The Epiphany Story is Powerful, and It's Time to Reclaim It

A talk given on January 7, 2024 for the Fairhope Unitarian Fellowship

Epiphany is an incredibly underrated holiday. Traveling wizards. Space magic. Espionage. Could a plastic Nativity scene ever really do justice to the fantasy sci-fi political drama that is Epiphany?

If you’re not familiar with Epiphany, don’t fret. In short, Epiphany is the Sunday in the Christian tradition when churches around the world tell the story of the magi on their pilgrimage from the East—the journey of following the star to track down the eight-pound, six-ounce, newborn infant Jesus in his golden fleece diapers with his tiny, little fat balled-up fists. Odds are, most of us know at least some version, even if it is a B-side Little Drummer Boy story. I’d argue, though, that the more time you spend with it, the more interesting it gets. For example: When I was growing up, my Sunday School teachers never really pointed out to me that these characters were using astrology to track down Jesus, which I’m pretty sure our particular denomination would’ve frowned upon (or at least written several strongly worded op-eds about). They also never pointed out that we could just as easily translate “magi” as “sorcerers,” which makes the story about 10,000x more interesting to me. And you know, while we’re at it, nowhere in the text does it say that there were only three of the wise men, or that the “wise men” were “men” at all—meaning it might be just as valid to imagine a small band of twelve witches using nature sorcery to track down a mystic baby! (See? We’ve gone from felt-board Sunday school lesson to Tolkien novel in no time.) I should also mention that the story also has a complicated history, as do most stories in the Christian canon. For centuries, Christians have used it for colonization—to justify Christian supremacy and the infantilization of other religions, painting them as clamoring across the world for a glimpse of the true savior. You know what they say—even the best tools can be weapons in the hands of fearful people. Shifting the lens a little, though, the Epiphany story subverts that same supremacy it’s been used to promote. Using that lens, that’s the story I want to dive into—a story about seeking and honoring wisdom wherever we can find it, in the most unexpected places. That’s a story that deeply resonates with my spiritual experience. That’s the kind of story we need right now.

Before I tell the Epiphany story, let me say a quick word about how I engage stories from the Christian and Hebrew canon.

There’s one thing I want to be sure to make clear: I’m not nearly as interested in questions of historical truth as I am in questions of spiritual truth. Something need not have actually happened to be deeply true. The Matrix, for example, is a deeply true story that I’m quite certain isn’t historical fact. (95% certain at least, depending on the news cycle that day). So, whatever your background engaging Christian scripture, as you read this story, try to read as you might read to any work of literature: for what it might suggest about how this world works and what it means to be human. How does it affirm something, or make you uncomfortable, or speak encouragement? What, in short, does it invite you to do? With that in mind, let’s look at the actual Epiphany story, from the Gospel Matthew, chapter 2, verses 1-12:

After Jesus’ birth—which happened in Bethlehem of Judea, during the reign of Herod—magi from the East arrived in Jerusalem . They asked, “Where is the newborn ruler of the Jewish people? We observed his star at its rising and have come to pay homage.”At this news, Herod became greatly disturbed, as did all of Jerusalem. Summoning all the chief priests and religious scholars of the people, Herod asked them where the Anointed Onewas to be born. “In Bethlehem of Judea,” they informed him. “Here is what the prophet has written: ‘And you, Bethlehem, land of Judah, / are by no means least among the leaders of Judah, / since from you will come a ruler / who is to shepherd my people Israel.’”Hearing this, Herod called the magi aside and found out from them the exact time of the star’s appearance. Then he sent them off to Bethlehem, instructing them, “Go and get detailed information about the child. When you have found him, report back to me so that I may go and offer homage, too.” After their audience with the “king,” the magi set out. The star which they had observed at its rising went ahead of them until it came to a standstill over the place where the child lay. They were overjoyed at seeing the star and, upon entering the house, they found the child with Mary, his mother. Seeing the child, they prostrated themselves and paid homage. They opened their chests and presented the child with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh . After that, they were warned in a dream not to return to Herod, so they went back to their own country by another road.

