Today’s feast is the subject of scholarly debate.
The Epiphany developed differently in different parts of the world, marking different themes and mysteries of Jesus’ life: his birth, his baptism, the miracle at Cana, the adoration of the Magi and more. Celebrated since at least the second century, probably well before that, the several customs of Epiphany (many now sadly lost) come from all over the Christian world.[1] The Epiphany Proclamation, for example, comes—as John Cassian tells us—from ancient Egypt when the bishop of Alexandria would send letters to all his churches informing them of the date of Easter.[2] Another custom, the blessing of homes in the New Year, comes from medieval Europe.
Now, although rather neglected culturally, what the Epiphany celebrates (to put it simply) is the invasion of the cosmos by grace. As Saint Ephrem said, “Blessed is Your birth that stirred up the universe!”[3] So many different mysteries and devout customs, Epiphany celebrates the visibility of the grace of God; that the Word became flesh and that it changed everything. “The World is charged with the grandeur of God,” Hopkins said, words he could only have written after the manifestation of Jesus Christ. The Epiphany marks the new reality of grace, like light in the darkness, like the beginning of dawn.[4] It might be hard to see—the grandeur of this grace, the effect of it, the small almightiness of it—but not because it’s hard to see; but just because you can’t see it. Which is of course a personal problem, a spiritual problem of the first order.
The Epiphany celebrates also the universal significance of Christ’s salvation and of the Church. To quote the Catechism, the Epiphany is the “manifestation of Jesus as the Messiah of Israel, Son of God and Savior of the world.”[5] Jesus is, so we believe, Hebrew hope fulfilled, hope in the promise made to Abraham that God would make of him a “great nation,” in whom “all the communities of the earth shall find blessing.”[6] The faithful and the prophets of God dreamed of the day when every nation would come to the mountain of the Lord, recognizing that God has chosen Israel.[7] In Christ, so the Church believes, this happens. “O coastlands…O distant peoples,” God spoke through Isaiah; the dream was of salvation reaching the ends of the earth.[8] Again, this is what we believe happens in Christ. It’s what the old man Simeon meant when he held the infant Jesus in his arms and said, “[M]y eyes have seen your salvation…a light for revelation to the Gentiles.”[9]
It’s the great theme of the Gospel: the salvation of the Gentiles, that is, of us. We see this in a story John tells. Just before his crucifixion two Greeks, that is, non-Jews, ask to see Jesus. In reply he cries out, “The hour has come…” Then Jesus talks about his death; he says it’s like a grain of wheat falling into the earth, which must die in order to blossom and bear fruit. Think about it: He says this in answer to some Greeks, Gentiles, who want to see Jesus; he talks about his death and wheat and bread. And today the whole Catholic world celebrates the Eucharist, the sacrament of his death and his bread.[10] You see what I mean? This is what we celebrate, how the Epiphany and the Eucharist relate to one another; it’s the mystery we eat, the sacramental flesh that makes us all brothers and sisters, all of us no matter who we are. It is nothing less than the beginning of what John saw when he got to look into heaven, the “great multitude, which no one could count.”[11]
Which is why we remember the Magi. These wise men represent us. These are literally the “distant peoples” mentioned in Isaiah, distant like us, and separated from God by sin and ignorance and, frankly, by our non-Jewishness. On a journey, like us, they search for Christ, hardly aware of the full truth and beauty of the grace that beckons. Distant, they’re now brought “near by the blood of Christ.”[12] The Epiphany celebrates the manifestation of God in Jesus and the ingathering of all peoples by faith, whether they are Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female.[13] But it also reminds us we must be wise enough to be gathered and, like the Magi, humble enough to be seekers.
But, of course, another way to think about it is to think of the Epiphany of Christ in terms of beauty, persuasion, even seduction. That is, what we remember this time of year is that by becoming human, what God was really trying to do was seduce us, to get us to fall in love with him.
Think about what you do when you want someone to notice you, like you, or even fall in love with you. We take care of our appearance, don’t we? Even the humblest and homeliest among us at some level dress to impress. Stepping out into the world, we at some level are interested in how people see us; appearances at some level do matter. It was Twain who said, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence in society.”[14] Appearances are important. We do think about how we show ourselves to others. Either we want to attract a mate, impress a prospective employer, show off to our friends, or not offend in-laws. Appearance is loaded with meaning, and so we tend to take care of our appearance because we know that people will react to what they see.
