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“We have seen his star in the East, and have come to worship him.”
I love the subtitle that we often see for the Epiphany: “The Manifestation of Our Lord Jesus Christ to the Gentiles.” And that is exactly what it is, because the magi from the east are not Jews; they are outsiders to the promises of Israel. They are, as the Old Testament prophets often put it, “the nations,” “the peoples.” And because this scene is so brief—it occurs only in one Gospel—it is almost too easy to pass it over.
Yet the tradition places huge significance on it. We’ll hear in that classic carol, “We Three Kings,” how the three gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, suggest that Christ is king, God, and sacrificial victim. And of course the fact that Gentiles give these revealing gifts is a kind of foreshadowing of the ministry of St. Peter and St. Paul a few decades later, when the promises of God to Israel are expanded, and the promises that God made to Abraham way back in Genesis finally come true—that in him and his family, “all the nations” of the world will be blessed.
What should we make of that idea—that in this one person, this child, all the nations will be blessed? So often the particularity of the Incarnation appears to be an even more scandalous version of the particularity of Israel. Why does God work in this place, in this particular story? Our modern sensibilities for justice and equality find this difficult, and in my experience, this is one of the most constant questions about Christianity from the outside: how could you really believe that a transcendent God would be so weirdly exclusive? Why should these wise men from the east—kings, even—have to travel to this little town in the Roman province of Judea to encounter God?
To answer this, I’m drawn to a little opera that some of you probably know, called Amahl and the Night Visitors. It’s a short piece famously aired on NBC Christmas Eve of 1951—and you can easily find that original broadcast online. In the story, a poor boy and his mother meet the three kings as they search for Christ. I challenge you to listen to it or watch it without tearing up.
The mother asks the kings to describe the child they seek. So Melchior sings:
Have you seen a child the color of wheat . . .
the color of dawn? 
His eyes are mild; his hands are those of a king 
—as king he was born. 
Incense, myrrh, and gold we bring to his side; 
and the eastern star is our guide. 

The mother responds:
Yes, I know a child the color of wheat . . . 
the color of dawn. 
His eyes are mild; 
his hands are those of a king as king he was born. 
But no one will bring him incense or gold . . . 
though sick and poor and hungry and cold. 
He is my child my son, my darling my own.
The three kings then add,
Have you seen a child the color of earth&#8230; 
the color of thorn? 
His eyes are sad; his hands are those of the poor 
as poor he was born. 
Incense, myrrh, and gold we bring to his side, 
and the eastern star is our guide.
The mother again:
Yes, I know a child the color of earth . . . the color of thorn. 
His eyes are sad; 
his hands are those of the poor, 
as poor he was born. 
But no one will bring him incense or gold . . . 
though sick and poor and hungry and cold. 
He is my child, my son, my darling . . . my own. 

