Henry Van Dyke
The other wise man’s name was Artaban. He was one of the
Magi and he lived in Persia. He was a man of great wealth, great learning, and
great faith. With his learned companions he had searched the scriptures as to
the time that the Savior should be born. They knew that a new star would appear
and it was agreed between them that Artaban would watch from Persia and the
others would observe the sky from Babylon.
On the night he believed the sign was to be given, Artaban
went out on his roof to watch the night sky. “IF the star appears, they will
wait for me ten days, then we will all set out together for Jerusalem. I have
made ready for the journey by selling all of my possessions and have bought
three jewels—a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl. I intend to present them as my
tribute to the King.”
As he watched, an azure spark was born out of the darkness,
rounding itself with splendor into a crimson sphere. Artaban bowed his head.
“It is the sign,” he said. “The King is coming, and I will go to meet him.”
The swiftest of Artaban’s horses had been waiting saddled
and bridled in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently. She shared the
eagerness of her master’s purpose.
As Artaban placed himself upon her back, he said, “God bless
us both from falling and our souls from death.”
They began their journey. Each day his faithful horse
measured off the allotted proportion of the distance, and at nightfall on the
tenth day, they approached the outskirts of Babylon. In a little Island of
desert palm trees, Artaban’s horse scented difficulty and slackened her pace.
Then she stood still, quivering in every muscle.
Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a
man lying in the roadway. His skin bore the mark of a deadly fever. The chill
of death was in his lean hand. As Artaban turned to go, a sigh came from the
sick man’s lips.
Artaban felt sorry that he could not stay to minister to
this dying stranger, but this was the hour toward which his entire life had
been directed. He could not forfeit the reward of his years of study and faith
to do a single deed of human mercy. But then, how could he leave his fellow man
alone to die?
“God of truth and mercy,” prayed Artaban, “direct me in the
path of wisdom which only thou knowest.” Then he knew that he could not go on.
The Magi were physicians as well as astronomers. He took off his robe and began
his work of healing. Several hours later the patient regained consciousness.
Artaban gave him all that was left of his bread and wine. He left a potion of
healing herbs and instructions for his care.
Though Arataban rode with the greatest haste the rest of the
way, it was after dawn that he arrived at the designated meeting place. His
friends were nowhere to be seen. Finally, his eyes caught a piece of parchment
arranged to attract his attention. It said, “We have waited till past midnight,
and can delay no longer. We go to find the King. Follow us across the desert.”
Artaban sat down in despair and covered his face with his
hands. “How can I Cross the desert with no food and with a spent horse? I must
return to Babylon, sell my sapphire and buy camels and provisions for the
journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only the merciful God knows whether
or not I shall lose my purpose because I tarried to show mercy.”
Several days later when Artaban arrived at Bethlehem, the
streets were deserted. It was rumored that Herod was sending soldiers,
presumably to enforce some new tax, and the men of the city had taken their
flocks into the hills beyond his reach.
The door of one dwelling was open, and Artaban could hear a
mother singing a lullaby to her child. He entered and introduced himself. The
woman told him that it was now the third day since the three wise men had
appeared to Bethlehem. They had found Joseph and Mary and the young child and
had laid their gifts at His feet. Then they had gone as mysteriously as they
had come. Joseph had taken his wife and babe that same night and secretly fled.
It was whispered that they were going far away into Egypt.
As Artaban listened, the baby reached up its dimpled hand
and touched his cheek and smiled. His heart warmed at the touch. Then suddenly,
outside there arose a wild confusion of sounds. Women were shrieking. Then a
desperate cry was heard, “The soldiers of Herod are killing the children!”
Artaban went to the doorway. A band of soldiers came
hurrying down the street. The captain approached the door to trust Artaban
aside, but Artaban did not stir. His face was calm as though he were still
watching the stars. Finally, his out-stretched hand revealed the giant ruby. He
said, “I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent captain who will go his
way and leave this house alone.”
The captain, amazed at the splendor of the gem, took it and
said to his men, “March on, there are no children here.”
Then Artaban prayed, “Oh God, forgive my sin. I have spent
for men that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of
the King?”
But the voice of the woman, weeping of joy in the shadows
behind him said softly, “Thou has saved the life of my little one. May the Lord
bless thee and keep thee and give thee peace.”
Artaban, still following the King went on into Egypt seeking
everywhere for traces of the little family that had fled before him. For many
years we follow Artaban in his search. We see him at the pyramids. We see him
in Alexandria takin counsel with a Hebrew rabbi who told him to seek the King
not among the rich but among the poor.
He passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the
land, and he poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in
plague-stricken cities. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in prisons.
He searched the crowded slave-markets. Though he found no one to worship, he
found many to serve. As the years passed, he fed the hungry, clothed the naked,
healed the sick and comforted the captive.
Thirty-three years had now passed away since Artaban began
his search. His hair was as white as snow. He knew his life’s end was near, but
he was still desperate with hope that he would find the King. He had come for
the last time to Jerusalem.
It was the season of the Passover and the city was thronged
with stringers. Artaban inquired where they were going. One answer, “We are
going to the execution on Golgotha outside the city walls. Two robbers are to
be crucified, and with them another called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has
done many wonderful works among the people. He claims to be the Son of God and
the priests and elders have said he must die. Pilate sent him to the cross.”
How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart
of Artaban. They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they
came to him like a message of despair. They King had been denied and cast out.
Perhaps he was already dying. Could he be the same one for whom the star had
appeared thirty-three long years ago?
Artaban’s heart beat loudly within him. He thought, “It may
be that I shall yet find the Kind and be able to ransom him from death by
giving my treasure to his enemies.”
But as Artaban started toward Calvary, he saw a troop of
soldiers coming down the street, dragging a sobbing young woman. As Artaban
paused, she broke away from her tormentors and threw herself at his feet. Her
arms clasped around his knee.
“Have pity on me,” she cried. “And save me. My father was
also of the Magi, but he is dead. I am to be sold as a slave to pay his debts.”
Artaban trembled as he again felt the conflict arising in
his soul. It was the same that he had experienced in the palm grove of Babylon
and in the cottage at Bethlehem. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the
King had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. Would he now fail
again? One thing was clear, he must rescue this helpless child from evil.
He took the pearl and laid it in the hand of the girl and
said “Daughter, this is the ransom. It is the last of my treasures which I had
hoped to keep for the King.”
While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened, and the
shuddering tremors of an earthquake ran through the ground. The houses rocked.
The soldiers fled in terror. Artaban sank beside a protecting wall. What had he
to fear? What had he to hope for? He had given away the last of his tribute to
the King. The quest was over, and he had failed. What else mattered?
The earthquake quivered beneath him. A heave tire shaken
from a roof fell and struck him. He lay breathless and pale. Then there came a
still small voice through the twilight. It was light distant music. The rescued
girl leaned over him and heard him say, “Not so, my Lord; for when saw I thee a
stringer and took thee in? Or naked and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or
in prison and came unto three? Thirty-three years have I looked for thee; but I
have never seen thy face, nor minister unto three, my King.”
The sweet voice came again, “Verily I saw unto thee, that
inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou
has done it unto me.”
A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the face of
Artaban as one long, last breath exhaled gently from his lips. His journey was
ended. His treasure accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.