Mt 2:1-12

I’ve read this story differently over the years, but as I read it in this season of my life, it resonates in a few new ways. First and foremost, it makes me feel a little less alone. Let me explain. I work as a chaplain, and there’s this hoop we have to jump through early on called “endorsement.” For most chaplains, it’s no big deal. Baptist chaplains are endorsed by their Baptist denomination. Catholics are endorsed by the Catholic church. Buddhists are endorsed by their sangha or lineage. But then… there are people like me. I have a deep appreciation for the Christian tradition (I’m ordained by a progressive group called the Alliance of Baptists) and Christianity has formed my imagination in some foundational ways… but, at the end of the day, I don’t think I’m quite Christian enough anymore to qualify for their endorsement. On the other hand, I’ve been profoundly influenced by Buddhist practice and teaching, and perhaps resonate with Buddhism most of all… but I haven’t been engaged enough with any single Buddhist group for them to have any business endorsing me. The Humanists might do it, but for me, “God” is just too good a metaphor to give up. I love the teachings of the Bhagavat Gita, the Tao Te Ching, Ram Dass, Eckhart Tolle, Alan Watts, and Aldous Huxley… but they never exactly got together to form an endorsing body, so this leaves me in a bit of a gray area.

All that to say, as a spiritually homeless person constantly pursuing wisdom and seeking to honor that wisdom wherever I find it, the Epiphany story feels a whole heck of a lot like my story.

A small group of wandering seekers following the call of the cosmos in the search for truth? Pouring out their treasures to foster the flame of wisdom wherever we can find it? I feel that deeply. For me—and others I know like me—I’m not sure I could summarize our journey any better if I tried. The Epiphany story, however else orthodoxy-obsessed traditions have used it, is a foundationally human story about the pursuit and reverence of wisdom. It’s an archetypal story, worthy of deep consideration, so let’s take some time to look at a few themes that rise to the top.

For those like the magi, wisdom waits in the most unexpected and unlikely places.

The first thing that comes up for me as I read this story is the strangeness that these magi travel so far to see—not a fully grown sage in a temple or king in a palace—but an infant sleeping in a food trough. There's something crucial here: Although we often miss it, wisdom can be found in the most unexpected and unlikely places. It’s like Lex Luthor says in the first Superman movie: “Some people can read War and Peace and come away thinking it's a simple adventure story. Others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper and unlock the secrets of the universe.” It’s all about the eyes we use to see. Presumably, these magi from the East (and who knows where exactly “the East” is?) have their own tradition. They have their own religion. Their own people. Their own practice. One can presume that’s where they’d expect to find wisdom and truth. All the same, rather than clinging tight to certitude, one night they look up at the sky and see an invitation to look outward—to look to the strange—and for whatever reason, they up and follow. They set out with an openhearted recognition that truth is bigger than any one tradition could articulate or one people could own. What’s more, they don’t set off towards a university or the capital of an empire, but to this off-the-map, middle-of-nowhere country of Judea—a speck at the far edge of the Roman Empire. Then, once they get there, are they met with a great prophet? Elijah? Moses? Not even close. Instead, they find wisdom in the face of a baby from a penniless family, still sitting on his mama’s lap. Every piece of this story is as unlikely as the last, constantly moving against the grain of our expectations. It’s subversive, telling a story where wisdom doesn’t just shine down from on high, but up from below—from the margins and the undersides of our world. It doesn’t feature the spiritually certain, clinging to a particular teaching, tradition, or teacher. Instead, it centralizes the ones who heed the call of the cosmos, following it to the weirdest, most beautiful places. It reminds me of a story Anthony De Mello (psychotherapist, Jesuit priest, and all-around modern wise man) once shared in his book Taking Flight. He wrote about an oyster who “saw a loose pearl that had fallen into the crevice of a rock on the ocean bed. After great effort, she managed to retrieve the pearl and place it just beside her on a leaf. She knew that humans searched for pearls and thought, ‘This pearl will tempt them, so they will take it and let me be.’ When a pearl diver showed up, however, his eyes were conditioned to look for oysters and not for pearls resting on leaves. So he grabbed the oyster, which did not happen to have a pearl, and allowed the real pearl to roll back into the crevice in the rock.”

“You know exactly where to look. That is the reason why you fail to find God.”

Anthony De Mello

Going about this work of fostering wisdom, we often have to let go of our expectations of where wisdom waits for us. Maybe wisdom will come from a self-help book or a scripture or a Sunday Service, sure, but for those with eyes to see, it could also come to us on the back of a gum wrapper, from a flower in a backyard garden, or lying in a feeding trough. What might we see if only we let go of expectations and cultivated eyes to see? For those like the magi, wisdom waits in the most unexpected and unlikely places.

