Epiphany

Preached at the inaugural evening Mass at Corpus Christi Church as it begins a new life as an Oratory of the Basilica of the Assumption.

Readings: Isaiah 60:1-6; Ephesians 3:2-3a, 5-6; Matthew 2:1-12

The story of Christmas is a tale of mystery:
the mystery of the birth of Christ
for us and for our salvation.

In a typical mystery tale, 
the mystery is wrapped up and solved 
once the story has been told.
But the tale of mystery 
that is the Christmas story
is a story still being told and retold, 
and the mystery only grows deeper
with each telling of the story.
Each time our minds run through
the events of the Christmas story—
the annunciation, the visitation, the birth, 
the proclamation of peace to the shepherds,
and the journey of the Magi—
each time our lips repeat the words of this tale,
we discover new mysteries hidden there.
And this is because its mystery
is a theological mystery:
the mystery of the infinite and eternal
force of love that we call God,
a tale of mystery that only ends
in the fulness of God’s reign,
when God will be all in all. 

One facet of the mystery 
that is the story of Christmas
is that it is a story 
not just about the birth of Jesus,
but also about our birth in him,
our birth into his body through grace.
Pope Leo the Great, back in the 5th century,
said, “In adoring the birth of our Savior, 
we find we are celebrating 
the commencement of our own life, 
for the birth of Christ 
is the source of life for Christian folk, 
and the birthday of the Head 
is the birthday of the body”
(Serm. 6 In Nat.).

The birthday of the Head
is the birthday of the body.
These words for me land 
with a particular force
as we are inaugurating a new phase
of life and ministry in this place
dedicated to the Body of Christ, 
Corpus Christi.
Just as the newborn Jesus was,
as the prophet Micah puts it,
one “whose origin is from of old”
so too we are seeking here a new life 
that is somehow something that is not new;
what we are seeking is the life of the Spirit 
that has been lived out in this building
for one-hundred and thirty-four years;
the life of the Spirit that has been lived out 
by Catholic Christians for over two millennia;
the life of the Spirit that came to birth in Bethlehem.
For the birthday of the Head
is the birthday of the body.
The body of Christ took form in Mary’s womb
through the working of the Holy Spirit.
and the body of Christ takes form ever anew
in new times and new places
through the work of that same Spirit.
The story of Christmas 
is the tale of the mystery of Jesus, 
but it is also the tale 
of the mystery that we are,
the story still unfolding 
that will not reach “the end”
until all of Christ’s members 
are gathered into God’s reign.

Today our scriptures focus our attention
on the Magi who come from afar,
bringing their gifts to the newborn Christ.
They come from afar 
not just in terms of where they live,
but in terms of who they are.
For they are Gentiles,
those who live outside of God’s covenant,
who seemingly have not been part 
of that mystery tale of God’s steadfast love
shown to Abraham and his descendants. 
But now, suddenly, here they are,
right in the middle of the story;
as Paul writes to the Ephesians:
“in Christ Jesus you who once were far off 
have become near by the blood of Christ.”
And they come bringing unexpected gifts,
gifts that the Holy Family probably would not
have put on their birth registry—
gold and frankincense and myrrh—
but which, I am sure, 
Mary and Joseph 
gracefully received with thanks.
And the Magi leave having received in turn
an even greater, more mysterious gift:
the epiphany in time and space
of the eternal God.

But the birthday of the Head
is also the birthday of the body,
and the unexpected arrival 
of the gift-bearing Magi
in the midst of the story of Jesus
is a plot-twist that has happened 
again and again 
in the story of Christ’s body.
Who could have foreseen the gifts
that the early Jewish followers of Jesus 
would receive from the Gentiles 
who became inheritors with them
of the covenant story, 
“members of the same body,
and copartners in the promise 
in Christ Jesus through the gospel”?
Who could have foreseen the gifts
of philosophy, literature, art, and music
that Christ’s body has received 
down through the centuries
from the various cultures in which 
it has become incarnate?
And even today, who can foresee the gifts
that the body of Christ receives
from every person emerging newborn 
from the watery womb of baptism,
who becomes part of the mystery tale
that the Holy Spirit is spinning?

