Epiphany

Luke 1:26-38

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”

When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: ‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.’”

Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.” When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy.

On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure-chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.

Walking in the woods this year: native plants, river, leaves, sky.

This is the first year I’ve warmed to the bleak midwinter sky, the way the sun hangs heavy, just barely rising above the treeline, the silhouette of dark branches against the bright grey expanse, the delicate pinks mid-morning and deep purples late afternoon.

I have been taking this as creation’s permission for a smaller and shorter output. Less driving and hustling. Fewer errands and expectations. Even light and sky are weary, scaling back to perceived necessity and then scaling back even more, to what is true.

Maybe you have been watching the sky too. Just last month there was a meteor shower and then Jupiter and Saturn aligned as the Christmas Star. For two weeks, we’ve been living in the promise that days are getting longer, a few minutes at a time, even if they don’t feel noticeably longer yet.

I don’t know much about space or stars, but I do know that watching lights in the sky means looking back into history. It takes time for light to travel, and so when we look up after dark, we are seeing something that already was, something much older than our seeking, something moving through time and space to find us in its future, our present.

These are the same signs that guide the magi from the east, foreigners gathered from the edges of a map, mystics written into the story of God who was, who is, and who is to come. They are following a star that grants a direction, but not distance or destination. So the journey means waking up every morning and hoping they will know it when they see it, that one of these days they will be standing in God’s favor.

The scriptures say that the star stops over the house where Jesus is staying. And when the magi see it stop, when they realize they are finally here, that this is it, they are overwhelmed with joy.

Perhaps this is how it feels to be a healthcare worker for these 10 months, working long shifts in used PPE, finally receiving the vaccine in your arm, a rush of relief to mark hope in the midst of so much pain. Overwhelmed with joy.

Perhaps this is how it feels to be a school social worker, who tracks down a student after visiting 17 different addresses, whose weary smile gives way to tears because now he knows he is worth finding. Overwhelmed with joy.

Perhaps this is how it feels to plan and let go of 10 different versions of your COVID wedding, and then finally stand with your person declaring your vows, a sign that guest lists shrink and venues change, but love wins. Overwhelmed with joy.

Perhaps this is how it feels to reach a vista on your walk around the neighborhood or the woods, an amount of time that recalibrates your cabin fever, an amount of space that returns you to your personhood. So you stop and watch the sky, trusting that this is far enough and you can set off home by another road. Overwhelmed with joy.

We are survivors of 2020, so we know what it feels like to follow signs that grant only direction, not distance or destination. We know what it feels like to wake up each morning trying to pay attention, and we know weariness like the sun, our star that can barely bring itself to show up these days.

The magi come inside the house to pay homage to a child, a newborn king. And what they see stirs them to resist — both Herod’s orders and the path already traveled. A dream warns them to return home by another road, to be changed by the signs and the scene, to shine so that a new way can be revealed.

Many traditions in the Western Church celebrate Epiphany by blessing homes. You don’t need fancy words or an official ritual to do this. Just light a candle and move from threshold to room throughout your space. Remember what these rooms have meant to you during the past year and say a blessing on the space for what is still to come. This pattern can help you return home by another road — gratitude, comfort, relief, maybe even overwhelming joy.

Pause by your fireplace or hearth space to pray for our neighbors who do not have a home, for whom this journey has been without a safe place to call their own. Then take a piece of chalk and mark a doorpost with the year.

When you see it, remember that Christmas has come. The star has stopped right here. Jesus is present in your ordinary and weary and wonderful. The God of every time and place is making a home in your going out and coming in — revealing a cause for overwhelming joy in your midst.