Posted January 6, 2018 @ 10:03am | by Tripp

Sometimes I like to imagine that the magi were a jazz trio. Bass, marimba, and some kind of tar. Oud maybe? Anachronisms abound, but here I am wondering what kind of soundscape rightly colors our earnest astrologer sages. Polyrhythmic, chromatic, microtonal, and imaginations that were exceptional 2000 years ago and cannot be reckoned in our own day could have fashioned some mighty music in praise of the God of earth, sea, and sky, a Cosmic Denizen that had an angelic choir herald their way and yet were born in the muck and mire of a stall. The Creator come to Redeem. 

Shit. Piss. Wet hay. Dry earth. Sweat. Tears. Fear, fecundity, and love. 

It’s all there and The Powers That Be are terrified, as always, shitting themselves when divinity arises. 

We hope for a divine resonance, a kind of cosmic sounding by which we all come to know ourselves and one another as part of the whole of creation. This hope is what we call Music.

Music. Let me say it again. Music.

In my imagination, the three visitors from a faraway lands are musicians. Maybe not literally, though I hope someone brought pipes to play along the journey, they still had that kind of sensibility. They were seeking the sonorous, the deep resonances of the cosmos. They were listening for Truth. They had eyes for God. Colors rang out as they sang glorias with the seraphim. Sound was flesh to them. Breath was bone to them. A bow on a string was creation itself to them.

Music. That’s what they found. Music. 

Rather, the found hope and it grasped their fingers as with the hands of a small child still nursing at their mama’s breast. Then, looking to Hope’s parents they gave of themselves and returned home by another route. 

The day of the Powers That Be had come to an end.

Millennia have passed. The Powers are done. And we who will not hear or see cling to their corpses. 

We too must give of ourselves if we are to live. We too must turn around and re-turn home by another way.

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