I’d go on, but I won’t do justice to the music and the poetry, not to mention I don’t want to start sobbing here.
What do you notice? I see a couple of things. One is that this child, despite his particularity, is a sort of universal. The kings describe him in this rich, natural imagery that suggests an elusive beauty and goodness. But the mother—and this is the other thing—can hear in the descriptions only the person of her own child. And for her this is a great sadness, drawing out the scandal of God’s sovereign choice. Why should that child get all the gifts? Shouldn’t her child get gifts as well?
This is the most natural sentiment in the world. In the last couple of months, my family has been in mourning for the child of a dear friend who died, as they say, far before his time. We want to cry over and over: why him? It just isn’t fair. How often do we look at a more fortunate person with jealousy, questioning the injustice of history? And then don’t we often think of God’s gifts and God’s calling in this way? Surely part of the confusion we see in the Church right now over sexuality and marriage is this closely related feeling: how can it be fair that this couple’s relationship can be blessed but not that one’s? We tend to think—and modern culture forms us to think—that the only “justice” can be when everyone gets exactly the same thing.
But let’s skip to the ending—of Amahl’s story, at least. It works out with a happy ending precisely because, contrary to the mother’s natural intuitions, the particularity of Christ is not competitive, just as the particularity of Israel wasn’t competitive. The fact that this child is the chosen one, the Messiah, the incarnate Son of God, does not mean that other children are cursed. In fact, it means that all other children can be so much greater because of his greatness. In him all the nations of the world are blessed. But there’s an irreducible singularity to this child all the same, for that blessing doesn’t mean that everybody is the same, or that everybody gets the same thing, or that we just declare ourselves blessed on our own terms as we are. We have to make the journey, like the magi, which is to say we have to commit to a course of change. We have to submit to the particularity of encounter with this child. We don’t get to follow our own favorite star to New York or Paris or Tokyo; we have to follow this one star to Bethlehem.
It might be useful to think on this occasion of the things we can offer to the newborn Christ. That is a great theme of so many Christmas carols, from “In the Bleak Midwinter” to the little drummer boy. But, before we can offer anything, we have to seek him. We cannot get to the universal blessings—the peace and joy and good will toward men—without finding him, and only him—not generic sentiment that passes for Christmas cheer in popular culture, nor a version of him that fulfills all our modern political hopes, but Jesus Christ the Lord, the hope of the nations, born of Mary.
So in this season of epiphany, of revelation and manifestation, seek the face of him who came among us. Seek him and worship him, as he came to us at Bethlehem, as he comes to us in the most holy sacrament of the altar, and as he comes to us in the stillness of our restless hearts. Seek him.

The Unfairness of God

Why Confess Your Sins to a Priest?

Jimmy Akin gives several reasons why it is not fully satisfying for us to simply &#8220;be a good person,&#8221; and why our innate knowledge of good and evil does not render religion superfluous.

Is Religion Necessary if You Can Be a Moral Atheist?

What authority does the Church have on scientific matters when it comes to faith and morals?

What is an apostolic pardon and how does it work?

How can people go to hell if God knows what would be good for them?

Why don’t we use the availability of confession as an apologetics selling point?

