sermon preached
at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
by the
Rev. Josh Hosler, Rector
The
Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, 2019
Four
billion miles from here, a solid, snowman-shaped, icy object about the size of
Washington, D.C. is orbiting our sun. It is a little older in years than it is
far away in miles—four and a half
billion, give or take. And until last week, it had never been seen before by
any eyes, ever. “In former generations this mystery was not made known to
humankind.” Our eyes are the first ever to view Ultima Thule. And guess what?
It’s red. Was it red before any eyes could see it? Or just potentially red?
The
name Ultima Thule is a combination of Latin and Greek terms, and for centuries
it has been defined as the highest degree attainable, the farthest point
possible—a place beyond the borders of the known world. If we hadn’t already
known theoretically that it was there, we wouldn’t have sought out photos of
it. But NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft has manifested for us something specific
at the very outskirts of our understanding.
To
“manifest” is to “make visible” and thus to make real in a realer way than
before. And today is the Feast of the Epiphany, when we celebrate the manifestation
of Jesus Christ. It’s a revealing of what is real … not just an idea or a
theory, but God in the flesh among us for all the world to see. This is the
first day of a season marked by the metaphor of light shining in the darkness …
clarity … revelation. Epiphany is a season not for thinking about God with our
brains, but for experiencing God with our senses.
If
you ask regular churchgoers to name the six seasons of the church year, you’ll find
that Epiphany is the one they’re most likely to forget. Those who do remember
Epiphany remember it as the day the three kings brought their gifts to Jesus,
and today is that day. But Epiphany is also a season, and a very important one.
The Sundays after Epiphany help us understand the man we worship as the Son of
God, not yet hanging on a cross, but going about his work on earth. It’s all
too easy to think of Christ only as a transcendent being. We need to remember
the main point: that Jesus was human just like the rest of us, that he spent
thirty years doing things before we, his fellow humans, decided to try to get
rid of him. And the things he did and said long ago are also present to us now.
Let’s go
back to the Magi, though, because Epiphany does start with them. Allow me to give
you some factoids. The Magi only appear in Matthew’s gospel, whereas the
shepherds only appear in Luke’s gospel. With his shepherds, Luke showed that
Jesus came to save the poor and simple people, not just the wealthy and
educated. Likewise, I think Matthew wrote about the Magi because he wanted his
Jewish readers to understand that Jesus didn’t just come for the sake of the
Jews. Wise Gentiles were also subject to him.
But what
were these wise men? The Greek word MA-GHEE, Magi, gives us our word magic. The
Magi were practitioners of the monotheistic Persian religion called
Zoroastrianism. They read the stars, but they wouldn’t have been considered
charlatans. For Matthew to assert that foreign astrologers read in the stars
that the Messiah would be born and then came and paid him homage is to say that
Jesus’ birth was important to everybody in the world.
So why do we
so often hear the Magi called the Three Kings? We have today’s readings from
Isaiah and the Psalms to thank for that. Centuries before Jesus was born,
Isaiah wrote: “Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of
your dawn.” And in Psalm 72, we read, “The kings of Tarshish and of the isles
shall pay tribute, and the kings of Arabia and Saba offer gifts. All kings
shall bow down before him, and all the nations do him service.”
The psalm is
an ode to the sitting king of Israel—possibly Solomon at the time it was
written. But we use it today to explain how the best kind of king would treat
people: he would rule righteously, defend the needy, deliver the poor, and
redeem their lives from oppression and violence. He would not be a corrupt politician.
All other kings would bow to him because of his wisdom. Matthew’s wise men
would not have been kings, but tradition has conflated the original story and
its associated readings so that we imagine them so. You’ll find that most crèche
scenes feature Magi of different skin colors: this also is to show that Jesus
is for everyone in the world.
In Matthew’s
story, the Magi come to Jerusalem first and ask around: “Where do your ancient
writings say the King of the Jews is supposed to be born?” King Herod hears
about the Magi and suspiciously asks them their business. Now, I know these men
are supposed to be wise, but are they very smart? Would you go to the sitting
king and tell him everything you know about the birth of a potential rival to
the throne? Naturally, Herod feels threatened. But he sends them on their way
and urges them to return with information on where this child is, so that Herod
himself can supposedly worship Jesus, too.
