Stars: A Sermon for Epiphany

Sermon Delivered at The Local Church
January 5, 2025 • Epiphany Sunday
Scripture: Matthew 2:1–12

You may have missed it, and it's completely understandable if you did, but yesterday, at around 8:30 in the morning, the earth reached perihelion. Perihelion happens each January, and it's the time when the earth is at its closest point to the sun—a mere 91.4 million miles away—just a stone's throw, really. Could you feel it? Me neither.

The word perihelion comes from the Greek peri, meaning near, and helios, meaning sun. And the only reason I know this is a thing is because I got a notification from my stargazing app on Friday night, and it piqued my interest.

There's something fitting that we here on Earth might find ourselves closest to our closest star in the solar system, so close to a Sunday in which we tell the story of another star—the one that shone overhead long ago, one that is perhaps featured prominently in our Nativity scenes, one that cut through the world's darkness and guided magi by its persistent, steady light to a radical revelation of God's abiding presence in the Christ child. That's the story we celebrate today on Epiphany Sunday.

I've long been captivated by the night sky. One of my favorite Christmas presents as a kid was a telescope—not just a toy telescope for kids, but a legit one—and I have vivid memories of my mom and dad helping me set it up in our driveway on bitter-cold winter nights to examine the night sky, having to take off my mittens each time I needed to adjust the focus or turn another knob.

One of my bucket list items is to travel to one of those dark sky sanctuaries, places devoid of natural light where the night sky is just filled with more stars than you could imagine. For millennia, human beings have been captivated by the stars. In many ancient cultures, stars were associated with deities or spirits. Others believed the stars are where their gods lived. The stars have been used to tell time, and predict the future. Still today, many look to the sky to help make sense of the world. And in the Bible, stars are symbols of the expansiveness of God's blessing.

Research suggests that looking up at the stars is actually good for your well being. According to at least one study, stargazing makes you a nicer person. It's been shown to boost your creativity. If you do it with others, it can help pull you from isolation and loneliness. And, as was the case for those with whom we journey today, for generations, long before the advent of GPS, stars were critical for navigation—holding steady in the night sky as those below sought to find their way.

Today is Epiphany Sunday. But before we talk about the Epiphany, we have to talk about Christmas. While so much of the world has already moved on, the season of Christmas in the church lasts for twelve whole days. We spend so long preparing and waiting that it just makes sense to spend a little more time celebrating. The church, in its wisdom, has said, "Hang tight. Slow down. You do all this work to get ready, we should revel in it a bit." Rather than just moving on to Valentine's Day, turning the page, and hurrying off to the next thing, the church has set aside twelve days of Christmas to savor the good news of great joy that God is with us—a season we call Christmastide.

And then, on January 6, having reveled for twelve days, Christmastide ends with what's called the Feast of the Epiphany. The word Epiphany comes from the Greek word for "manifest" or "showing forth" or "revelation" or "new understanding." And that's what Epiphany is all about: about how in the incarnation of Jesus, in love coming local, God with skin on, Jesus is revealed as God with us—a God who doesn't keep us at a distance, but comes near and makes a home of this place, this world, these people. It's about how the birth of Jesus gives us a new understanding of who God is and how to live, and how God's love is made manifest not in a palace, not among the powerful and the rich and the conniving, but among the poor, the marginalized, and the seemingly forgotten. And about how this love shows forth to all people.

This morning's scripture comes from Matthew's gospel:

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, magi from the east came to Jerusalem, asking, "Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star in the east and have come to pay him homage." (Matthew 2:1–2)

Matthew tells us that Jesus, the Christ child, has been born. Herod is king at the time, and he's met by magi who have come seeking the whereabouts of the child who was born king of the Jews because they've come to honor him.

Can you imagine Herod's reaction? I have a lot of fun in my mind's eye picturing Herod trying to keep a straight face and maintain his composure when a) they insult him by referring to another as the king, b) he discovers that this king has been born and could threaten his own power, and c) to add insult to injury, they have gifts that aren't for him as he may be used to but are instead for this child.

