Sermon for Epiphany Sunday –
Fr. Sean Davidson
St. Mark’s Anglican Church,
Sussex Corner, NB
Welcome to the 2020s. That sounds amazing, doesn’t it? Like we’ve entered the realm of science fiction. But here we are.
And let me also say happy Epiphany.
Today we not only usher in the new year, but we also mark the beginning of a new season on the church calendar—Epiphany—this stretch of sacred time between Christmas and Lent when we celebrate God’s marvelous appearing in the person of Jesus.
In a way, we’ve been doing just that throughout the last few weeks of Christmastide.
But this is different. During Epiphany, we consider what God’s appearing means not only for Mary and Joseph and the people of Israel, but for the whole world.
The promise had always been there in scripture—that all peoples, near and far, would be blessed through Israel and her king. Today we remember how that promise was fulfilled in the arrival of sage travelers from the East wishing upon a star.
Epiphany is an unusual word. We don’t use it very often in regular conversation. In my ears, it sounds antiquated and bookish somehow. Like we’re back in high school English class.
But it does crop up from time to time. Typically we use it to describe a certain state of mind.
“I just had an epiphany,” we’ll say.
What we mean is that we’ve seen things in a new light and had an “ah-ha” moment. We’ve gained a fresh perspective or insight. And we feel free in our thinking, ready to connect the dots new ways.
In the ancient world, people used the word differently. It wasn’t to express a state of mind or new ideas. Poets and philosophers used the word to describe the appearance of something extraordinary in the physical world. It put the focus on what’s outside of us rather than inside.
This could be something like a brilliant sunrise after days of stormy weather. Or it might be the majestic look of a warrior leading an army into battle. It could also mean the sudden manifestation of a heroic king or god-like figure.
Whatever the case, the emphasis was on dramatic appearances and displays of power rather than private thoughts and feelings.
In one respect, this sense of epiphany is more in keeping with Christian tradition. What we celebrate today on Epiphany Sunday isn’t a change in perspective that helps us to manage life with greater freedom. The point is an event of revelation that’s meant to capture our attention, to take us out of ourselves, and to alter the course of our lives.
This is the emphasis in chapter 2 of Matthew’s gospel, the traditional reading for Epiphany. Let’s turn there together…
This will be a familiar story to many of us. If you’ve been going to church all your life, you’ve likely heard it read and seen it performed in Christmas pageants dozens of times.
Which isn’t necessarily helpful for getting the point of the story.
What is that saying about familiarity? It breeds … [say it with me] contempt. Right…
Apparently, we can get so used to something that it ends up seeming trivial and boring and worthy of contempt, even though it may be cause for wonder and amazement.
That’s a dangerous place to find ourselves—especially with the stuff that matters most.
This week I worked hard to break through the familiarity, to slow down and listen again, as if for the first time.
Along the way, I got to wondering about the Magi.
Who are these strange figures? Really.
Somehow I thought I knew, but the Gospel doesn’t give us much to on.
Matthew identifies them as travelers from the East, Persian astrologers of a privileged class. We know this because of the gifts they offer and their preoccupation with the heavens. But that’s really all we’ve got.
How different this is from the detailed story that Luke tells about Zechariah, Elizabeth, Mary and the shepherds. In Matthew’s account, there’s nothing to fill out a sense of character or motivation.
It’s strange—the wise men have no profound wisdom to offer, no practical advice for pilgrims on the road. There’s no status update or live tweets with highlights of their journey.
Instead, they simply follow and point and search. And they do this with everything they have, drawn out by something beyond their own ideas and private experience.
And notice the actual moment of epiphany in this passage … when they finally encounter the Christ child. There’s nothing spectacular about it. Wouldn’t we expect God’s appearing to be more impressive?
In other literature of the period, kings and god-like figures show up in power bearing obvious signs of their authority and divine status.
Think of Homer’s Odysseus when he appears in the Great Hall of Ithaca to fight off the evil suitors. Or Virgil’s Aeneas when he encounters his mother Venus as a majestic warrior princess.
There’s none of that in this passage.
As the wise men travel to the city of Jerusalem and from there to the village of Bethlehem, they barely know what they’re searching for. All they’ve got is a premonition hitched to a mysterious star.
And as they arrive at the house where Jesus is staying, they aren’t greeted by some divine figure in all his splendor. Quite the opposite.
The text puts it very plainly: “They entered the house and saw the child with his mother.” That’s it. This is all we have in the way of an epiphany. The sight of a toddler and his mother in a very simple domestic setting.
What is going on here? How could this be the climactic moment of God’s appearing?
I think it’s safe to say that we all have a longing to see God or at least to experience his presence directly. If you’re like me, you’ve had moments of deep longing, when you’ve prayed for God to show up—to come with strength to drive away doubt, to bring comfort and assurance, to make things right.
This is understandable, I think. Life is filled with mystery and struggle. Sometimes we want God to intervene and to make his purposes clear. Enough of the guesswork and probing about in the dark. If we could just have a clear and unmistakable sign, then we could stand strong and face the world with confidence.
I’m reminded of an interview with the comedian and political commentator Bill Maher from a few years ago. You probably know who I’m talking about. I like Maher. I don’t always agree with him, but I like him. He’s thoughtful and bold and has a way of driving to the heart of an issue. He does just that in this interview. About half-way through the discussion, he expresses some frustration with religious belief and lays down a challenge.
“Show me God,” he says, “and I will believe in him.”