The apostolic pardon offers a powerful grace at the moment of death—but what exactly is it? We explain its purpose, how it works, and also discuss the Church’s authority in science, the reality of hell, and why confession is an underrated tool in apologetics.
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What Is an Apostolic Pardon and How Does It Work?

Jimmy Akin gives several layman-friendly resources for learning about the Trinity, including the works of Frank Sheed, the Catholic Encyclopedia, the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and the Compendium of the Catechism.
Transcript:
Host: We go now to Katherine in Ohio, listening on Living Bread Radio. Katherine, you&#8217;re on with Jimmy Akin, what&#8217;s your question?
Caller: Yes, good evening, gentlemen. I wanted to ask, based on a question that was answered by Tim Staples in recent weeks on a show where he was answering, and he mentioned several sources about the nature of the <a href="https://www.catholic.com/encyclopedia/trinity">Holy Trinity</a>. I don&#8217;t have a comprehensive background in philosophy and theology, but I&#8217;m doing the best I can and if you could recommend, Jimmy, some books primarily, and also perhaps some internet sources, on reading that I could do for an individual like myself who has just basics in philosophy, including a little bit of Dominican background when I worked at the House of Studies library in Washington DC, and I was able to audit a couple of classes from some, you know, tremendous instructors.
Jimmy: Okay, well, I didn&#8217;t hear the question that, you know, Tim answered, so I can only go based on on what you&#8217;ve just said. But if you&#8217;re looking for resources about the Trinity, a couple of famous ones that that have been very popular in English to help people understand the Trinity were written by Frank Sheed. Frank Sheed was a British author and apologist in the twentieth century, he wrote a couple of books, one of them—I mean, wrote a bunch of books—but a couple of them where he talks about the Trinity are his book &#8220;Theology For Beginners,&#8221; and also his book &#8220;Theology and Sanity.&#8221; And both of those contain discussions of the doctrine of the Trinity that are meant to be intelligible for a popular audience, so you don&#8217;t have to have had a lot of training in order to be able to understand them. They&#8217;re meant to be popularly understandable. So I&#8217;d recommend those.
In terms of things you can read on the internet, I would suggest going by NewAdvent.org or Catholic.com and looking in <a href="https://www.catholic.com/encyclopedia">the original Catholic Encyclopedia</a>, where it&#8217;s gonna have articles on the Trinity, and on God, and on the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; and between those you should be able to get a good background. It may not be quite as easy to understand because, you know, it was written more than a hundred years ago, and so it kind of has an elevated tone and some archaic terms, but it still will be a good orthodox resource for you that&#8217;s online for free.
Also, you could go to Vatican.va and look in the Catechism of the Catholic Church. It&#8217;s gonna have a discussion of the doctrine of the Trinity, it&#8217;s gonna be in pretty brief terms, because, you know, they won&#8217;t spend pages and pages discussing it, but it&#8217;ll give you a good summary of the Church&#8217;s official teaching regarding the Trinity.
And if that&#8217;s a little much for you&#8211;because the Catechism can be a little heady at times&#8211;you might take a look at the Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which is written in a very accessible Q&amp;A format and covers the same material in a kind of summary way. And that&#8217;s also at Vatican.va, you&#8217;ll find the Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church there, and you can also just search directly on Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church and it&#8217;ll come up.
Host: Thank you very much, Catherine, does that help you?
Caller: Yes it did.