With this simple question, "Where is this child who has been born king of the Jews," Matthew tells us that Herod is frightened—his status and reign called into question—and all of Jerusalem is terrified as well at the implications of what this conflict among kings might mean for them.

So before Herod responds, he calls the chief priests and scribes together—the religious leaders and scholars of the day—and asks them where the Messiah was to be born. They quote the prophet Micah, who foretold Bethlehem as the place.

Herod returns to the magi and basically says, "I tell you what. You go and search for the child in Bethlehem, and when you've found him, come back and let me know, so that I can go and honor him, too—in a completely legitimate and non-nefarious way, of course."

The magi continue to follow the star until it brings them to Jesus and Mary, and there they kneel and offer their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh—gifts whose significance has been interpreted in all sorts of ways and with all sorts of meanings—gold a sign of kingship, frankincense for wisdom, myrrh for healing—but in any instance, these gifts are fit for a king. They're expensive gifts, a sign that this king is worth this treasure, and so much more.

And once they've paid their respects, they depart. But, as Matthew describes, having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they go home by a different road. What we'd discover if we kept reading is that Herod, feeling threatened, acts out of this fear and has every child aged two and under in and around Bethlehem killed. It's come to be called the Massacre of the Innocents. It is tragic, and it's a stark reminder of how power corrupts, especially when it's unchecked, what happens when empire feels threatened, and how the most vulnerable are so often most at risk.

It's important to know that the magi weren't necessarily kings like we sing, and nowhere in scripture does it give a number. The three comes from the number of gifts, but there could've been more magi traveling—maybe even fewer.

Instead, who we've come to refer to as magi or wise men are actually Zoroastrian priests, astrologers, or scientists from Persia, which is modern-day Iran. In other words, they're Gentiles—a term for people who aren't Jewish—who deal in magic and sorcery. They interpret dreams. They tell fortunes. They would have been Persian scholars of the day. These were not the insiders. And so what we shouldn't miss is just how remarkable it is that among first to receive God's revelation, the first to come and honor the newborn king, who kneel in worship and honor this God in human form, isn't the religious elite. It's not the insiders. It's these Gentile pagan priests. And this should tell us something about who God is and how big God's embrace is and who this good news is for—good news of great joy for all the people—that there's no one who's excluded from God's love.

There's also something to be said here about the political message—that this newborn king isn't found in the halls of power in Jerusalem surrounded by pomp and circumstance but instead among a poor family in the hidden, out-of-the-way places like Bethlehem. So often, this is how God shows up—not in ways you'd expect, not among large crowds of insiders, not in the loud and brash and bombastic, but in the quiet, the meek, the unexpected—among the poor and powerless. If only we'd have eyes to see it.

We should also mention how the magi returned home by a different road. Because sometimes encountering the holy means we can't go back the way we came. Sometimes love requires us to find a new path forward.

A few weeks ago, I had this moment where I was feeling overwhelmed and anxious about all kinds of things. I was in my head and just getting worked up. And I can't remember what that particular existential crisis was about. It could've been feeling like everything depended on me, a sense of dread about the future, wondering what I'm doing with my life and trying to hold it all together. You get it, right? I don't remember. But I do remember that I was driving on 64 heading over Jordan Lake a little after sunset, tossing these things back and forth in my mind, just generally unsettled. And that's when I looked up and saw the stars. The sky was clear. The stars were dazzling. And I stopped thinking and started breathing.

I had this moment then of reflecting on their constancy—their consistency—their steadfastness. That whether I've noticed them or not—whether I'd paid attention, whether I'd hauled out my telescope or not—they had been there without fail every day and every night for 39-plus years and for so many before that. And every night since.

And for a little while, I felt my smallness against the expanse of the universe—not in a way that felt belittling or diminishing but one in which I felt held. Because when I meditated on the constancy and consistency of the stars, I considered how these same stars that had witnessed centuries of human doubt and determination were now witnessing mine. The same stars that had guided countless wanderers home were still burning bright. They'd seen empires rise and fall. They'd spread across the sky for generations, night after night, bearing witness to every celebration and lament, every act of courage and every moment we turned away, every anxious mind and weary heart, every oppressive law and small victory for justice. They'd seen it all, night after night, without fail. And they'll be there again tonight. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.