Which simply is what God has done in Christ: he’s appeared to us. God has taken care how we see him. Augustine once called Jesus a “certain art,” the perfect model of human existence; he said Christ’s beauty attracts us.[15] The beautiful one, beauty incarnate; by means of his beauty, Christ offers salvation by attracting us. That is, it’s possible to believe in Jesus because you find him profoundly beautiful. Faith is to be seduced by God. He comes primarily as the lover of our souls and not as some dead metaphysical idea or philosophical argument. This is what John meant when he said very simply, “God is love.”[16] This is what converted me: that Jesus is beautiful, that he’s a lover. This is what atheists don’t get. They’re always rejecting some philosophical idea of God, some metaphysical argument. Which is easy to do. It’s God the beautiful, God the lover, they’re silent about. And I know why.
The point is love. Today we celebrate not only the revelation of God’s majesty, but also his love for us. “My lover speaks,” says the Song of Songs, “‘Arise, my beloved, my beautiful one, and come!’”[17] This is a song about us, about how God saves us in Jesus, the beautiful one—to love us.
But, of course, love is difficult. To be spurned, cheated on, to be the object of someone’s dangerous or inappropriate affection, to be manipulated; it’s easy to see why some people don’t want to talk about God as love, why they want to keep God in the realm of ideas and rules. Because love is dangerous sometimes, frightening. Some have been hurt by love.
But, you know, I’m not talking about God’s love, but about ours. It’s not God who’s the dangerous lover, it’s us. The wounds of God’s love are of a different kind. If love is the way God relates to us in Christ, then our love for him mustn’t have any of those impurities or sins which so often ruin love. If we’re to love God, then our love should be free of hidden motives, agendas, and unhealthy dependencies. That is, our love for Jesus should be as pure as possible. What do you want from God or from the Church? If it’s anything other than simply God’s love, rethink that. Think about what that means. As if you loved your spouse for some other reason than love.
In the gospels Jesus encountered impure, broken love, love twisted into manipulation, violence, hidden agendas. Mark, for example, says the Pharisees wanted was to “trap” Jesus; but, of course, they set the trap with a compliment: “Teacher, we know that you are a truthful man,” they began.[18] In John there’s a haunting note at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, that although “many began to believe in his name when they saw the signs he was doing,” nonetheless Jesus “would not trust himself to them;” he did not believe their belief.[19] And, of course, in today’s passage from Matthew, it’s chilling to think that Herod, that evil man, was looking for Jesus too. It’s possible, you see, to search for Jesus in an evil way, to be both spiritual and religious and at the same time spiritually and religiously corrupt. Again, we should think about that, the purity of our love.
These are our lessons. From the Magi we learn that every one of us is called to adore Christ, and that our spiritual search must rely on both natural and revealed knowledge; in addition to the star, the wise men had to consult the Jews and their scriptures to get where they were going, we’re meant to notice. Do you consult scripture? If not, why are you surprised that you’re lost? From Herod, we see the need to purify our motives. Why do we search for Christ? Why are we religious? If your spiritual motives are not pure, purify them. If our desires are to be holy, they must be wholly love. Without love, Paul said, “I am nothing.”[20] The same is true for us.
And so, let’s work to purify our love, work together, even; as sisters and brothers and even as enemies, forgiving each other simply for the beauty of it. Because Christ has come to love us, which is beautiful. Because we must take care how we love him in return. Because that should be beautiful too. Amen.
[1] Paul Bradshaw and Maxwell Johnson, The Origins of Feasts, Fasts and Seasons in Early Christianity, 137
[2] Ibid., 140
[3] Ibid., 143
[4] Gerard Manley Hopkins, “God’s Grandeur,” 1877
[5] Catechism of the Catholic Church 528
[6] Genesis 12:2-3
[7] Isaiah 2:2-3
[8] Isaiah 49:1,6
[9] Luke 2:30-32
[10] John 12:20-24
[11] Revelation 7:9
[12] Ephesians 2:13
[13] Galatians 3:28
[14] The Wit and Wisdom of Mark Twain, 3
[15] Augustine, Letter 11.4
[16] 1 John 4:8
[17] Song of Songs 2:10
[18] Mark 12:13-14
[19] John 2:23-24
[20] 1 Corinthians 13:2
© 2020 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