Resources for Learning About the Nature of the Trinity

<div>Who created Jesus’ human soul? Also, how is Jesus not both a divine person and a human one? Finally, who resurrected Jesus from the dead?</div><div>Concerning the question of who created Christ’s human soul, the answer is all <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/explaining-the-trinity">three persons of the Trinity</a>: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The reason is that all three persons have the same the divine will. To be more precise, all three persons are identical to the divine will. Consequently, whatever the Father wills, the Son and the Holy Spirit will. Whatever the Son wills, the Father and the Holy Spirit will. And whatever the Holy Spirit wills, both the Father and the Son will as well. Since Christ’s human soul is a created effect of the divine will, it follows that all three persons of the Trinity created Jesus’ human soul.
Now, the question as to why two persons are not present in Jesus upon the union that the Word of God establishes with <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/is-jesus-a-human-person">Christ’s human nature</a> is because the union with the Word is not accidental but substantial. This means the union is such that the Word of God is the single subject of action in the human nature of Christ. It is he, the Word, who acts through two natures: human and divine. Theologically, this is necessary for Christ’s human acts to have infinite value, especially his death on the cross. Only if Christ were a divine person acting in his sacrifice on the cross could the cross be a cause of our salvation.
Finally, to the question of who resurrected Jesus, the answer is same as above: all three persons of the Trinity. Given that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are all identical to the divine will, and the resurrection of Jesus’ corporeal life is an effect of the divine will, it follows that the Resurrection is an effect of the causality of all three persons of the Trinity.
</div>

Who created Jesus’ human soul?

<div>Jacob (Israel) and King David had multiple wives. When and why did that become acceptable?</div><div>The creation accounts in Genesis present monogamy as the ideal. None of the prophets had more than one wife and often spoke disparagingly about polygamy, comparing it to polytheism and idolatry. Only one of the many rabbis mentioned in the Talmud had more than one wife (and he had done so only during a time of severe famine to save them), and a tradition also held that a wife had the right to divorce her husband if he took another wife. God is never portrayed as commanding anyone to take a second wife, and in most cases in the Old Testament where polygamy is described, it is disastrous (most notably Abraham and David). However, it did exist in the Old Testament, and Mosaic law did permit it.
Why it was permitted is the subject of theological debate. Jewish tradition normally emphasizes that polygamy was never looked upon as a good thing but was permitted as a concession to the realities of the world in which the ancient Jews lived. Maimonides, in his Guide of the Perplexed (book 3, ch. 32), states:
<blockquote>Many precepts in our Law are the result of a similar course adopted by the same Supreme Being. It is, namely, impossible to go suddenly from one extreme to the other: it is therefore according to the nature of man impossible for him suddenly to discontinue everything to which he has been accustomed.</blockquote>
Maimonides argued that while the Torah allowed certain behaviors, it also established rules that diminished the acts, modified and controlled them, and gave insight to those who could read the text properly that the practices were wrong.
In Christian tradition, we see this through the lens of God’s gradual revelation: “In times past, God spoke in partial and various ways to our ancestors through the prophets” (Heb. 1:1), and Jesus appears to say that the Mosaic law did in fact make concessions to the weakness of human nature (Matt. 19:8). This would be in harmony with the traditional Jewish view that God permitted it but did not approve of it and gave every indication that it was wrong. With the fullness of revelation in Jesus Christ we see explicitly that polygamy is not the intention of God (Matt. 19:1-9).
</div>

