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 amazing 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 found rich symbolism in those
gifts. They saw each of them as an epiphany that revealed something
about the child: the gold revealed his kingship, the frankincense, his
priesthood, the myrrh, the death he would one day die.
That’s
another way of saying that the Magi’s gifts speak of the gift this child
is to the world, the gift he is to each of us – this child who is a king
like no other: a priestly king, a servant king who came to give his life
for the world.
So,
yes, Epiphany is the star, the Magi, the journey, the child, the gifts.
And it is even more: Epiphany is also empty hands and full hearts. The
Magi, their hands full of precious things, followed the star. When they
found the child, they emptied their hands only to find their hearts
full, for the child gave these sophisticated seekers a gift that was
greater by far than the gifts they had brought: the child gave them new
horizons and new hope and in doing so, brought them to their knees.
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 he held
dear: his wealth, his power, his rule. Unlike the Magi, Herod’s hands
and heart were far too closed to receive the gift that was the child.
And
what about us? If we are to receive the gift of the child, we must open
our hearts and 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, yes, but also less tangible
things like our prejudices and partialities, our bigotries and biases,
our harsh judgments, our intolerances, our exclusionary ways.
All of
which reminds me of a little reflection on the Epiphany that Archbishop
Hunthausen sent to his friends at Christmas many years ago. It spoke to
me then and it still speaks to me. Maybe it will to you:
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.
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. And, of course, he comes to us
now. In the Eucharist we celebrate and receive!
Father Michael G. Ryan
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