The Feast of the Epiphany at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland. This sermon has some passages in common with, but is not the same as, the sermon preached the previous day at the Church of the Epiphany.

The story of the magi told by Matthew is intriguing in its choice of detail. There is no background to the visitors given, no hint of numbers or nationality, despite subsequent legend. Yet their consultation with Herod merits a specific and pertinent prophecy, and launches a whole other story, other journeys of migration, flight, and grief. The story that should conclude with angels singing the music of the heavens in harmony with the star ends instead with a warning: this, too, is part of our understanding of the incarnation of our God: that God understands all too well the dangers inherent in being human, vulnerable to one another. 

There is an ancient tale of the journey of the Magi that builds a mountain of myths out of the mysterious story from Matthew. It is called The Revelation of the Magi (and I’m indebted here to the translation of it and notes on it of Brent Landau).^[i] The Revelation of the Magi tells the story of a legendary people descended from Seth, the third son of Adam and Eve, living in the land of Shir, on the easternmost edge of the world. For generations, these Magi had passed on the prophecy of God’s incarnation. Now, the time had come to pass and the generation of people now in worship finally saw the Star that would bear witness to the birth of God on earth.

Each of the Magi saw within the Star an image, an icon of Christ, some in one phase or another of his earthly life, and others as he is in eternity. For Christ had – has – the ability to appear to each as they have need or desire to see him; although Herod, in this legend, did not have the heart to see the Son of God within the Star of Bethlehem. Hence the warning to return by another road.

There are dangers, of course, in claiming each to see Jesus according to our own vision, our individual revelation. The temptation to dissect the stories of Jesus, to see his life through incarnation and eternity not as a single prism with many facets, but as a set of disparate and discrete revelations, can lead us down some dangerous roads, to divide us from one another instead of bringing us together to marvel at the humility, the vulnerability, the immense and all-consuming love of God, to become like us.

I have been wondering how long it takes for history to heal. August 6^th was the Feast of the Transfiguration for millennia before it became the anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima; January 6^th the Feast of the Epiphany and now synonymous, in this country, with a very different set of political events. How long does history take to heal? The atrocities of Herod would take more than the lifetime of creation to set aside.

We enter this new year, and this new season after Christmas, with some trepidation, don’t we? We are haunted by the shadows of the past, concerned for the present, warned by the violence that greeted the new year in New Orleans and Nevada and far beyond; our hopes and fears for the future year clash and mingle in the air like smoke. 

And yet this is the Feast-day, the celebration of the Epiphany, the manifestation of God’s incarnation to the nations, to us. The bright promise that God is with us, even us. 

In the legend of the Magi of Shir, the Star-Jesus not only led the Magi but helped them on their way, sustained them in the wilderness, both coming to and going from Bethlehem. Rugged mountains and rushing rivers became no obstacle to them. Wild beasts and poisonous serpents were no threat to them. Food and drink were provided to them, and they had no need of sun nor moon for light nor for guidance, with the star to illumine and guide them; with Jesus beside, above, and before them. Returning to the land of Shir and to their people, they shared the holy food and drink given them by the Star-Jesus, and told them (in Landau’s translation),

“… Everyone who wishes, receive without doubt, with a whole heart and true faith, and eat from these provisions, which have come with us. And be deemed worthy, and you, too, join in his blessing, which accompanies us and is with us forever” …and, the story tells us, those who ate shared in the visions of Christ.

The backdrop of the glorious Epiphany story of treasures and kings and starlight and wonder is a constant reminder of the shadows around its edges: the roads will be rough, and full of obstacles. The very earth will overflow sometimes; the journey will be arduous. Violence will erupt out of the envy of human hearts, from petty political leaders like Herod, like Pontius Pilate. People will be displaced, haunted and hunted from their homes. Food will be scarce in the wilderness. This is not new. This is, too, the world in which the Magi lived, outside of the myth. Isn’t that why they wrote it that way?

But if the Gospel of Matthew begins with danger and dreams and risk and the precariousness of being human, if that is the world into which the infant Jesus is born, it is still good news. It ends not at the cross but in resurrection; it is our hope.

Outside of the myth, the protection and providence we enjoy from Christ’s presence with us is mostly less miraculous than the stilling of storms and the levelling of mountains, the taming of bears and lions. But it is real. The nativity of Jesus as a vulnerable and helpless infant, the instinct to worship his humility, his humanity, this is how we are drawn together, to love one another, to serve one another, to protect and provide for one another, each made in the same image of God expressed in that manger.

And he is with us, every step of the way, every step taken in the name of Love, every piece of bread broken and shared in the name of the living Christ.

The lesson, the legacy of the Epiphany is the living hope that the incarnation of God among us can bring the most exalted and wise and wealthy and worthy to their knees: that Love is what will heal history, and our present, and our future; and that Love is with us, remains with us, Emmanuel, bright shining as the noonday star, and within our reach. 

Amen.

^[i] Summary and quotes derived from Revelation of the Magi: the lost tale of the wise men’s journey to Bethlehem, by Brent Landau (HarperCollins E-books, 2010), accessed via Kindle