Mt 2:1-12
3 January 2010
Epiphany Sunday
He
Says, “Let There Be Light”
“O God, we pray Thee for those who come after us,
for our children, and the children of our friends, and for all the young lives
that are marching up from the gates of birth…We remember with a pang that these
will live in the world we are making for them. We are wasting the resources of the earth in
our headlong greed, and they will suffer want…We are poisoning the air of our
land by our lies and our uncleanness, and they will breathe it.
“…Grant us grace to leave the earth fairer than we
found it; to build upon it cities of God in which the cry of needless pain
shall cease; and to put the yoke of Christ upon our business life that it may
serve and not destroy…”
Those are some words from a prayer by Walter
Rauschenbusch; they date back to 1910—a century ago. They’re included in a book I’ve been reading
which was published in 1917, Harry Emerson Fosdick’s The Meaning of Faith.[1]
It was published during what came to be
known as “the Great War” and “the war to end all wars.”
Human knowledge and technology during the latter
part of the nineteenth century had reached new heights. However, as it was sadly discovered, knowledge
and wisdom don’t often progress at the same rate. The so-called “civilized” nations were plunged
into what Fosdick calls in his preface “the most terrific war men ever waged,
when faith is sorely tried and deeply needed.”[2]
The first decade of the twenty-first century has
amply demonstrated the lack of wisdom when it comes to creatively dealing with
conflict. To the unknowns of this
unfolding century, we may have the temptation to respond with fear. We can dwell on scenarios of everything that
could go wrong. The future can be seen
as a void, filled with darkness. We have
to be cautious of a morbid or despairing outlook that expects disaster and becomes a
self-fulfilling prophecy.
To this vision of darkness we need something that provides light. Epiphany, which falls on Wednesday this week, is a day that’s all about light. It’s all about the glory of God shining in Jesus Christ. It’s all about the appearance, or manifestation, of Jesus to the Gentiles—to the world. Our word, “epiphany,” comes from the Greek term epifaneia (epiphaneia), which appears in several places, such as 2 Thessalonians 2, 1 Timothy 6, and 2 Timothy 1:10, where we learn that “grace was given to us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, but it has now been revealed through the appearing [or through the epiphany] of our Savior Christ Jesus.”
Our gospel reading, the visit of the Magi, is the primary image we have of Epiphany. The Magi were very likely priests of the Zoroastrian religion, the ancient faith of Persia (modern day Iran). “Magi” has been translated “wise men,” “kings,” “astrologers”—none of which, standing alone, does the job very well. But whatever you call them, they’re the first Gentiles recorded in the Bible to see the Christ child.
Epiphany recalls two other events. One is the baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist, when God speaks from heaven and calls Jesus his beloved Son. (That’s the focus next Sunday, the Baptism of the Lord.) The other event is the wedding at Cana, when Jesus turns water into wine. (And this isn’t the kind of wine with a screw-on cap!) In his gospel, John says that this is the first of Jesus’ signs and that he reveals his glory (2:11). That’s something that all three images of Epiphany have in common: they manifest—they demonstrate—the glory of Jesus Christ to the world.
Now, as for Matthew and his story of the Magi, the basic outline of the story is a familiar one: the Magi notice a star which they interpret to signify a special birth. So off they go to Judea, asking questions about “the child who has been born king of the Jews” (v. 2).
The guy currently claiming that title, Herod the Great, known for his cruelty and paranoia, gets nervous when he hears about it. Calling together the religious leaders, he wants to know if anybody can tell him where the Messiah is supposed to be born. Quoting the prophet Micah, they tell him that it is to be in Bethlehem. Wasting no time, Herod arranges a secret meeting with the Magi to find out when they first saw the star. He then sends them to Bethlehem to locate the child and return with word of his whereabouts, so that he too may pay him reverence.
The Magi, upon finding the young Jesus and offering the presents of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, receive a dream that warns them against returning to Herod, whose intentions are less than honorable. So they take the bypass around Jerusalem on the way home! Looking ahead a few verses, we see that Herod tries to have Jesus killed, but fails.
