We had arrived as seekers, burdened by our past, guided by a light we could not explain. We left as men remade — uncertain of the road ahead but certain of the truth we had seen.
The star that had led us no longer shone above, but it burned within.
The journey home was long, filled with silence, memory, and prayer. We no longer carried gold, frankincense, and myrrh — only the ache of wonder and the weight of grace.
And though we had set out as astrologers and magicians, we returned as men who had glimpsed the face of God.
The Road Away from Bethlehem
We left before dawn, while the child still slept. Mary's last look followed us as far as the road would allow. Joseph nodded once — a silent blessing, perhaps, or a farewell that meant, Go and tell the world quietly what you have seen.
The twelve of us descended from the ridge above Bethlehem in silence. The air was cool, the earth still damp from dew. Only the faint cry of roosters echoed through the waking town.
For the first time in years, none of us read the stars. None cast lots. None whispered invocations to unseen spirits. The habits of a lifetime had been broken in one night.
We had seen what no calculation, no ritual, no arcane power could predict — a revelation not of numbers, but of love.
When dawn came, the star that had guided us seemed to fade into the ordinary light of morning. But we no longer needed it. As one of us, Elior, said softly:
"The sign has done its work. The Word now speaks."
The Return Through the Desert
The journey home was not without hardship.
Sandstorms rose again as if to test our resolve. One of the older men, Simeon, fell ill and could no longer ride. Robbers trailed us for days through the hill country. But our fear was different now — quieter, anchored.
Each night, instead of charts and chants, we opened the scrolls of Moses and the prophets we had carried from Judea. By firelight we read the psalms aloud, stumbling through the Hebrew we were still learning.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."
(Psalm 23:1, RSV-CE)
The words felt new — no longer poetry or mystery, but nourishment.
We had once sought secret knowledge. Now we hungered only for wisdom.
Kedar, the one who had joked we might someday be called wise men, looked up from the fire one night and said, "We used to summon shadows. Now we pray for light."
We all laughed softly, not in mockery but in gratitude.
A Death and a Vision
Simeon, the eldest, did not live to see our homeland again.
He died three days' journey east of Damascus. We buried him by a spring, under a cluster of olive trees.
Before he passed, he spoke these words:
"Tell them — tell all who will listen — that I have seen the face of the Lord. I thought I had studied the heavens. I was wrong. I had only been waiting to die until Heaven found me."
After we buried him, a silence rested over our camp. No one spoke for hours. That night, we all dreamed of a light rising — not the same star as before, but a radiance within Simeon's face, peaceful, eternal.
When we awoke, we prayed for the first time not to the stars, but to the God of Israel.
The Return to Chaldea
When we reached our homeland months later, our people did not recognise us.
We had left as astrologers — robes heavy with symbols, eyes trained on the heavens. We returned clothed simply, carrying only scrolls and memories.
Many came to hear our tale. At first, they believed it was another cosmic event, a new prediction, a new secret. But we told them plainly: there are no secrets anymore — only truth.
We destroyed our old instruments — the bronze mirrors, the astrolabes carved with the signs of the zodiac, the parchment charts that had bound our souls to deceit. The sound of breaking metal echoed through the courtyard.
It felt like chains being snapped.
One of the younger servants asked, "But what will we study now?"
Elior smiled and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "The wisdom of Solomon," he said, "for his knowledge came not from spirits, but from God."
And so we opened the sacred writings again. We read:
"Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, that I may discern between good and evil."
(1 Kings 3:9, RSV-CE)
The difference between Solomon and us was clear. We had sought knowledge for power. Solomon had sought wisdom for service.
We had chased secrets. He had pursued understanding.
And in that distinction, we found our repentance.
Years of Silence and Prayer
Years passed. Some of us took to teaching. Some became hermits. Some wandered from town to town, speaking quietly of what we had seen in Bethlehem.
We were not missionaries — we were witnesses.
We spoke not of dogmas or doctrines we could not yet name, but of a Child whose presence changed everything.
People listened, sometimes in wonder, sometimes in suspicion. A few mocked us: "Wise men? Then why did you bow before a baby?"
We did not answer. We simply smiled.
For those who have seen God in weakness, mockery becomes irrelevant.
