Today I began preparing
for my homily for Sunday, the feast of the Epiphany, which I’ll share at a
Celebration of the Word with Communion in a village as well as at Mass in a
town. Many ideas are going through my head and heart as I ask God to help me
speak the words we need to hear. But I thought of a homily I might give if I
were in the US. Here are some reflections.
Twice this week as I was walking to my house after an
evening Mass, I looked up and beheld the heavens filled with myriad stars. I
stopped and gazed in wonder.
But as I began to prepare for my homily for the Epiphany, I
began to wonder about the magi, these wise men from the East. How could
they have noticed a single star in a sky filled with these little points of
light. What could have led them to leave behind the security of their homes?
They would have to travel overland, for weeks, probably on camels, without the
assistance of GPS. They had an idea that a “king” had been born but they had no
idea who he was or where he was. They were just following a star that they had
somehow noticed.
On their way they were distracted by the bright lights of
the city of Jerusalem and went there to ask questions. These star-struck
foreigners must have surprised many of the city-dwellers. But when they asked
Herod about the newborn king of the Jews, people were startled – and filled
with trepidation. “Greatly troubled,” Herod conferred with the religious
leaders, who were probably his cronies. They said that the king would be born
in nearby Bethlehem, but they made no effort to go with the magi. They returned
to their labors in the temple (and the court).
The magi left buoyed with the news that they were probably going
in the right direction. But then they noticed the star – and they were “overwhelmed
with joy,” or, as N. T. translates it, “they were beside themselves with joy
and excitement.”
They entered the house and saw a mother with her child. I
wonder if that might have felt like an anticlimax, a real disappoint.
But, falling down, crouching down, they worshipped the child.
These wise men had been filled with wonder at the sight of a
star. They had not fawned over a king but merely sought his advice. But here
they were, falling down, crouching at the feet of a baby.
Wonder led them to the stable; wonder and joy led them to
prostrate themselves before a child.
Have we forgotten wonder? Can we look with delight at a
star-filled sky – and see a special star? Can we look at a baby on his mother’s
knee – and see God come among us? Can we adore God among us, on our knees?
The Jesuit priest Alfred Delp, from a Nazi prison, recognzied
that they were free, having left all behind. As he wrote:
When those
worshippers knelt in homage on the floor of the humble stable with everything
else put behind them—their homes, the wilderness, the guiding star, the agony
of the silent star, the palace of the king and the grandeur of the city—when
all these had lost their value and their impressiveness and the worshippers’
whole being was concentrated in the single act of adoration, the symbolic
gesture of laying gifts before the manger signified the achievement of liberty.
Then they were free.
What was important was recognizing the mystery of God, here
among us.
The star showed the way – but their hearts led them to fall
down and worship.
Are we free enough to worship?
Are we free enough to follow the signs?
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The first image is from Ravenna, the second is by Ade Bethune.
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