Preaching, centuries ago, on this feast of the Epiphany, St. Augustine ended his sermon with a rhetorical flourish.
In Latin, beautifully, the words must have sounded like bells throughout the church; all in the last sentence: solemnitas, pietas, caritas, veritas—these words describe what is meant to happen on this feast in midst of the worshipping Church, and what is meant to happen to the world on this feast because of the Church’s celebration. Solemnitas, pietas, caritas, veritas; solemnity, piety, charity, truth: this is the very stuff of Epiphany, St. Augustine was saying. These words tell us what the Epiphany is all about, what it means for believers and even unbelievers.
That is, the whole Catholic world, he said, celebrates this feast solemnly so as to “refresh our memories” and so that our piety “may be invigorated by our devotion;” this, so that “charity may grow more fervent in our congregation,” and in order finally, he said, that “truth may shine on the ill-disposed.”[1] That’s the business end of this feast, that love may increase among us who believe, and that truth may shine more brightly upon those who don’t believe. That’s what the Epiphany is meant to accomplish: to stir our memory, to kindle our devotion and love, and to make us brighter witnesses to the truth. Here we are beginning to get to the point of it all—all that Advent waiting and Christmas joy and pondering—the brightness of the truth as it shines from within the Church onto the world, as it shines from within you—you who are brighter now that you have adored the Christ.
But what do we remember? We three kings of Orient are; maybe there were more than three, who knows? But that’s what we remember, the “magi from the east”—pagans, our ancestors, those outside of the covenant, drawn nonetheless by miracle and the Scripture to find and adore the Christ.[2] This is the drama which was the beginning of what Paul would in a short time call the “mystery of Christ,” which he said was “made known” to him “by revelation.”[3] And that mystery is simply this: that you and I—in and through Christ and by faith and baptism—are now included in the promise made to Abraham, included within a new covenant. That’s what those wise men signify—us, when in faith we believe and worship Jesus Christ, preached and proclaimed truthfully within the catholic and apostolic Church.
And this is where pietas begins to fire within our hearts, seeing the immensity and awesomeness of what God is doing in Christ through the Church. I mean, just read the first three chapters of Ephesians; and if you understand it, you’ll get what I mean. Talking about the union of Gentiles and Jews in Christ, Paul called it “the mystery hidden for ages in God.”[4] It is the union, a reconciliation that is the beginning of the reconciliation of all things—all peoples, all creation; again, that’s what the wise men signify—all peoples; it’s why St. Francis put animals in the crèche, dumb animals, yet in awe enough to bend their irrational necks in the direction of Child, that tiny incarnate Deity—all creation. We Christians, Paul was saying, have been let in on God’s secret, given insight to how he plans to redeem everything. If you get what he’s saying, what God is doing in Christ in the Church, then of course you’ll experience pietas—piety, the arresting wonder of knowing God’s wonderful work. That’s what we’re supposed to see and experience today in our solemn worship, what we can see with our soul’s eye if our souls are prepared—that is, if we’ve not gotten ourselves bored already, addicts itching for our phones and the next hit of the screen; that is, if we’re not the sort of people who want Mass to hurry up and finish because we’ve got to go watch a losing football team on television.
Which may explain the many failures of love and charity we find among us, even among Christians of all kinds. Maybe it’s a failure of contemplative vision; maybe my boredom at Mass and my lack of charity are connected. Maybe if I saw what was really going on here, around this altar when we say things like, “with Angels and Archangels, with Thrones and Dominions, and with all the hosts and Powers of heaven;” or when we say things like, “Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world;” maybe if I saw all this with the spiritual eyes God gave me, maybe I would love better; maybe charity would grow in my heart.[5] And maybe we would love each other better if each of us struggled each Sunday to see the “mystery of Christ” and not just “go to Mass.” I don’t know, I’m just saying I think there is a way we could learn to love again the way God wants us to; and I think we’re very close; in fact, I think it’s here. We just require an epiphany, and we must want to see it.
I am, of course, talking about something spiritual—a spiritual sort of seeing. But the effect of this spiritual seeing is visible in the world, visible to everyone. St. Augustine, you’ll remember, prayed that by means of the Church’s celebration of the Epiphany “truth may shine on the ill-disposed.” What does that mean? I don’t fully know. But I do think about how we Christians sometimes rightly worry about the world, where it’s going and what’s going on, and how we want to preach and teach and bear witness to the truth—again, rightly so. But what today’s feast teaches us is that our witness to the world—to the wicked and the wrong—must have a spiritual beginning, a contemplative beginning. And that’s different from being a know-it-all, rude, pushy, political, or (God forbid) violent. That is, if we are no longer able to spiritually see the “mystery of Christ,” or to understand what these celebrations mean in their essence, then we are no longer able to bear witness to the truth, much less love anyone at all. What I’m saying is that our work right now in this frighteningly strange world must begin spiritually, which is why my asking you to pray, to linger here in silence, to kneel like wise men and shepherds, to adore, to weep, to confess is more than me just asking you to be a bit more religious. I’m asking you to help me see, for us to help each other see what has been made manifest to us—Jesus Christ, “our peace,” as Paul called him.[6] If only we could see the angels that are here right now; if only we could see a little, or everything. If only by praying a little, we could see a little. What an epiphany that would be. Amen.
[1] Augustine, Sermon 374.23
[2] Matthew 2:1
[3] Ephesians 3:3-4
[4] Ephesians 3:9
[5] The Roman Missal
[6] Ephesians 2:14
© 2024 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
