Magi with its impressive “rising” points strongly to it being a comet: Of all the celestial bodies, only comets behave in this manner.

Then you take into account the star’s movement, in the space of a couple of months, from the eastern morning sky to the southern evening sky, where they see it when they’re traveling from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. That kind of movement is only possible for an object in the inner solar system, meaning that the star had to be a comet. 

At the end of the Magi’s journey, the star stands over the place of Jesus’ birth, pinpointing a particular location. As New Testament scholar Craig Keener has pointed out, that’s something only a comet can do. Josephus mentions a comet that “stood over” Jerusalem in the run-up to the Judean War. Another Roman historian, Cassius Dio, mentions that another comet did something similar over Rome in 12 B.C. This is all very powerful evidence, and there is much more in the book.

When asked if his theory didn't suggest that we should talk about "the Bethlehem comet" instead of "the Bethlehem star," Nichol replies:

No. In the ancient world, many astronomical entities—meteors, for instance—could be regarded as “stars.” In fact, we still describe meteors as “shooting stars.” Comets were commonly called “stars.” This was true in the Greco-Roman world, in the writings of philosophers like Pliny and Seneca. It was also true in Babylon.  

In Numbers 24:17, there’s a prophecy by Balaam about a “scepter” and a “star” (“. . . a star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel”). Ancient rabbis could refer to comets as “scepter stars.” The “star” in Numbers is almost certainly a comet.

It's an interesting and plausible theory that Nichol presents. It might even be true.

But the key take-away from Matthew's account of the first Epiphany is that the God of Israel found a way to get the attention of Gentiles, non-Jews, to announce the birth of the Messiah. When the magi found Jesus, they worshiped. They believed. The star then, was one of the most dramatic tools God has ever used to make disciples.

"I came to Harvard seeking Veritas. Instead, he found me."

A one-time atheist describes her journey in faith in Christ.

What People Are Giving Up for Lent, 2013

Being pope is number one. But much of the rest of the list, garnered from Twitter-user's self-disclosures, is interesting.