The Letter of Belshar – Forty Years Later
To whoever may find this,
I, Belshar of Ur, once a seeker of forbidden things, now a servant of the Most High, write these words before I die.
It has been forty years since the star appeared in the west and drew us away from our errors. Forty years since the desert burned our pride and the Child silenced our arrogance.
I remember the smell of that place — hay, milk, myrrh. I remember Mary's eyes, clear as still water. I remember Joseph's quiet strength. I remember the Child's breathing, soft and steady, as though the universe itself rested in His lungs.
We have heard rumours, even in the east, that the Child grew to manhood. That He healed the sick. That He was rejected and crucified under Roman rule. Some say He rose again.
If this is true — and I believe it is — then what we saw was not the beginning of a story, but its centre.
Once I believed that wisdom came from studying the patterns of the stars. Now I know that wisdom comes from kneeling before the One who made them.
The darkness we practiced was seductive — its rituals, its chants, its promise of mastery. But it offered only mirrors, never windows. We gazed into ourselves and mistook that for light.
I have spent the rest of my life unlearning it. The demons we courted were not easily dismissed, but each prayer, each act of mercy, each remembrance of that Child — drove them further away.
To any who still walk the path we once walked, I say this: the stars do not control you. The future is not in your charts. The universe is not a code to be broken — it is a hymn to be heard.
And to the One who called me out of darkness, I say this: You have not failed me yet.
"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light."
(Isaiah 9:2, RSV-CE)
May that light guide whoever reads this — as it once guided us through the wilderness.
Belshar,
Servant of the Child of Bethlehem.
The Legacy of the Twelve
In time, our story became legend. Some said there were three of us, others more. Some named us kings, others sages. It did not matter. What mattered was that the world remembered — not our wisdom, but our conversion.
We were not born wise. We were made wise by mercy.
We came from a land known for its mysteries — for its priests who whispered to the stars, for its libraries of omens and signs. Yet God called even us — the very ones steeped in shadows — to kneel in the light.
If He could call us, then there is no one beyond His reach.
The Meaning of Their Journey
The road from Chaldea to Bethlehem and back again is not a tale of geography — it is a story of grace.
We had travelled from superstition to faith, from sorcery to prayer, from curiosity to worship.
Our journey began with an anomaly in the stars — the last time we ever trusted such things. That anomaly drew us out of darkness, but it was God who led us to truth.
When we abandoned our craft, we thought we were giving up power. In reality, we were being freed from bondage.
As the years passed, we came to see our travels as a living parable:
The sandstorms that delayed us were like the temptations that tested us.
The robbers who attacked were the voices of fear and doubt.
The lame camels were our weary bodies learning humility.
The long road was our repentance stretched over time.
And the Child — oh, the Child — was the mercy waiting at the end of all human wandering.
The Epilogue – What We Became
History does not record our names clearly. Perhaps it is better that way.
We were never meant to be remembered as astrologers, or kings, or mystics — but as sinners who turned back.
Our descendants still live in the east. Some have become followers of the Gospel now spreading westward from Jerusalem. They pray not to the stars, but to the Lord who made them. They remember our story during long winter nights when the sky is clear and the stars burn bright.
When they ask what we found, the answer is simple:
We found a Child who was also a King.
We found wisdom that began in wonder.
We found a love that asked for nothing but everything.
We found God, and in finding Him, we found ourselves.
A Prayer for All Who Read This Blog Post and for All Who Never Will
Loving and Eternal God,
You who call the lost from darkness into Your marvellous light,
we give You thanks for the grace that led strangers from the east to the feet of the Saviour.
When we chase false wisdom or are drawn to powers that are not of You, teach us again the wisdom of Solomon — to seek understanding, not mastery; to serve, not to control.
When storms rise on our own journeys, calm us with the memory of the Child in Bethlehem.
When our faith falters, remind us that Your light never fails.
Bless all who wander in search of meaning,
all who hunger for truth but have been deceived by shadows.
Bring them safely to Your Son, the Light of the world.
And bless every reader of these words — and those who will never see them — with the same mercy that met the Magi on their road home.
May we, too, learn to kneel,
to leave behind our idols and our pride,
and to rise again with hearts made new.
Through Christ our Lord.
Amen.
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