Matthew 2:1-12 Epiphany

This is how one person imagined the journey of the Magi:

‘A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.’

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

That is the beginning of TS Eliot’s poem The Journey of the Magi, written in 1927. I picture a grumpy old man looking back on what must have been the journey of a lifetime. He sounds an awful lot like the sort of tourist who should never have left home: The camels are lying down in the snow, refusing to get up! I miss the comforts of home, the summer palaces on slopes, the sherbet. Good guides are hard to get, they take off on you and they drink too much. The cities are hostile, the towns unfriendly, and—my personal favourite—the villages are dirty and charge high prices.

But then the old man moves past the superficial cantankerous chatter to reveal the Magi’s commitment, a commitment that seems to have deepened as they continued their journey:

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

You can hear the urgency, travelling all night, sleeping in snatches; and yet they cannot shake the voice saying that this was foolishness. In these short lines we hear both urgency and doubt.

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These days the word “epiphany,” when it is used at all, is used to mostly mean “a moment of sudden and striking realization or insight.” The original context is the arrival of the Magi, “wise men from the East,” often thought of as astrologers because of following the star. They are coming to honour the Christ child, the King, the Messiah, the Son of God. They have that moment of sudden striking realization—the original epiphany—when they see that the star has guided them to their destination, and they are overwhelmed with joy. They are overwhelmed with joy.

Another Christian word that can be applied to this story is “pilgrimage.” An earlier pope said this of pilgrimage: “To go on pilgrimage is not simply to visit a place to admire its treasures of nature, art or history. To go on pilgrimage really means to step out of ourselves in order to encounter God where God has revealed God’s self.” Pilgrimage means stepping out of ourselves in order to encounter God where God has revealed God’s self. The magi did just that—they went on a journey to encounter God where God revealed God’s self. And it was an unexpected revelation: a marginal peasant mother and child in a dirty village in the back of the beyond. Yet they knew that they were in the right place.

Contrast this with King Herod. Herod is famously a megalomaniac who ruled through intimidation with the backing of the Roman colonizers. His reaction to hearing that the Magi are looking for the King of the Jews is to be afraid, and when Herod is afraid, on edge, then all Jerusalem is afraid and on edge too. Far from journeying to the margins, Herod resolutely remains at the centre of power, unmoving, calling others to come to him and then sending them out to do his dirty work. He believes that the child is a threat, and he does all that he can to maintain his power, to resist change, to resist encountering the divine, to resist the Kingdom of God.

In case it’s not obvious—Herod is the opposite of a pilgrim.

Pilgrimage is sometimes described as a liminal time. That is to say, a threshold time, a time when you have left the familiar but have not yet arrived at the next stage. It’s an in-between time, a time of disorientation and ambiguity, when you have an idea of what comes next, but cannot really know. The pandemic has been an extended liminal time from which we are only now emerging. We can create liminal times and places by setting aside time for prayer and contemplation, or simply by going for a walk.

While most of us can’t go on the traditional pilgrim voyage, there are still many ways that we can step out of ourselves in order to encounter God where God has revealed God’s self, in unexpected places. Indeed, if we go back to Pope Benedict’s words on pilgrimage, he makes it clear that it’s not primarily about visiting a place to admire its treasures of nature, art or history. The physical voyage is helpful, but not essential.

As the Magi knew and as pilgrims know, liminal times are invitations to encounter God as God has revealed God’s self. But we have a choice. If we think about pandemic time, we can be kinder versions of Herod, living in fear, clinging to what power and influence we have, refusing to move. Or we can step out into the unknown, setting aside what we think we know, travelling by night with voices saying that this is all folly. And even if we do choose the journey, we may never be quite certain whether we are pilgrims or tourists.

So why would we do it? Because God is the love that moves the stars. And God is determined to be found and will use any and all means necessary—even astrology—to reach out to people who are open. So that we too can be overwhelmed with joy.