The Magi go
on to Bethlehem, the bright star leading them all the way to the house. And
yes, it’s a house—and the baby is not in a manger. Again, there are no
shepherds or chorus of angels in Matthew’s Gospel—and no manger, and no
innkeeper, and no census. All of that is in Luke’s version of the story and no
other. But our desire to conflate the two stories has led to a patched-together
timeline in which the Magi arrive later, after a long journey, and find Mary
and Joseph settled down in Bethlehem, not in any hurry to return to their home
in Nazareth. In fact, in Matthew’s telling they have never lived in Nazareth before.
Matthew does not say how many Magi there were or give them names. Later
tradition has named them Caspar, Balthasar, and Melchior. We imagine three of
them only because three gifts are mentioned: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The
first two gifts come, again, from today’s Isaiah reading: “They shall bring
gold and frankincense, and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord.” Gold would
be a worthy gift for a king, of course. Incense was used in worship then as it
is today, so frankincense would imply that this king should be praised as you
would praise God. Already, we’re no longer talking about your standard issue king.
It’s the
third gift, though, that clarifies and deepens our understanding of Jesus’
kingship. Myrrh was used in burials. This dark, bitter-smelling resin was
burned at funerals and was placed in the coffins of important rulers. Matthew
uses myrrh to foreshadow the death of Jesus and its importance for the entire
world.
Having
honored the young Jesus, the Magi prepare to go back to Herod and give away his
location. Luckily, an angel visits our naïve wise men and informs them that
Herod wants to kill the child. So they give Herod the slip and go home by
another route. But the damage is done. Herod oversees the massacre of the Holy
Innocents of Bethlehem—all boys under the age of two, in an incident that
should definitely remind us of Pharaoh’s treatment of the Hebrews.
Ironically,
the Holy Family escapes to Egypt. An angel warns Joseph about the impending
massacre, and off they go. They only return once Herod is dead, and even then,
they avoid Bethlehem. They come out of Egypt, just as the ancient Hebrews did,
and they settle in Nazareth. (Note that Matthew assumes the family began in
Bethlehem and later moved because of the threat from Herod—not, as in Luke’s
telling, that they began in Nazareth and went only temporarily to Bethlehem.)
So this is
the story of Epiphany: Matthew’s story of the birth of Jesus. From now until March,
we’ll hear more stories of Jesus that mark this season. Next week we will hear of
Jesus’ baptism and the beginning of his ministry. Then we’ll hear of Jesus’
first miracle, at a wedding. The stories in the weeks that follow are selected
to give us a glimpse of the early work of Jesus: the calling of the fishermen
as his first disciples, and the teachings and healings that show Jesus’ impact
on the world around him.
For now,
though, enjoy one more time the image of Jesus as a newborn baby, bringing
God’s light into this dark world. Doesn’t every newborn baby do that to some
degree? And think of this: as the Magi arrived, bringing gifts to the Christ
child, Ultima Thule was orbiting our sun, as yet unseen. A week ago, that was
still the case. Yet now, from our perspective, Ultima Thule seems to have changed.
It has become real to us—specifically, it has become red to us. And snowman-shaped! Who knew?
An
epiphany—a eureka—an a-ha! moment—is like that. It makes manifest what we might
have postulated before but had never fully grasped. Isaiah knew that “the Lord
will arise upon you,” but did he experience it? The psalmist knew that “he
shall redeem [our] lives from oppression and violence,” but did that come to be
in his time? Both these writers were longing for, straining toward, prophesying
a one-time event that would work its effects both forward and backward in time.
Suddenly,
here is the God who created us all, a human child come from beyond the borders
of the known world to shed light on our darkness, to give clarity in our
confusion. This changes everything! Jesus the Christ is our Ultima Thule, and
he has come not only to show himself to us, but also to shine enough light that
we can see for ourselves who we
really are, too. Look at yourself. Look at those around you. We are, above all
else, beloved of God. And that reality is realer than real. Amen.
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