Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, magi from the east arrived in Jerusalem, saying,  “Where is He who has been born King of the Jews? For we saw His star in the east and have come to worship Him.” When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him. Gathering together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They said to him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for this is what has been written by the prophet: ‘And you, Bethlehem, land of Judah, Are by no means least among the leaders of Judah; For out of you shall come forth a Ruler Who will shepherd My people Israel.’”
Matthew 2: 1-6

MYSTERY OF THE STAR 
The 2013 film Gravity is set in the earth’s thermosphere: an in-between space that is close enough to earth that the film’s astronaut protagonists (Sandra Bullock and George Clooney) can make out the Ganges River; yet it’s also on the edge of a vast, dark, unlivable and (still largely) unknown world beyond. In this context, the film’s harrowing plot underscores both the greatness of humanity (how did we ever innovate the technology to travel to space?) and its limits. Life in space, as the film points out, is fundamentally a contradiction.

Human fascination with space is always driven, I think, by a dual sense of both humility and hubris. In the face of its vastness we can’t help but feel small. And yet it beckons us to explore, to test our capacities and push our limits of innovation. The unknown is always an invitation—nay, a taunting dare—to pioneer and discover.

And yet human wisdom is finite. The more we know, the more we realize we don’t know. Look up at the starry sky on any given night and one is reminded of it: the mysteries of this universe will never be exhausted.

I find it interesting that a star plays such an important role in the story of the Magi. According to tradition these were very brilliant people: the wisest of their day. And yet their brilliance is nothing compared to the mystery of this star — and even more the mystery of what the star leads them to discover: the Incarnation of God on earth. 

The wisest men on earth are still dumbfounded at some things.

When I was at L’Abri in the Swiss Alps a few summers ago, I had a conversation with an aging astrophysicist who worked at the nearby Large Hadron Collider and was paying a visit to L’Abri for the day. I was struck not only by this Christian man’s brilliance — the things he was saying about particles and antimatter went way over my head — but also his humility. He admitted that “the more I discover about this universe, the more I see how mysterious it is and how majestic God is. It only makes me want to keep learning.”

If only more of this world’s geniuses had such a refreshing perspective. 

How do the world’s “wise men” wrap their heads around the Incarnation? How do they grasp the idea that God — the eternal, omni-everything Being of beings who created all things — condescended to our little planet in the form of an infant? That in this human, God made himself available to us in the flesh?

For the Magi, the mystery was probably over their heads, as was the star in the sky that proclaimed the collision of human knowledge and divine mystery. It’s certainly a mystery that’s still over my head.

But that’s why Advent is so wonderful. It’s blatantly, audaciously inexplicable. It embraces mystery. It’s about the limits of our knowledge and the mystery of God.

It’s both terrifying and comforting to know that all these thousands of years later, with centuries of intellect and science and progress and theology behind us, not to mention scores of geniuses, innovators and “wise men,” we are just as awed and brought to our knees by the mystery as we ever were. The phenomenon is just clear enough that it has survived millennia and will survive forever onward, yet still crazy and mind-blowing enough to be worthy of worship.
Brett McCracken, Managing Editor of Biola Magazine

AWE-INSPIRING GOD, when I am lost in wonder and lost for words, receive the homage of my silent worship but do not let me be content to bear your mysterious beauty and be still. Go with me in the places where I live and work. Lift the veil of reticence behind which I hide. Give me the courage to speak of the things which move me, with simple and unselfconscious delight. Help me to share my glimpses of glory until others are drawn to your light.
Jean Mortimer