To align ourselves with wisdom and truth can mean putting ourselves in tension with oppressive systems of power.

The second thing about this Epiphany story that stands out is that this pursuit and honoring of wisdom is not always a warm and fuzzy process. It has risks. Sometimes, big ones. To align ourselves with wisdom and truth can mean putting ourselves in tension with oppressive systems of power. (This was something else they left out of my Sunday School lessons.) Historically, whether we’re talking about assassins hunting down the Buddha, Christ crucified on a cross, Gandhi gunned down in New Delhi, or MLK in Memphis, Tennessee… the honest pursuit of wisdom tends to threaten any who profit from half-truths and ill-begotten power. This can put us in a precarious place. Let’s look back at the story. When the magi arrive in Jerusalem, their first stop is the palace of the so-called King Herod. Now, in retrospect, this may seem like a not-so-wise move on the part of the so-called “wise men,” but hindsight’s twenty-twenty. Put yourself in their pointy wizard shoes for a minute. The stars say, “A king is to be born in Jerusalem,” they say, “Got it,” and once they get to Jerusalem, what could make more sense than starting their search at a palace? You know… where kings live? The problem, we see in hindsight, is that when we’re talking about spiritual rather than literal truth, “king” can be a bit of a flexible term. So, there they are in the court of a king with a fragile ego, some of them probably realizing they’ve made a slight miscalculation, and one of them (I like to think of him as the Michael Scott of the group) obliviously asks the current king of the Jewish people where they can find the new king of the Jewish people. This question, as one could predict, is not well received. Herod becomes “greatly disturbed,” and proceeds to call his experts, asking them what the scriptures say about where the promised liberator is to be born. (Quick sidebar. This interaction is gold. It tells me that, while Herod is happy to think of himself as “King of the Jewish People,” it’s very possible he knows next to zilch about the Jewish tradition. He seems like the sort of politician who likes to look religious and hold on to some religious titles to score popularity points, but when it comes to actually knowing wtf he’s talking about, he falls a bit short. You the type. I told you, this story is evergreen.) So Herod is “greatly disturbed,” and that’s to be expected, isn’t it?

Herod is so fragile here because, at the end of the day, all supremacist systems are fragile. They have to be. They’ve got a lot to defend, so it only takes a gentle prod before they lash out.

Wisdom and truth are good news, it seems, for everyone except for those addicted to power and supremacy. What some might recognize as liberating wisdom, they’re just as likely to see as dire threat. (And look at me using “they” as though I’m not part of a supremacist system.) So, Herod comes back to them with his super subtle plan. “Go find the child,” he says in his least greasy voice, “and then come back and tell me, and that way, I can pay homage too. Sound good?” Roughly, this translates to: “Find the threat. I’ll take it from there.” Obviously, this puts the magi in a dangerous place. They have to make a choice: honor authority at the expense of wisdom, or honor wisdom at the expense of safety. Wisdom, it seems, will likely cost them something. (I stopped the reading, by the way, just before we got to Herod’s Plan B: mass, preventative infanticide. See Mt 2:16-18.) This is such a familiar tension, it’s hardly worth illustrating. The roster is so long. It’s Archbishop Oscar Romero gunned down in the middle of Mass for embodying wisdom by speaking out against the Salvadorian government's violence. It’s Desmond Tutu imprisoned for embodying wisdom through civil disobedience, or Father Dan Berrigan’s arrest for breaking into a government facility and burning draft cards, or the exile of Thich Nhat Hanh from Vietnam… Facing down this fragile king, the magi are part of a very long tradition. This tension need not always be quite so dramatic, though. It can be subtle. How often does this uncomfortable tension between wisdom and comfort come up institutionally, interpersonally, or even in our relationships with parts of ourselves? Each of us has some place, surely, where it would cost us something to embody the wisdom we know to be true. It’s the story of the magi, and it’s our story, too. To align ourselves with wisdom and truth can mean putting ourselves in tension with oppressive systems of power.

In the pursuit of wisdom, there are infinite variations of the road we walk. Even if we come back to similar places, we rarely walk the same road twice.

Now one more—one last thing that stands out in this text. It’s small, really—just a single sentence—but it’s like it shows up in bold each time I read it: “Having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they went back to their own country by another road.” It’s simple, but to me, that line touches on something very real about the spiritual journey. In the pursuit of wisdom, there are infinite variations on the road we walk. Even if we come back to similar places, we rarely walk the same road twice. After their encounter with Herod, the magi somehow make their way to the right city, where the universe somehow points them to the house “where the child lay.” Finally, they find what they’ve been looking for and then, after all is said and done, it’s time to go back home. End of the story. Falling action. Curtains. We sense the back cover getting ready to close, except… it’s not. This should be the easy part—a simple matter of retracing their steps, but it’s never that simple, is it? This is where the dream comes in. The warning. Maybe it’s just an intuition, I don’t know, but as they’re gearing up to go, something in them holds up a hand. Wait, it says. You can’t go back that way. That road’s no longer safe. Your story isn’t quite over. And just like that, their journey home becomes a new story in and of itself—like Odysseus trying to get back home to Ithaca. Sure, they will ultimately wind up back home—maybe—but certainly not by the same route, and they certainly won’t be the same people when they get there. Have you ever seen Into the Woods? The movie stars James Corden, yes, but if you can push past that, it’s great. It’s a comedic, creative, and often surprisingly insightful retelling of classic fairy tales, and I mention it because about halfway through, it makes a similar move as the Epiphany story. We spend the first act following familiar stories—watching Red Riding Hood escape the wolf, Jack get the harp, and Cinderella marry the prince—but then, just as we sense the back cover getting ready to close, something else happens. Out of the blue, a giant falls in medias res, destroying everything. The earth shakes. The roads are destroyed. The characters get lost, and all of a sudden, it's no longer the story we know. Sure, by the end, each character will ultimately wind up back home—maybe—but certainly not by the same route, and they certainly won’t be the same people when they get there. Tiredly, unexpectedly, the narrator introduces an unexpected act: “Once upon a time… again.”

“No one ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and they’re not the same person.”

Heraclitus

We, as seekers of wisdom and truth, are always changing, as are the circumstances in which we have to live. Frankly, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve arrived at the end of a particularly difficult season—of depression, of vocational angst, of interpersonal conflict—expecting to get “back to normal,” only to find that there is no “normal” to go back to. In fact, there is no “back” to anything, because in this journey of seeking aliveness, there is only a forward. It’s not linear or predictable or moving towards a clear destination, but a road of spirals and doubling back—of giants falling to the earth and despots posing new threats. Surely you can think of a time when you wanted very much to get back to normal, only to find a new road waiting—a new challenge—a new call. How often do we try to avoid this next act because it threatens to take us down a road we don’t know? In the pursuit of wisdom, there are infinite variations of the road we walk. Even if we come back to similar places, we rarely walk the same road twice.

And then… the story ends. We don’t get to see what happens next.

We don’t know if they make it past Herod or if they make it home or what they get up to on the way, but we do know one fascinating detail: They don’t stay. They travel all that way, but they don’t convert to Christianity or Judaism or dedicate themselves to apologetics or attempts to convert the heathen… None of that. Instead, they simply meet the experience with open-hearted recognition of wisdom and truth… and then keep moving. And as they do, I can’t help but wonder where they go next. A few years later, would they follow that star again to an Indian sage? A philosopher in China? An old woman who had taken a vow of silence in some city we don’t even have in our history books? Did they follow the star to find wisdom anew in their own familiar cities, in their own traditions or families? Where else did they go, kneeling down in humility and pouring out their resources to foster the flame of truth wherever they found it? It’s an ellipsis at the end of the story, and it’s beautiful. See? I told you Epiphany gets the short end of the stick. Next time you see those three plastic figures in a nativity scene—with their gifts and carefully varied ethnicities—remember the kind of story it could be: A human story about the pursuit and reverence of wisdom… An archetypal story about seeking out and honoring truth wherever we can find it… About finding wisdom in unexpected and unlikely places… About how that truth can often put us in tension with oppressive systems of power… About the ways our road is always changing… Is that the way most of us grew up hearing the Epiphany story told? Probably not. Is it the story we need right now? A story to remind us that we’re not alone on this road? To challenge us to keep moving in pursuit of the call of the cosmos? Absolutely.

And if we’re going to find ourselves in this story—in this lineage of sorcerers and so-called “wise people”—then we must end by asking ourselves that all-important question, that question that’s kept magi and wise people moving for centuries:

Where could that star be leading us now?