At this moment in the history of this place
it is hard not to think of those 
who may be coming from afar—
as far as 409 Cathedral St. or MICA 
or some other exotic land 
we cannot now imagine—
bearing unexpected gifts
that might not be 
what some of us would have asked for,
but which we are bidden 
gracefully to receive with thanks.
It is hard not to wonder 
what they will receive in turn,
as the epiphany of God
happens in this place.
Part of what it means
for the birthday of the Head
to be the birthday of the body,
for the story of our common life
to be grafted onto the story of Jesus,
is that we are now living a mystery tale 
that can only be solved by living through it,
and it can only be lived through
if we have faith that God’s Spirit is with us.

Of course, this is true not simply 
of this particular place 
at this particular moment;
this is true of the whole of our lives.
None of us knows 
any of what the future holds,
except that we can trust 
that what God said
to the ancient Israelites
God says also to us:
“you shall be radiant at what you see,
your heart shall throb and overflow,
for the riches of the sea 
shall be emptied out before you,
the wealth of nations 
shall be brought to you.”
The mystery is unfolding before us;
let us step forward into it 
in faith, hope, and charity,
and pray that God, who is merciful,
will have mercy on us all.

Epiphany

Readings: Isaiah 60:1-6; Ephesians 3:2-3a, 5-6; Matthew 2:1-12

You may not know that the first American city
with gas street lights
was our own beloved Baltimore.
The brainchild of the painter Rembrandt Peale,
who also founded Baltimore’s first art museum,
the first street lamp was lighted on February 7, 1817,
and the papers of the day tell us,
“that the effect produced
was highly gratifying to those
who had an opportunity of witnessing it,
among whom were several members
of the Legislature of the State.”
A monument to this lamp stands to this day
on the corner of North Holliday and East Baltimore Streets
(at one end of a rather notorious strip known as The Block).

No doubt one reason that witnessing
the lighting of this lamp
was highly gratifying
is because we humans are not by nature nocturnal creatures:
we have evolved in such a way that the light of day
is the environment in which we most naturally
live and move and have our being.
In Scripture and tradition, the darkness of nighttime
represents everything perilous about life,
everything outside of our control,
everything from which we pray God to protect us.
In the opening verses of the book of Genesis
God speaks the words “Let there be light”
and pushes back the chaotic darkness
in order to make a place for us.
In contrast, one of traditional names for the devil
is princeps tenebrarum—the prince of darkness.
As an old Scottish poem puts it:
“From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!”
St. Augustine imagined our final heavenly rest in God
as a Sabbath day would never be ended by night.
Night and day, darkness and light, are powerful images
of peril and salvation.

This morning we read from the book of the prophet Isaiah,
“Rise up in splendor, Jerusalem!
Your light has come,
the glory of the Lord shines upon you.
See, darkness covers the earth,
and thick clouds cover the peoples;
but upon you the LORD shines,
and over you appears his glory.”
God chose the Israelites, the family of Abraham,
to receive his promise of light,
to be an island of light in a world of darkness. 
Yet God’s chosen people did not receive
God’s light and glory
simply to bask in its protecting glow;
rather, they were to reflect that glory
so as to themselves become a light
by which other peoples, other nations, might walk—
a light of divine goodness
that presses back the night of evil.
In our Gospel reading, Matthew uses the story of the Magi
as a way of symbolizing that God’s promise of light
has now through Christ been shared with the Gentiles,
those who are not physical descendants of Abraham;
the story of the Magi shows that people of all nations
have become, as St. Paul puts it,
“coheirs, members of the same body,
and copartners in the promise in Christ Jesus
through the gospel.”
Through Jesus, the light of God s
preads deeper into the night of sin.