Herod tries to stamp out the light that the Magi found. Not simply a light in the sky, the light they found is the one who enlightens all of humanity. The deeper we go into the epiphany of Jesus, the more wonders we find.
There’s another meaning to epiphany. It has the sense of a sudden awareness of truth, a flash of understanding. It’s when the lights go on. I want to tell you a little story. It didn’t happen to me, but I think I can identify with John Artz, the author. It’s the story of a personal epiphany.[3]
“I suppose that most people never bother themselves with questions about the meaning of life. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to think of much else. One day as I was driving home, I filled the empty moments with musings about the possible meanings of life. As the car bottomed in a dip and began to pounce over the next rise, I turned the wheel to the left and leaned into the turn to overcome the centrifugal force.
“Then it came to me in a flash. There were four principles basic to all aspects of life. These four principles could be combined in various ways to explain everything—why we are here, what we should do, why we are the way we are—every nagging question I had ever pondered.
“It was an epiphany. It was one of those two or three seconds in your life when it all makes sense. When you are one with wisdom and understanding. When there is no more asking, only doing. I raced through examples in my mind to come up with something that these four principles did not explain, but I could find nothing.
“‘Well,’ I thought. ‘I’d better write these down before I forget them.’ I had had moments of insight before and knew how quickly they could evaporate. I steered with my left hand and rummaged through the glove box with the other, looking for something to write with. I looked through every cubby hole in the car but there was no pen to be found. I looked around and realized that I was just minutes from home and that I could preserve the insight by just repeating it to myself for a few minutes. Once in the door, I would head to my desk and jot down these ideas before they decayed.
“I pulled into the garage, turned off the ignition, pulled up the emergency brake, left the car and headed for the door.
“When I opened the door, the kids were fighting over a [video] game. The cat was tormenting the fish. And my wife started rattling off a list of everyone who had called and left messages. Then she asked me what I wanted for dinner. I chased the cat away from the fishbowl, tried to negotiate a peaceful settlement between the kids, and then turned to my wife and said ‘What are the choices?’
“By the time I got to my office only a few minutes had passed, but the inspiration had disappeared like a dream upon waking. It left a residue of that feeling of understanding, but nothing to hang that understanding on.
“Many times I have reenacted that car trip in my head trying to recall the four principles but the muse of understanding never returned: until yesterday. As I drove home yesterday the insight returned—not the four principles, but the understanding. The significance was never in the four principles, but in the story about them.”
For our friend, what were most important weren’t the particular ideas he came up with; it was the process itself. It was the experience of having the light come on, of experiencing an epiphany. Returning to the biblical understanding, what matters is experiencing the light—the glory—of God in Jesus Christ. And when that happens, the principles, the insights, the vision—all of that comes with it. We’re changed for the better.
Thinking again about the Magi, we know that they were warned in a dream not to return to Herod to report the location of Jesus. Instead, as the scripture says, “they left for their own country by another road.” I believe they did just that. But I wonder if that statement isn’t true at another level.
These men had no idea what they would find when they set out on their journey. The Magi were accustomed to associating with those in positions of power. Surely the star they saw promised a change in regime, perhaps one who would bring even mighty Rome to its knees.
Who could know that the king of the Jews would turn out to be the humble child of a poor family? And who can say what effect this had on these wise men from the East? Perhaps in leaving “for their own country by another road,” the Magi also were choosing another path in life. How could meeting the Messiah, even as a child, not change them?
Epiphany reminds us that the light of Christ is for the entire world. And it’s also an experience of light that’s deeper than the words we use to describe it. Our words, our language, about God and Jesus and life in general give us a picture of reality. We talk about things; we use their names, but that’s not the same thing as actually delving into them.
Part of our vision—I’m speaking of Banu and myself—is for all of us to go beyond the barrier that our words often construct, to break through that shell and, in a sense, bathe in the light of Christ. The image of the Magi is very helpful. We want to journey with you until we truly understand that Jesus is in our midst—and not just as a confession of faith.
When we encounter the humble, holy child, we are changed—and we’re challenged. We see, by the light of the Epiphany of the Lord, our own lack of humility; we see our own arrogance. But thanks be to God, into the darkness that is so much a part of our lives, Jesus says, “Let there be light!”