Why Is Polygamy OK in the Old Testament?

Given how utterly tired out the theme of demonic possession is in the movies, it is strange that almost every exorcism movie that comes down the pike gets the buzz that it does. The Ritual, starring Al Pacino and the ubiquitous Dan Stevens and released in theaters last week, is no exception.
But should Catholics take any interest in such dark narratives, whether historical or fictional? Do exorcism tales have a place in a spiritual strategy—or should they be repudiated as reducing spiritual warfare to evil fascination or even entertainment?
The OG of this overworn horror subgenre of demonic possession is (of course) 1973’s The Exorcist. Director William Friedkin broke the mold with Linda Blair’s horrifying head-spinning and projectile-vomiting and a memorable performance from Max von Sydow as the heroic Fr. Merrin. It was a shocker and earned its reputation, though it was firmly in the category of outlandish horror rather than strictly keeping to the facts of possession. But that’s the movies for you. They’re not always the best vehicle for accuracy or edification.
Though there have been some worthy mentions since The Exorcist—such as The Amityville Horror, The Exorcist III, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, and The Conjuring—there really hasn’t been an original cinematic take on the subject of exorcism in fifty years. Even so (and perhaps strangely so), these movies still get noticed. Some might recall entries as recent as The Pope’s Exorcist and The Exorcist: Believer (both widely anticipated and <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/blog/a-tale-of-two-exorcisms">poorly reviewed</a>).
The Ritual purports to tell the story of the most documented exorcism on American soil, involving a girl named Emma Schmidt in Iowa, 1928. It is fine, if you go for this sort of fare. Far from good, though. Orthodox, but uninspired. Like nearly every possession film, it is a retread with nothing new to offer. It’s got all the apparently mandatory elements: the tormented girl restrained in her bed; the two priests, one wise, one wavering; the voices, the wall-crawling, the burning crucifix—all presented in a seeming cinematic naïveté that The Exorcist doesn’t exist. It may just be a shameless cash grab, with a studio sticking to the tried-and-true beats calculated to turn a profit, even if those beats were only tried and true once in 1973.
Why the Catholic interest in such stories? Is it for spiritual elevation or spiritualist entertainment? Catholics who are intrigued in films exploring this extraordinary form of spiritual combat (and perhaps have shied away from the more explicit entries) might find The Ritual watchable—but it’s hard to say that anyone would find it inspiring. Is it really of much spiritual merit to see such a rare and unrelatable struggle with demonic powers? Does it help people turn to heaven to see a depiction of what the minds and mouths of hell are like?
Encountering grim material like this (if not considered entertainment, as the movie industry invites) is somewhere in the category of uncommon spiritual exercise. Accounts of exorcisms are easily taken as a part of a sensationalized spiritualism, which stigmatists, mystics, and incorruptibles sometimes share. But many people have a penchant for the bizarre, and those appetites can find a foothold in mysteries ranging from demon possession to saintly miracles.
Exorcisms are hard for the common Christian to encounter properly. There are reasons that there are dozens of mainstream films about them, and those reasons are not necessarily good. Exorcisms are exciting, from a certain perspective, but <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/blog/spiritual-battle-isnt-flashy">excitement isn’t exactly the reaction</a> they should elicit. As such, it is a question whether such stories are healthy for common consumption, given their intimate intensity and the depth of their darkness—let alone whether they could ever be called holy.
One argument for the existence of exorcism tales as entertainment is that the devil never wants to appear evil. He doesn’t want to be seen for what he is or to be the clear villain in any story, let alone in our lives. No person knowingly desires evil qua evil after all—we all desire the good. If the devil can make us misinterpret what is good, however, then he can gain the upper hand.
So even exorcism films like The Ritual can serve a kind of healthy purpose insofar as they dramatize the devil’s ways, which is totally against his modus operandi, and even offer what Thomas More said the devil, proud spirit that he is, cannot stand: <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=7HXQAgAAQBAJ&amp;pg=PA167#v=onepage&amp;q&amp;f=false">mockery</a>. But again, is that worth it? Some things should not be said or performed, for imitating blasphemy can still be blasphemous. Is it spiritually meritorious enough to run the risk of entering into the shadows and making oneself susceptible to the stickiness of evil?
Evil, once touched, can grow in its hold and manifestation, especially when the victim is unprepared for the potentially harmful spiritual infection over time. Given this insidious reality, films about devils and possession and whatever captivation they invite can hardly be worth exposing ourselves to, especially if the evil presented is actually accurate (which must be questioned in the over-the-top luridness of exorcism films, which are passed off as horror movies).
Exorcisms as entertainment are a double-edged sword when it comes to flirting with the fascination of evil, which can set hooks in the soul. Many people, like the possessed girl in the film, get snagged by getting too close to the shadows. Some even find themselves horribly and inextricably immersed in the occult when they were originally and consistently hoping to achieve some good, such as becoming a healer through “white witchcraft.” Getting too close is dangerous, even if that proximity is ultimately as silly as an exorcist movie.
Catholics should be more inclined and accustomed to seeing the devil as an insignificant enemy, one we can even laugh at, as the <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/john-marie-vianney-a-priest-for-priests">Curé of Ars</a> did, playfully calling him a wrestling opponent whenever the prince of darkness descended upon his chambers to keep the saint from his rest in a life devoted to saving souls from hell’s clutches. Movies like The Ritual don’t belittle the devil in this way.
Belittling doesn’t mean underestimating. Catholics must be wary and ready for his attacks—even if they don’t amount to obsession or possession—but we must not fear. A horror movie, by its nature and tradition, wants to inspire a vicarious fear, and that is the wrong association when it comes to the devil. Demons may be entertaining in scary movies, but they are nothing to be afraid of.

