The Epiphany of the Lord
January 3, 2016

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     The Epiphany is many things: the star, the Magi, the journey, the Child, the gifts. The star speaks of a God who calls but never coerces, who guides, but ever so gently; the Magi speak of searching and seeking, wondering and wandering; they speak, too, of outsiders becoming insiders and of the surprising breadth of God’s embrace, the wideness of God’s mercy. The journey they make speaks of faith and hope: the risk of faith and the power of hope. The Child speaks of a God whose ways are not our ways -- for who would ever expect God to be a helpless child in the arms of his mother?

     And the gifts?  I used to think that the gifts the Magi offered the Christ child spoke more about them than about him: that they were a statement about their world, their values, maybe even their needs.  For what possible need could the child have had for such lavish and impractical gifts? But the early Fathers of the Church looked at the gifts differently.  They saw the gifts as epiphanies; each of them revealing something about the child: the gold revealing his kingship, the frankincense, his priesthood, the myrrh, the death he would one day die.

     That’s another way of saying that the Magi gave the child gifts that spoke of the gift he would be to the world, the gift he is to each of us, for those gifts speak of our need for a king who would turn the notion of kingship upside-down, a priestly king who would give his life for the world.

     So, yes, the Epiphany is the star, the Magi, the journey, the Child, the gifts.  And it is even more: the Epiphany is also empty hands and full hearts.  The Magi, their hands full of precious things, went in search of a newborn king.  When they found him, they emptied their hands only to find their hearts full, for the child gave them a gift that was greater by far than the gifts they had brought: the child gave them the gift of Himself.

     And then there’s the other lead character in the story: King Herod.  He’s the perfect counterpoint to the Magi.  Herod could see in the child only one thing: a threat to himself and to his world – a threat to all that he possessed: to his power, his riches, his rule.  Unlike the Magi, Herod had clenched hands, grasping hands, hands far too full to receive the gift that was the child.

     And what about us?  If we are to receive the gift of the child, we must empty our hands as the Magi did: let go of the things we cling to, the things we crave, the things we find it hard to part with – money or material things that weigh us down, or less tangible things like our selfishness, our harsh judgments, our prejudices, our over-reaching ambitions, our aggressions, our refusals to forgive.

     All of which reminds me of a little reflection on the Epiphany that Archbishop Hunthausen sent to his friends with his Christmas card many years ago. It goes like this:

If, as with Herod,
we fill our lives with things,
and again with things;
and if we consider ourselves so important
that we fill every moment of our lives with action --
when will we have the time
to make the long slow journey
across the burning desert as did the Magi?
Or sit and watch the stars as did the shepherds?
Or ponder in our hearts the coming of the child as did Mary?
For each of us there is a desert to travel,
a star to discover,
and a being within ourselves
to bring to life.

     My friends, Christmas is a Magi moment: we empty our hands, generously giving gifts to family and friends. We do this because at the heart of Christmas is the One who is himself pure gift, the One whose very being is the Father’s gift from all eternity, the One who comes to give that gift to us, comes to give Himself to us.

     To receive this Gift we must empty our hands as the Magi emptied theirs. We must free ourselves – let go of things that don’t really count, let go of everything that is contrary to the Child and what he stands for.  Only in this way will we create in our hearts and in our lives a space empty enough and big enough to receive the Gift beyond all other gifts.

     That gift is ours for the taking, my friends.  It comes – He comes – to us in many ways if only we have eyes to see. He comes to us now.  In the Eucharist!

     Father Michael G. Ryan