Today, through technology,
we have colonized the night
and turned it into day that is 24/7.
Beginning with that first gas street lamp,
we have illuminated everything.
For most of us, the night no longer holds hidden terrors:
we no longer need to huddle together
amidst the encircling gloom of nightfall,
we no longer fear the darkened path along which we stumble.
Every dark place can be made bright with a flick of a switch.
But even if our electrified, light-polluted nights
have lost their power
to symbolize all those things
that we fear,
that are beyond our control,
from which we seek protection,
this does not mean that we have vanquished
everything perilous in life,
that we have brought all things
under our control,
that we no longer need God’s protection.
The very fact that the monument
to the first street lamp in our country
is located on the edge of
one of the seedier areas of our city
reminds us that the night
of evil and violence and human degradation
remains with us regardless of our technical mastery
of light and darkness.
We see it in the news and, alas, find it in ourselves,
beyond the reach of any technological solution.

This night cannot be vanquished
with the flick of a switch.
This night can only be vanquished
by the true light,
the light that God promised to the Israelites,
the light that the Magi sought in Bethlehem,
the light that God bestows upon us
in his word and sacraments.
The light that we celebrate on this Epiphany
has been given to us,
not to be kept as a private possession
with which to keep our personal night at bay,
but as something to be joined to the light of others
so that the glory of God might saturate
the dark places of our world
and the true light of God revealed in Jesus Christ
might lead all people
to that Sabbath day that has no end.

Epiphany

Readings: Isaiah 60:1-6; Ephesians 3:2-3a, 5-6; Matthew 2:1-12

Matthew tells us that “magi from the east,”
who came seeking a newborn king,
“prostrated themselves and did him honor.”
But sometimes I wonder:
before bowing down and worshiping the Christ child,
do you think they were secretly disappointed,
even if only for a moment?
Do you think that, arriving in Bethlehem
at the end of a long and difficult journey,
and seeing the unimpressive dwelling
of the unimpressive parents
of this unimpressive child
the magi might have thought,
“we came all that way for this?”
After all, an astronomical event
spectacular enough to be visible in in a distant land
sets up a pretty high set of expectations.
Did the magi, not unreasonably,
expect a palace with a treasury
that could receive their gifts
of gold, frankincense, and myrrh?
Did they perhaps confer discretely among themselves
as to whether they should find some alternative gifts
that would be more suitable for these simple folk
and keep the fancy stuff in reserve,
just in case another star appeared,
heralding another king,
perhaps a more normal sort king?
Did they perhaps even find themselves thinking that King Herod,
who, though ruthless, was quite effective at wielding power,
seemed a bit more of a king than a squalling baby
and his shabby parents.

Matthew doesn’t tell us of the magi
having this disappointment,
and maybe I’m simply projecting,
but if they did doubt, who could blame them?
Surely what the world needed was a ruler
who could take on petty tyrants like Herod,
not to mention major tyrants like the Roman Emperor.
And just as surely
there was nothing that they found in Bethlehem
that gave any indication
that such a ruler was to be found there.
No palace, no treasury, no obvious royal lineage.
Just a poor baby of poor parents,
and a star, and a prophecy:
you, Bethlehem, land of Judah…
from you shall come a ruler,
who is to shepherd my people Israel.

Matthew says nothing
of the disappointment and doubts of the magi;
what he does tell us is that,
“they prostrated themselves and did him homage.”
He does tell us that, “they opened their treasures
and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”
If at first they felt that their expectations had not been met,
something seems to have changed.
The word “epiphany,” which is the name of this feast,
means a “manifestation” – literally a shining-forth of light.
At the end of a long journey
that ended at an unexpected destination
the magi seem to have found new eyes
to see the divine light that shone,
not from a star in the heavens,
but from a child cradled in his mother's arms.
They found new ears to hear the voice of God,
no longer in ancient prophecies,
but in the cries of a wordless infant.

One detail of Matthew’s telling of this story
that has always struck me
is his statement that the magi
“departed for their country by another way.”
Of course the reason that they did this
was in order to avoid having to go back to Herod
and tell him where the infant Jesus was.
But perhaps Matthew is also telling us
that the magi were changed by their encounter with Jesus.
Their prior expectations overturned,
the long journey back was a quite different one
from the long journey out
because everything was seen with new eyes,
everything was heard with new ears,
and they now journeyed through a world redeemed by love
shining forth from a powerless child.

After the journey of Advent and our arrival at Christmas,
we too may feel a sense of disappointment and even doubt.
Perhaps we too have not found the savior whom we sought,
the savior who would bring us
peace or healing or reconciliation.
Perhaps we, like the magi, brought to Bethlehem
a set of expectations that have not been met.
But the God whom the magi found in Bethlehem
is clearly not a God whose top priority
is meeting our expectations,
but a God of surprising grace.
And we too, like the magi,
can have our expectations transformed
by the grace of the Christ child;
we too can return home by a different way,
having new eyes with which to see,
and new ears with which to hear.
Let us pray that we will find
true peace and healing and reconciliation
in the new world that awaits us as we continue our journey.

Epiphany

Readings: Isaiah 60:1-6; Ephesians 3:2-3a, 5-6; Matthew 2:1-12

We call this feast,

on which we recall the visit of the Magi to the Christ child,

“Epiphany,” from the Greek word epipháneia,

which means an appearance or manifestation.

We also use the word “epiphany” 

in a more secular sense,

one popularized by the novelist James Joyce,

to refer to flashes of profound realization

that seem to strike us from out of the blue.

Today it seems to be used for any insight,

some of them less-than-profound:

in a recent news story from Los Angeles,

a teacher at an elementary school

that had provided iPads for all its students

described the effect on learning as “an ephiphany.”

“Epiphany” is even the name for an integrated suite

of Customer Relations Management software.

Presumably using this software 

will give one striking new insights

into how to manage one’s customer relations.

But the epiphany that we celebrate today

is something more than an idea 

that suddenly occurs to the Wise Men.

What the Magi find in Bethlehem is not an idea, 

but a person: Jesus Christ.

Pope Benedict has written: “Being a Christian

is not the result of an ethical choice or a lofty idea,

but the encounter with an event, a person,

which gives life a new horizon

and a decisive direction” (Deus Caritas Est no. 1).

What the Pope is warning against here

is the temptation, on the one hand, 

to reduce being a Christian

to a set of ideas that we hold 

about God and the world –

making it something like 

a philosophical system –

or, on the other hand,

to transform it 

into a set of ethical positions –

whether this be a commitment to peace and justice

or to so-called “traditional values.”

Pope Benedict does not deny 

that Christianity commits us

both to certain truth claims 

about God and the world

and to certain ethical positions,

but the heart of Christianity is found 

neither in our ideas nor our ethics

but in our encounter with the person of Jesus Christ.

The Epiphany of the Wise Men

was not their being struck by a startling new notion,

nor their adoption of a new set of moral values,

but the transforming experience 

of meeting God in Jesus Christ.

Their epiphany is their encounter

with the God who has entered our world 

as a human child,

as love that makes itself weak and vulnerable

so as to become one with us in all things but sin.

As a result of this encounter 

they no doubt found themselves

thinking about God and the world in new ways.

After all, if you go searching for a king

and find yourself kneeling before a baby

in a humble dwelling in a small town,

it is bound to overturn 

much of what you thought you knew

about God and the world.

And based on this new understanding 

you very well might find yourself 

with a very different set of values

and a very different approach to living them out.

As Pope Benedict says, this encounter

“gives life a new horizon and a decisive direction.”

In the wake of this encounter,

Jesus Christ becomes for the Magi 

the new star whom they will follow

on their journey of return 

to their true homeland in God’s kingdom.

And this is true for us too.

Our protestant brothers and sisters often speak

of having “a personal relationship with Christ.”

I used to react negatively to this phrase

because I thought it referred to having

a private relationship with God 

that took no account of other people.

This would run completely counter 

to our Catholic tradition

of the importance of the Church community 

in our life as Christians.

But now I see that 

speaking of a “personal relationship” with Jesus

is less about having your own personal Jesus

and more about having a relationship with Jesus

as a person who is even now living and active.

Perhaps this is something we Catholics need to learn

from our protestant brothers and sisters.