Why the Fascination with Exorcism?

On the first Sunday of Advent, in place of green, priests celebrating the Mass don vestments of violet, the color of penance, and the Gloria is not said. In this respect, Advent resembles Lent: just as we do penance as we await the liturgical celebration of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection, so we do as we await his birth.
Nevertheless, Advent is a carefully calibrated penitential season. Whereas there is no gloria, there is an Alleluia.
Advent has not, historically, usually been regarded as requiring the same degree of penance as Lent. A penitential season leading up to Christmas enters the Church’s historical record in France in the year 480, with fasting three days a week from St. Martin’s Day (November 11), but as it spread to other countries, it became shorter and less severe.
All the same, it is a penitential season, and if Christmas has overtaken Easter as the primary season of gluttony, we should prepare spiritually for it with all the greater care.
It is characteristic of the Catholic spirit to make the year a patchwork of joy and penance. Every Sunday is a day of celebration; every Friday should include a taste of sorrow. The greatest feasts are or have historically been preceded by days or seasons of penitential preparation and followed by a week or longer of celebration. It makes life more interesting; it gives us something to look forward to; it gives us opportunities for celebrations we would not otherwise have. It should also stimulate us to penitential practices, which are certainly good for our health but are not the life sentence of modern calorie-counting puritanism. Gaining control of our eating and drinking—mortifying our appetites, in the traditional terminology—is good in itself, and by giving up the good things of food and drink, we offer something worthwhile to God.
Penance before and an ongoing celebration after a great feast also afford us an opportunity for an extended, deeper consideration of the mystery. In the liturgy, we hear about the events leading up to Christmas, and prophecies of it from the Old Testament. After Christmas, there is a series of episodes from the scriptures that are marked liturgically, which deepen our appreciation of the Christmas mystery. This is particularly valuable when they take us in surprising directions, as do the Holy Innocents on December 28, <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/how-could-the-holy-innocents-be-martyrs">martyred</a> out of hatred for Christ, and St. Stephen the Protomartyr on the 26th. God’s coming as a human baby is not welcomed by everyone: it is a divisive event.
We are faced with a practical problem in the modern world, however. Christianity has left its mark on the secular calendar, but the secular world uses our seasons and feasts in a peculiar way. Lent seems to have been designated a chocolate-eating season. Even harder to ignore is the way Advent, which seems to begin now with Thanksgiving’s accidental offspring, Black Friday (even, I am ashamed to say, in the U.K.), has become an extended celebration of consumerism and self-indulgence.
Buying presents in Advent makes sense, since that is part of the preparation for Christmas. What is strange is the tendency for Christmas celebrations to take place in advance of Christmas, from office parties to fun fairs and children’s theatrical offerings. For many people, Christmas Day is at once the high point and also the end of Christmas. We may be able to extend the party spirit until the New Year, the Octave Day of Christmas, which is marked by its own major feast (variously called the Circumcision; the Holy Name of Jesus; and the feast of Mary, Mother of God). But the historic Twelve Days of Christmas takes us up to the <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/epiphany-and-the-magic-road-trip">Epiphany</a>, a renewed celebration of the mystery of the Incarnation. Then again, the season of Christmas, during which we continue to sing the beautiful Marian anthem Alma Redemptoris Mater (as we should have been singing it through Advent as well), traditionally extends even further, to a final major liturgical visit to the young Holy Family: Candlemas, the feast of the Purification, on February 2. Yes, February.
In the meantime, the secular world has plunged itself into its own penitential season: “Dry January,” the season of new gym memberships and New Year’s resolutions. The Northern Hemisphere’s New Year is a terrible time to take up running before breakfast, of course, or anything else improving and arduous, and it is hardly surprising that such resolutions usually come to nothing. (Why not try such things <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/go-beyond-giving-something-up-for-lent">for Lent</a>, in the early spring, with added supernatural motivation, and see if you can keep it going afterward?)
On the one hand, the commercial imperative links buying things with celebration, and on the other hand, having done this for well over a month, by the time Christmas Day finally comes round, people need to get back to normal, and indeed to lose some of the weight they gained from anticipatory mince pies and mulled wine in December. We can go back to partying with Mardi Gras, now extended from the original Shrove (or Fat) Tuesday to practically the whole of Lent, before we all need to get thin for the beach, and so the joyless penance of dieting can be begin again at Easter.
I don’t think this has come about due to an anti-Christian conspiracy, but if it had been, it would have been a clever one: a complete inversion of the Church’s liturgical seasons.
When the world wants us to feast when we should be fasting, and fast when we should be feasting, we are at least reminded that we are not of this world. “Amen, amen I say to you, that you shall lament and weep, but the world shall rejoice; and you shall be made sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy” (John 6:20).
In the practical circumstances of family life, it is difficult to embrace such a counter-cultural stance without a supportive and close-knit community, which most of us do not have. It is important, all the same, if we are to maintain Christmas as a joyful time, and not an anti-climax, at least to keep something back during Advent, in order to mark the transition from waiting and anticipating to actually celebrating. The domestic crib (nativity) scene is useful in this regard, with the empty manger waiting for the baby Jesus until Christmas, and the shepherds and wise men arriving in stages thereafter. This is also the message of the liturgical year: our waiting is turned to joy, and this message of joy is spread gradually to a wider and wider circle.
At the Purification, we are told of the prophetess Anna: “Now she, at the same hour, coming in, confessed to the Lord; and spoke of him to all that looked for the redemption of Israel” (Luke 2:38). The message of Christmas is one of crescendo, which will reach its fulfilment only when he returns in glory.

Fight the Anti-Advent

Father Hugh Barbour joins us to explain why Catholics have feast days that celebrate sadness. This time we cover the twin feasts of Christ&#8217;s Cross and Mary&#8217;s sorrow.