Well, that’s Christmas over with for another year!

And it’s not because the post-Christmas sales have now finished…

or the hot-cross buns and the Easter eggs have hit the supermarket shelves.

In the West–– 

in Roman Catholic and Protestant traditions––Christmas ends with Epiphany;

the day when we remember the story of the so-called Wisemen, or Magi, visiting the baby Jesus;

which marks the end of the so-called ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’;

following which we can safely jump ahead and focus on the adult Jesus.

In the East, however––

in Orthodox tradition––

they don’t really celebrate Christmas.

Instead, Epiphany is one of the major festivals of their ecclesiastical year.

And yet, in so doing, they don’t focus on the story of the Magi.

Rather, they sort of roll together a remembrance of Jesus’ birth along with his baptism;

and they refer to it as ‘Theophany’ rather than ‘Epiphany’.

Even in the naming, then, it’s a pretty significant difference.

In its derivation from the Greek, ‘Theophany’ means, literally, ‘God shines’.

The emphasis, then, is upon God––

and upon God’s revealing of God’s self in the person of Jesus.

And, they suggest, we see that revelation pre-eminently in both the birth and the baptism of Jesus.

Epiphany, however, means “to shine upon”.

Here, the emphasis is not on God…

but on the indirect object implied by ‘upon’.

And, clearly, through the rehearsal of the story of foreign visitors coming to pay homage…

Epiphany becomes a remembrance that God’s revelation is also made to ‘the Gentiles’––

that is, people who weren’t part of Israel.

There’s a strong message here that God’s revelation of God’s self––

along with God’s love and mercy––

has now been graciously, and almost paternalistically, granted to outsiders.

On one level, of course, it speaks of inclusion.

But, on another level… 

it also articulates a thinly-veiled cultural-religious imperialism… 

even superciliousness.

And, unfortunately, such an attitude has all too often underpinned missionary endeavours ever since.

 

But what if we turned it all around?

What if we identified with these ‘others’…

with these outsiders?

After all, from the perspective of the author and the intended audience…

that’s who we are.

And what if we saw this story as, perhaps, a parable…

even an allegory…

of the spiritual journey?

What does it say to us then?

 

First of all, the Magi––

who were Zoroastrian priests and astrologers––

saw what is described as a ‘new’ star…

and they assumed that it meant the birth of a great man;

because, in the first century, the birth of great men––

men like Alexander the Great or Caesar Augustus––

were thought to be accompanied by astral and cosmic phenomena.

The Magi, then, made a logical and appropriate assumption about its significance––

from within their own sociocultural and religious tradition––

and they reached a conclusion that was, in many respects, correct, if only partial.

And so, initially, their journey reflected those assumptions.

Thus, it was, that in seeking this newborn great-one… 

they went first of all to Jerusalem and to Herod’s palace.

You can imagine their surprise then––

even their bewilderment––

when their journey ends at a humble peasant’s hovel…

in a small, obscure village…

in the middle of Hicksville.

Our search for God always begins from our assumptions––

cultural, religious, and personal––

but it seldom ends or remains there.

God has a habit of stomping on our traditions and confounding our expectations.

And, if we really wish to encounter God, we have to be open to that––

open to searching and questioning…

open to dead-ends and mistakes…

open to new insights…

open to having our assumptions shattered.

We cannot expect to know or encounter God if our approach to religion is narrow, closed, and sectarian;

and if it privileges a book and supposedly revealed traditions…

over searching, questioning, and insight.

Our spiritual journey seldom ends where we expect…

and we seldom find what we expect.

If our search to understand God is a journey of illumination…

then it’s first and foremost a journey of disillusionment.

 

Secondly, upon seeing the star, the Magi set out on a harrowing journey––

a journey of many months…

through arid, desolate, and barren land…

replete with all sorts of dangers and unsavoury characters…

not knowing, when they arrived, how they would be received…

if they would be understood…

or even if they would find what it was that they were seeking.

Our search for God is always inherently risky.

Not only does it force us to face up to our assumptions about God…

but also our assumptions about ourselves––

about who we are…

our place in the world…

even our sense of meaning or purpose, or lack of it––

and our assumptions about our world and our place in it.

And, in the same way…

as the Magi offered up precious gifts…

our search for God, too, can be costly.

It can demand of us more than we expect…

and more than we’re prepared to give.

 

Thirdly, in nobly undertaking their journey––

in innocently and naively going to Herod first…

and thereby alerting him to what was happening under his nose––

they set in motion a chain of events that was anything but pleasant;

indeed, it would lead to the slaughter of many innocent children…

and the forced exile of Jesus and his family.

Of course, that wasn’t what they intended when they set out––

not at all!

It’s something that they would never have imagined would be a consequence of their quest.

Our search for God is never an isolated, individual endeavour.

It always occurs within a context.

It always comes with consequences.

But too often––

especially in the educated West––

we think of spiritual journeys… 

and we treat them… 

as if they were innocent, benign, and thoroughly individualised undertakings;

too often, our spiritual journeys become exercises in individualised navel-gazing…

or intellectual self-gratification.

But if we truly wish to encounter God––

or to deepen our knowledge of God––

then it cannot be in isolation.

Knowing the God who reveals God’s self to all humankind––

knowing the God who ‘so loves the world’––

forces us, likewise, to engage with the world.

We cannot know God––

the God of the incarnation–– 

apart from the world.

If our encounter with God doesn’t change the way that we see our world––

or the way that we relate to our world and the people in it––

then we have not really encountered God.

Faith cannot exist simply to prop up the structures of our society and culture…

or to ensure our individual sense of comfort and privilege…

or simply to pacify our sense of emotional or psycho-spiritual dis-ease…

or, even, to appease our fear of death.

Our search to know God is––

from the outset––

a journey of responsible engagement with our world.

 

When we understand Epiphany in light of all that––

as but the beginning of a spiritual journey…

and a journey to better understand God, ourselves, and our world…

and how all three are related––

perhaps, in a sense, then, the Orthodox have got it right.

Perhaps Epiphany is far more important than Christmas;

or it ought to be.