That puts a fine point on it …
“Show me God and I will believe in him.”
It’s not clear who Maher is speaking to exactly. I think we’re meant to assume that religious types are the ones to take up the challenge. That wouldn’t be surprising given Maher’s skeptical view of faith. But who could make good on a challenge like that? Maher is calling for an obvious and direct epiphany—something to overcome doubt once and for all.
Again, I think we can appreciate the desire for that—especially when we’re feeling let down, discouraged, confused, angry and we’re hoping for a miracle.
I wonder about Maher’s demand, though. Let’s imagine for a second that it’s possible to sweep away our doubt and disappointment through some sort of overwhelming proof of God’s existence.
We might have discovered a reason to believe that God exists, but would belief in this sense really make a difference in our lives? Would it result in heartfelt trust and faith and love?
I’m not so sure.
Consider the figure of King Herod in our story. Here’s a man of the world, a scheming opportunist who’s learned to work the system in his own favor. But notice that he doesn’t doubt the predictions. He’s heard about the Messiah and believes in his coming. And the word of the Magi and the testimony of scripture is enough for him to act. Herod doesn’t demand a big show in order to believe that the rightful king has arrived. Believing is the easy part.
He just doesn’t like the implications.
If the long-awaited king of Israel has been born and God has finally come to be with his people, it means that Herod’s own days in power are numbered. So, he sets to scheming, and when he can’t get his way, he lashes out in rage.
The problem for Herod isn’t one of mental assent. It’s about trust and allegiance.
He knows full well what’s to come, but he’s afraid of losing power and control and he’ll do just about anything to keep it.
What we learn from Herod is that it’s possible to believe in God and to take his revelation for granted all while resisting his plans and purposes. If we’re honest, I think we can probably see shades of Herod in ourselves.
We’re a people who’ve come to expect a good measure of autonomy and independence, and we can behave horribly when our sense of freedom is threatened. We might not be so cunning or ruthless as Herod—we might not go to the same extremes to maintain power and control—but we can all too easily guard against faith even while holding to our beliefs.
“Show me God, and I’ll believe in him.”
If it were only that simple.
We know what we know, and we have our convictions. And I’m sure that much of what we believe is good and commendable. But none of it guarantees that we’ll be faithful or that we’ll put our trust in the living God.
The story of the wise men sets out a very different picture. I had wondered earlier about Matthew’s account of epiphany. How is it that a peasant home in some remote town on the outskirts of the Roman empire could be the site of God’s appearing?
I think the point is this: God has chosen to reveal himself in such a way as to involve us in an adventure of faith, leading us to trust him with everything. So, he would invite us to participate in his revealing rather than overwhelm us through spectacle.
This is what we learn through the journey of the wise men. Unlike Herod who knows God’s promises in scripture and has a staff of priests and scribes to provide reminders, the Magi have little to go on—in fact, hardly anything at all. But they make so much of what they’ve got.
We can imagine them surrounded by astrological charts, making careful notes, searching for promising signs. When they observe the special star in its rising, they don’t simply note it and carry on with their lives as normal. Their whole attention is taken up with it, and they go on a quest to discover what it means. Whatever plans they might have had, they put them on hold. And they do this even though they can’t see everything. It doesn’t matter. They have enough to go on, enough to get them started.
I’m guessing there would have been moments along the way when they struggled with doubt and felt lost and maybe a bit foolish. Who knows, they might have questioned the whole enterprise at points. Who could blame them?
But they keep going through the night, one foot in front of the other.
When they finally reach their destination and come face-to-face with Jesus—the hidden source of all their desiring, shimmering in starlight—they stop.
Is this it? Could it be true? Has all their hoping led to this?
Yes, it has.
And suddenly, inexplicably, they are struck with joy.
The original Greek overflows with superlatives: “They joyed with great joy exceedingly.”
Forget the humble surroundings and the questions that remain. The Magi celebrate and give thanks and bow down in worship. As if they are in the presence of all that ever mattered. Let’s not miss it this morning. This is how God reveals himself to us.
He doesn’t overwhelm with a great show of power. Nor does he leave us to our own devices, abandoned to time and chance. Instead, he gives us signs of his appearing and draws us out to follow him. And he’s doing that with us even this far along, half a world away.
We’ve been given signs today and God is inviting us to join those same wise men in the same adventure of faith. Right here. Right now. What’s our sign?
It’s the story that we’ve just heard. The story itself is our star that would lead us to Jesus.
Let’s come out of ourselves. Let’s allow our lives to take a turn.
We’ve got questions and doubts, but not all of them can be answered before we’ve begun.
So let’s begin. And keep beginning. One foot in front of the other. Searching with patience, following with trust …
Bethlehem …
Do we know the original meaning?
בֵּית לֶחֶם Bet Leḥem
In the Hebrew, it means “house of bread.”
Isn’t that fascinating: Jesus, the one who later identified himself as the bread of life was born in a place called the house of bread. It turns out that the first Christmas day was a feast in more ways than one.
Today we find ourselves in a similar place—another house of bread where the Bread of Life has made himself known. As we come to the Lord’s Table this morning, let’s come like the Magi did all those years ago—stepping out in faith, hungry and hoping. Jesus is here, and he is calling us to himself. These are his words:
“I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”
My friends, let’s begin again, with open hands and open hearts.
“The night is almost gone, and the day is near.”
“Taste and see that the Lord is good.”
Amen
Photo: The Adoration of the Three Kings by Girolamo da Santacroce
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