Sermon
by the Rev. Lynn Naeckel
Imagine this:
three men traveling hard through treacherous lands, freezing
in the mountain passes, broiling in the desert, traveling sometimes
by day and sometimes by night, stopping only to sleep and rest
the camels, eating jerky and dried fruit along the way, so as
to lose no time.
These scholars
from the east had seen a new star and divined its meaning. But
how could they be sure? What if the star disappeared as quickly
as it had arisen? What if they were too late? What if they were
wrong?
They no longer
told their story to fellow travelers met at an oasis or some
resting place along the caravan route. They did not enjoy being
laughed at, especially when they harbored their own doubts.
Finally they rode in silence, too worn and tired for any conversation.
How must it
have felt – to cross the Jordan, so close to their destination,
and lift up their eyes to the jagged hills rising before them?
That last climb, winding up and up and up to Jerusalem, past
groups of Bedouin camped in the tiny valleys, must have seemed
endless.
At least the
ride to Bethlehem after their meeting with Herod seemed no more
than a moment, because the end of their journey was in sight
and now they would know.
They found their
epiphany in a humble stable in Bethlehem and they gave the baby
gifts in joy and thanksgiving.
Epiphany, as
you know, means a showing forth, a manifestation, especially
a spiritual truth or reality making itself felt or visible in
the real world. It is a beam of light in the darkness, like
the star the wise men saw. It's the experience we have that
makes something clear, like the cartoon character with the lightbulb
over his head. It's that click we hear in our heads when we
suddenly see the whole picture - when we finally "get it."
On this day,
when we celebrate Epiphany, we acknowledge that the journey
of the wise men to find the Christ child is also the journey
of every child of God. Their journey is also our journey. We
too seek to find the Holy, to validate our relationship to God,
and to offer gifts of thanksgiving.
We, too, travel
through treacherous lands. Our way sometimes leads through dry
country, where hope drains away like rainfall in the desert,
where we barely remember who we are or where we're going or
why. Sometimes we travel in high places where we can see the
world laid out before us and doubts flee. We feel certain of
our purpose and our destination.
In the dark
of night we know cold and fear, yet we keep on, encouraged by
the star we see when the night is clear. We make wrong turns
and have to backtrack to try again. We travel miles only to
find ourselves in blind canyons. We have to forge roaring mountain
streams, despite our terror of being swept away, because there
is no other choice.
Like the wise
men, we seldom speak to other travelers about our purpose. We
don't tell, when we see or hear from loved ones after they die.
We make no attempt to describe or explain our own small epiphanies:
how a beam of sunlight once transformed me; how eating a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich while sitting on a rock 3 billion
years old gave me a glimpse of my connection to the entire universe;
how the sight of a deer emerging from the woods, or the bump
of a walleye against my lure, tells me all is right with the
world; how the lap of waves against the hull of a sailboat as
I fly in silence across the lake assures me that God is alive
and well. We so fear the laughter of others that we seldom share
our deepest experiences of joy.
But, ah-h-h,
when we travel in the green valleys, where the water runs clear
in the streams, the sun is warm and the breeze is cool, where
the way is easy and the fruit falls from the trees, we feel
certain that this is the life we are meant to live.
But in the end,
we too must make the long trek up into that last range of mountains,
one step after another, uncertain about what we will find, no
longer even thinking, but only trying to find the stamina to
keep on climbing - hoping, and not hoping that this is the last
steep part.
Only at journey's
end will we find our true home - and the gift we give will be
ourselves, laid at the manger each Christmas, offered at the
altar every Sunday, and returned to the Spirit at the moment
we die.
As T.S. Eliot
says, near the end of The Four Quartets:
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
In our society
we say to people, "Have a nice day." The Chinese used
to say, "May you live in interesting times."
What I wish
for us is this: a fascinating journey with one or two boon companions,
full of peaceful and happy interludes, but with enough trouble
and struggle to teach us what we must learn, and to give us
zest and faith, enough zest to enjoy the good times and enough
faith to face the hardships to come.
So I say: May
we find the God we seek, and may we too arrive where we began
and know the place for the first time.
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