As I read this story anew this year, I couldn't help but think about that one star noticed long ago by these Zoroastrian astrologers—these star scientists—who looked up and saw what no one else could see. And in a world that seemed, in so many ways, to be unraveling—a tyrant raging, an empire exploiting, divisions cutting deep, fear spreading fast—this star remained. Constant. Consistent. Faithful. And I couldn't help but reflect on how its steady light pierced the darkness, drawing these travelers across distance and difference to something, Someone, who could hold it all. The One whose light redeems it all—Jesus.

This star helped the magi find their way. It helped them get their bearings. Step by step into the known and unknown of all that lay before them, the star offered a sense of direction and orientation—consistency and comfort.

And in the same way, as another year begins and we take steps into the known and unknown, ourselves, weary travelers that we are, considering all that may lie ahead and carrying heavy questions:

Will I find work that matters?

Can this relationship be healed?

How will I afford this?

Will my mental health hold steady?

What about the climate, our democracy, our future?

Amidst all of it, I'm not sure there's anything we need more than this same good news showing forth—this epiphany—that there is a light shining in the darkness—a light that, if we have eyes to see—guides our path, gives us our bearing, steadies our hearts, and draws us closer to the eternal light of Christ.

In a world that can feel so full of dark nights and seeming darker days, I'm not sure there's anything we need more than to trust that we, too, are held by a God who, like the stars in the night sky, is steadfast, constant, and consistent—the same God whose unwavering love meets us in Jesus—the Light of the World—constant, present, and faithful.

I heard a powerful story this week about the power this steadfast and consistent light can have in a world that can feel like it's unraveling. In 1992, near the outset of the Bosnian War, a bomb exploded outside a bakery in the capital city of Sarajevo, killing twenty-two people who had been standing in line for bread—a scarce commodity in a time of war. Bombing like this was a daily occurrence as the city was constantly under attack. But that day, in the aftermath of the bombing at the bakery, a cellist who lived nearby named Vedran Smajlović rushed to the scene. And when he saw the devastation, he was overcome with grief. And so he responded the only way he knew how. And so for the next twenty-two days, one for each victim of the bombing, he sat in the bomb crater and he played the cello—steadfast, consistent, constant—as artillery continued to rain down around him.

Here's how one author recounted it:

"Known as the 'Cellist of Sarajevo,' Smajlovic not only performed outside the bakery but continued to unleash the beauty of his music in graveyards, at funerals, in the rubble of buildings, and in the sniper-infested streets. 'I never stopped playing music throughout the siege,' he said. 'My weapon was my cello.' Although completely vulnerable, Smajlovic was never shot. It was as if the beauty of his presence repelled the violence of war. His music created an oasis amid the horror. It offered hope to the people of Sarajevo and a vision of beauty to the soldiers who were destroying the city. A reporter asked him if he was crazy for playing in a war zone. Smajlovic replied, 'Why do you not ask if they are crazy for shelling Sarajevo?'" — Skye Jethani, Futureville

In much the same way as the stars hold their place in the night sky, constant and consistent, Vedran Smajlović held his place in Sarajevo's chaos, offering persistent beauty and stubborn hope day in and day out. Like the stars above, he became a fixed point of faithfulness in a fractured world.

And as we begin a new year together, this is the good news of Epiphany—the same constant light that guided the magi and the same consistent stars that shine faithfully above us lead us to God's steadfast presence and Jesus's steadfast love. That presence holds us, holds you, whether you're looking up at the stars or not, whether you feel it or not, no matter what will come our way in the days, weeks, and months ahead.

And so, on this day so near to when Earth draws nearest to our closest star, may we be drawn ever nearer to the One whose light never dims, whose love never fails, and whose presence remains as constant as the stars above. In the name of Jesus, the Light of the World, Amen.