Pope Benedict himself reminds us

that Jesus is not someone 

who lived an long, long time ago

and left behind some interesting ideas 

and ethical injunctions.

Jesus is the risen Lord whom we can encounter

in a way that is just as direct and just as personal

as the encounter of the Magi with the Christ child.

We encounter him in the words of Scripture,

in prayer, 

in the sacraments,

in the poor and the suffering, 

and in each other.

The epiphany of God as love 

is not something that happened long ago;

it is something that is happening here and now.

Just as with the Magi, 

Jesus shows himself to us

so that he might become 

both the star that we follow

and the companion who walks beside us,

on our journey to God’s kingdom.

Epiphany

Readings: Isaiah 60:1-6; Ephesians 3:2-3a, 5-6; Matthew 2:1-12

When God made the covenant with Abraham

and established the Israelites as God’s people,

God made clear that this was not simply 

for the benefit of Abraham

or of the nation that his descendants would become,

but it was for the blessing 

of “all the families of nations” (Genesis 12:3).

Over the centuries the Jewish people 

came to think of this

in terms of the “pilgrimage of the nations”

that we hear spoken of in our first reading:

“Nations shall walk by your light,

and kings by your shining radiance.

Raise your eyes and look about;

they all gather and come to you. . . .

the riches of the sea 

shall be emptied out before you,

the wealth of nations 

shall be brought to you. . . .

all from Sheba shall come

bearing gold and frankincense,

and proclaiming the praises of the Lord.”

In other words, if the descendants of Abraham

are faithful to their covenant with God

then they shall be a light to the “nations” – 

the Gentiles –

who shall see that light and come in pilgrimage,

bringing with them all the riches of their cultures,

to worship and serve the God of Israel,

the one true God,

under whose rule all the nations of the earth

shall become one people of God and live in peace.

This was the hope.

This was the dream.

This was what the Jewish people 

looked for God’s anointed one,

God’s messiah,

to do.

When the messiah came, 

he would make Israel

a light to the nations,

to draw all the families of nations 

into God’s family.

The nineteenth century Jesuit poet, 

Gerard Manley Hopkins,

in a journal that he kept while on retreat,

remarked, after spending a day 

meditating on the events of the Epiphany –

the story we have just heard in today’s Gospel –

that the Jewish people had looked 

for the pilgrimage of the nations,

but, “when it came it brought 

an unexpected circumstance with it,

as God’s works always do” 

(Sermons and Devotional Writings, 269).

This is something worth pausing over, for just a moment:

when what they had been hoping for from God

came to pass: 

“it brought an unexpected circumstance with it,

as God’s works always do.”

As God’s works always do:

isn’t this always the way?

What we hope for,

what we wait for,

what we pray for,

never arrives 

in quite the way that we expect it to.

In the case of the story of the Epiphany,

the pilgrimage of the nations

is represented by the three Magi

who come from the east 

seeking “the newborn king of the Jews.”

But they do not find him in King Herod’s palace,

but in the humble dwelling place of Mary and Joseph;

the savior does not arrive with the splendor of a king,

but with the humility of a child;

his parents are not powerful and secure,

but weak and threatened, 

and soon enough in flight for their lives.

“It brought an unexpected circumstance with it,

as God’s works always do.”

The one who summons the world’s nations

to bring their gifts to the God of Israel

and to become part of God’s people

appears among us as what St. Augustine called

the verbum infans – which we might translate as

“the infant Word, unable to speak a word.”

He is offered gold and incense, 

because he is king and God,

but he is also offered myrrh, 

a spice used in burial,

because he is a king who will rule 

and a God who will save

by living among us as one of us

and by giving his very life for us.

Unexpected circumstances indeed –

circumstances that should drive home for us

that truly it is God who is at work here,

in that typically unexpected way that God has.

It should remind us also that, 

while the work of God in our lives

is also a part of these unexpected circumstances,

God’s work in us is not a puzzle to be solved

but a mystery to be pondered and celebrated:

the mystery of God’s Word found in a speechless infant,

the mystery of life found in death,

the mystery of power found in weakness,

the mystery of the love that unites us as one people of God.