It's the Feast of the Epiphany and it's about 60 degrees outside. Here's the scene from the rectory front porch. Note all the snow. The parsley is peeking out from under the snow in the garden. It's awful!
I know I got someone out in the blogosphere laughing because I was complaining about the lack of snow, and I know my sister out in Denver is sick to death of it, but I am pining away for it here.
People are out tapping the maples and making syrup. Grass is green. The records have been broken in many Vermont places with temperatures over the 65-mark, in one place breaking an 1890 record. And tomorrow maybe we'll get wet snow after midnight. But it's mostly rain, rain, rain for the next two days. Cheez.
El Niño, global warming, whatever. It shouldn't be 60 plus degrees on 6 January in north central Vermont.
I'll go take a walk this afternoon, in sandals, in tshirt, typical winter clothing for Vermont. And then we have a eucharist tonight for the Feast of the Epiphany. Sermon follows.
Epiphany 2007
This year everything seems to be on fast-forward. We have had only one Sunday of Christmas, and with Epiphany landing on a Saturday, one fewer service. Ash Wednesday lands early this year — 21 February and so we will breeze through this season that some people think is quirky, others call ‘ordinary time’ and for me, represents the turning of the year and the hope of new possibilities. I see Epiphany as the gentle progression from Christmas to Lent, almost a continuation of the inbreaking of God’s presence in the depths of winter, even though this year I would hardly call what I see outside as ‘winter.’
Epiphany means manifestation. During this season of light, we observe, in particular, the coming of God’s light through Christ. For those of us who travel these roads of transformation, Epiphany is a call and a challenge because it invites us to open our hearts to God’s light and to new birth.
So much of the Christmas story we take for literal truth. The stuff of Christmas pageants, the story of the magi has always captivated our imaginations. Though we are convinced that there were three magis, in actuality, we don’t know how many there were. The fun part of further story-telling, in fact, is who other magi might have been.
It seems as though the travellers from the east have been appropriated by all people in all times. Men and women from different countries have identified their ancestors in faith with the wise men of the gospel. Local traditions have the wise men coming from places as diverse as Iran, Afghanistan, India, China, the Philippines, the United Arab Emirates, and one legend even routes their journey through Europe. Even Christians with no possible claim on such traditions have identified with the journey of faith, the gift-giving, the gestures of homage and worship.
The magi, ‘wise men’ in Greek, were probably priestly sages from Persia, who were experts in astrology and the interpretation of dreams. What distinguishes them in Matthew’s narrative is their sincere and persistent search for the baby ‘born king of the Jews.’ While we might think they are wise, sophisticated travellers, what is striking is their candor and openness. Almost naive, they don’t seem to anticipate stirring up things by asking Herod the king about the birth of a rival king. Their inquisitiveness forces the troubled Herod to seek help from the chief priests and scribes (the first mention of them in this gospel) who, though aligned with Herod, produce the clue that leads to Bethlehem.
God guides the magi to Bethlehem. First a star in the east and then a text from the prophet Micah give them the direction to their goal. When it is time for them to leave Bethlehem, they are warned in a dream to take a different route home to avoid Herod. These strange outsiders do not stumble onto the Messiah as if by accident. They search with purpose and are directed each step of the way by God’s divine hand.
Their stay in Bethelehem is marked by great joy, by the worship of the infant Jesus and by the giving of gifts. They come prepared and seem to know what to do when they arrive. We are not given any reasons why the magi came and why they worshipped. Those reasons are less important than the importance of their response: they worship the King of Israel.
The accompanying texts of Isaiah 60 and Psalm 72, which we also hear, are the texts upon which this passage of Matthew is based, the scripture which Matthew seeks to demonstrate as fulfilled. In Matthew’s eyes the arrival of these non-Jews in Bethlehem turns out to be part of the divine plan, an accomplishment of promises made long ago. The magi, as representatives of all non-Jews, belong here in the company of those worshipping the infant Messiah. They, like the others, offer their gifts and themselves to the Christ child.
At the Christmas Eve service, I talked about some of the books I have read to the children over the years. In one, a little boy wants to follow the magi to the crib in Bethlehem. He works with his father to tend the gardens of Balthazar, Caspar, and Melchoir. One night the star appears and the magi know instantly what is it: ‘A great king is to be born!’ The adults tell him he is too young to go and that he has nothing to offer. The story then details all the people and gifts that they bear to Bethlehem: as the kings journey with their gift-bearing camels, nomads, bearing their best rugs join them. Next come herdsmen with their goats, olive growers with their jars of oil, farmers with their loaves of walnut-date bread, beekeepers with their jars of honey, musicians playing their bells, pipes, and drums, and shepherds with two white lambs, No one throughout this whole journey notices a boy with a small brown sack trudging along behind them in the dust and shadows.
When the whole contingent arrives at the stable, they give their gifts to the Christ child. When all have presented what they have, the boy steps out of the dust and shadows. He opens his sack, pulls out a small tree and presents it to the baby. The wise men realise that he has decorated it with herbs and spices tied with threads from the nomad’s rugs. They notice how he has strung silvery goat hair with walnuts and shiny dates, green and purple olives. The herdsmen, musicians, beekeepers and shepherds see little bells tucked between the branches of the tree and a tiny star, made from golden honey, nestled in fine lamb’s fleece at the very top of the tree. The baby reaches toward the tree and smiles and for the young boy, this is the best gift of all. (1)
As always, there are good questions that come out of these stories. This story asks us: of all the ordinary stuff of my life, the things and parts of my life that at times are discarded or seem useless, how do I weave them together to make an offering to Christ? How do I pick up what seems cast down and raise it up? How do I change that which I take for granted and make it into some wonderful? How do I let God’s grace and light fill my life so that I can be a gift myself to the Christ child?
Conversely, how does God take all the ordinariness of my life and weave it together into some thing wonderful and holy? How does God take that which lurks in the shadows and dust of my life and change it into something bright? How does God make my life an offering of service and peace?
During this season of Epiphany, of manifestation, may we open our hearts to God, the great Weaver, the Creator of all. May we trust in God to take the risk of opening our hearts to be made into something new and know that with the bits and pieces of our lives, God weaves something new and wonderful.
END NOTE
1 John Speirs, The Little Boy’s Christmas Gift (New York, NY: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 2001).
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