The words rhyme in Greek, the language in which these words were written.

There is music hidden even in the words, these sacred words, which we lose in our foreign, pagan languages; and, of course, because, as a people, we’re just too loud. “We saw…and have come”— εἴδομεν…ἤλθομεν, said the Magi from the east.[1] And really that’s the point of today’s feast, the moral point at least: that we are to imitate them, to be wise like them; in the humble simplicity of truth, to see and to come and to adore this born king.

Epiphany means simply manifestation. But who is wise enough to notice? Who is undistracted enough to notice? Who is not blinded? Who can see? “We saw…and have come”—who among us is like them, wise like them? Does any of this make sense to you? This Christianity, this Catholicism, this Christmas, this faith—do you not get it? And who’s fault would that be if you don’t? “The Word of God is never silent—though it is not always heard,” St. Augustine said.[2] “I myself…was closing the door of my Lord against myself…For I in my pride was daring to seek what only a humble person can find,” St. Augustine said.[3] Epiphany means manifestation. The Word has become flesh and dwells among us, St. John wrote.[4] “[W]hat we have seen and heard, we proclaim now to you,” St. John wrote.[5] “Behold the Lamb of God,” the priest says, saying just what John the Baptist said the moment he saw him.[6] “We saw…and have come”—who among us is like them, wise like them?

What do you see? What don’t you see? These are the simple questions that lay bare a soul. What if hell is just never seeing? This is the search—your Epiphany and mine, most of us still looking, too many of us wandering, no longer wondering, no longer searching, guided by screens and not stars anymore. Do you not get it? Why don’t you see? Who’s fault is that? Speaking just for me, I’ve learned the fault is entirely mine—not the Church’s, not some bad priest or a million bad priests, not music, not my family, not preaching, nothing outside myself. If I don’t get it, no one is to blame but me. “We saw…and have come”—I can do that; I’ve always been able to do that. If I’d just attend to wisdom, which is always first outside of me, always beyond me—with the God I must seek in prayer or see absolutely nowhere, with the sacrifice I keep refusing to make, with the enemy, with the forgiveness I refuse to give. You can be wise. You can see and come with us to adore; venite adoramus—you can sing this and mean it. But we must indeed struggle to see; we can’t take it for granted; it’s hard to see things sometimes. Our eyes are not perfect; nor are our spiritual eyes perfect. It takes focus, spiritual focus. Because we often get ourselves spectacularly distracted, which is how we religious people often become foolish.

It’s interesting the bit about Herod. He, of course, was looking for Christ as well, but not for the same reason as the Magi. What they said to Herod “troubled” him.[7] In theory, theologically, Herod accepted the idea of the Christ, but hearing that the Christ might actually be a reality in his world, a real king in his life, the thought perturbed him. Herod was client king, a little ruler, a fleeting, petty political figure; Jesus was born a king. Herod was praised by the paid and the afraid; Jesus was announced by angels and stars; adored by the humble, by the people, by shepherds, by pagan scientists. Herod wanted to find Christ too, but not for the same reason as the Magi. One can wickedly seek Christ, you know. Herod was a petty but still quite powerful political figure. He wanted to find Christ for another reason; Pilate, of course, would finish the job. Notice, also, Herod knew and used all the right devotional language; he imitated the words of the Magi. “When you have found him, bring me word, that I too may go and do him homage,” he said to them.[8] The Magi had just used these exact words. Herod is using faith’s language but without faith. Herod wanted to keep his power; he wanted no other king; his search for Christ was wicked; and for his own ends, he tried to corrupt the Magi’s search for Christ. Now, let me tell you, there have been many Herods since. And there are some Herods even today. I am, of course, probably talking about some politician you hate; but—and more importantly—I’m probably talking about some politician you love. I’m also talking about us. Our search for Christ can be ruined, corrupted if we are not careful, if we are not wise.

Which is why their exit is so beautiful, a thing for us to contemplate. They are not rude to Herod; they do not protest; they listen quietly and respectfully; they let him have his say. But then they just go. They leave Herod to his illusions, his games, his power and his politics. Herod was nothing more than a distraction, and so they just politely leave. And then the star shines again; the heavens speak again; they know where they’re headed again. And then they are brought to Christ; they find him in the arms of his Mother who, unlike Herod, doesn’t say a word. And there, Matthew tells us, the Magi “rejoiced a great joy,” because they found what they were really looking for.[9] They saw and they came; they adored and they were filled with joy. That’s how it happens. That’s what Christmas should cause for us—if, that is, we are wise. If we’ll learn from them again and search like them again—those wiser seekers of Christ. Amen.

[1] Matthew 2:2; Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis, Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word vol. 1, 74

[2] Augustine, Sermons for Christmas and Epiphany 1.17

[3] Ibid. 1.6

[4] John 1:14

[5] 1 John 1:3

[6] The Roman Missal; John 1:36

[7] Matthew 2:3

[8] Matthew 2:8; Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word vol. 1, 80

[9] Matthew 2:10; Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word vol. 1, 82-83

© 2022 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield