Matthew 2:1-12 

Isaiah 60:1-6 

Ephesians 3:1-12 

As we celebrate the feast of Epiphany,

recall the tale of the mysterious and striking Magi who came from afar,

I ponder long journeys I have taken.

I think of the long journey to seminary.

At first unaware that would be my destination.

Then noticing signs—obvious and less so,

hearing voices—of friends, mentors, the occasional stranger,

wondering.

I remember the moment that my journey to seminary became a conscious one,

the day I chose it,

and the deliberate steps I took from that day forward,

each one preparing me in some way,

each one taking me closer to my destination.

And I remember the day I arrived.

I remember like it was just last week.

It was like a homecoming,

to a new but strangely familiar place.

There is blessing in the journey

In the midst of this remembering,

I wonder what journeys the Magi rejected in order to take the journey to Judea?

We cannot take all journeys, of course,

for in saying “yes” to one, we say “no” to a multitude of others.

In journeying toward seminary,

I left behind a journey toward midwifery,

a journey toward lead singer of a rock ‘n roll band,

and many others.

Some journeys have to necessarily die if another journey is to live.

I am confident this was the case for the Magi.

What died in order that following the star to Bethlehem might live?

What was the cost of their journey?

Could they have counted the cost prior to going,

or did they have to go before the cost could be counted?

Did they know they would arrive at their journey’s end

and, overwhelmed with great joy, find the baby

before whom they would kneel, pay homage, and offer costly gifts?

I also wonder this:

Did they consider rejecting the journey to the child because of fear?

Because of fear they may have failed?

Because of fear they may have experienced too much pain along the way?

Because of fear they may have been transformed in ways that would require much of them?

I have rejected journeys for fear of far less.

If there’s a blessing in regret, I haven’t found it.

So I don’t regret.

At least I try not to.

Instead, I wonder,

and keep an astronomer’s eye out for fears that might block important journeys.

It is all as mysterious as a star illuminating a Judean stable,

but there is blessing in journeying.

Isaac Luke Miller Ruggles, we will dedicate you this morning,

may you find that your journeys are indeed a blessing.

As we celebrate the feast of Epiphany,

recall the tale of the mysterious and striking magi who followed signs in the night sky,

I ponder signs I have noticed and followed.

I think of my decision about where to go to high school.

Some of you are in the midst of a high school decision right now.

Now, I only had two options,

so it wasn’t nearly so crazy as the Chicago selection process.

It was difficult enough with just two options.

What you are accomplishing with so many more is remarkable.

Really: my hat is off to you!

I remember visiting the high school I would eventually choose.

I remember noticing the small rooms,

anticipating the intimate class sizes.

I remember calling teachers by first names

and observing an openness in that practice,

a friendliness,

an accessibility that all seemed promising for good relationships with teachers.

I remember sensing a discernible warmth in the atmosphere,

a mellow sort of joy in being community with one another.

There is blessing in seeking out signs, noticing and paying them heed.

In the midst of this remembering,

I wonder what signs the Magi may have noticed but ignored?

Did they see earlier signs that they were less confident about?

And did they, therefore, let them pass by?

Did they wonder for months, years or decades afterward what might have been?

Had they heeded this sign or that, how would things have unfolded differently?

What paths had remained unrevealed?

What choices not made?

I also wonder this:

Were there dry spells?

When there were no signs in sight, but not for lack of looking?

Did they experience long periods of longing for a sign?

Begging, pleading and borrowing for a sign that just wouldn’t come?

I have seen signs, but for lack of confidence or will or something, have ignored them.

I have also experienced long dry spells in which I need a sign that seems never to come.

But again: no blessing in regret.

So, instead, I wonder,

might there be a gift in the absence, in the waiting, in the unknowing?

And I keep an astronomer’s eye out for signs that might just guide my path.

It is all as mysterious as a star illuminating a Judean stable,

but there is blessing in seeking out signs.

Isaac, we will dedicate you this morning,

may you seek signs to guide your path and find that they are indeed a blessing.

As we celebrate the feast of Epiphany,

recall the tale of the mysterious and striking magi who transgressed many boundaries

to pay homage to a Hebrew baby boy,

I ponder the borders I have crossed.

I think of Christmas caroling at Heritage Woods just a few weeks ago with many of you.

I think of our relatively young crowd walking into an old folks home.

We were very young—Sammy and Isaiah charming seniors with sheer cuteness.

And we were very old.

And many of us were somewhere in between.

We were black and we were white and we were several shades of brown in between.

We were relatively affluent and we were poor.

We were looking forward to spending Christmas with family

and we were dreading spending Christmas alone.

We all crossed a lot of borders in one evening,

and I remember driving home full…

overflowing…

with wonder and joy and gratitude.

It was a highlight of my year.

Top ten list, for sure.

In the midst of this remembering,

I wonder if there were originally more than three?

Were there more Magi who also saw the sign,

who also considered the journey,

but who just couldn’t believe that God was coming in the form of the other?

They were Persian,

why go to Judea of all godforsaken places?

They were pagan,

why go find a Hebrew baby and potentially face religious intolerance and judgment?

They were scientists, astronomers,

why seek out a mere carpenter and his young bride?

They were wealthy,

why waste their time—

not to mention their costly gifts fit for a king—

on a kid born in a stable?

Were there originally more than three?

More who just couldn’t believe that transgressing those boundaries would bear fruit?

I have certainly failed to transgress some borders.

I do it almost daily.

Every time I drive past the men and women

who sleep under the Lake Shore Drive Lawrence bridge

about ½ block from my home,

I think about stopping,

asking their names,

showing up regularly enough to maybe one day hear their stories,

and maybe one day share my own.

I think about what gifts I might come bearing…

like dozens of scrambled eggs,

or a pot of hearty chili,

or a loaf of fresh-baked bread

But I worry I might not be welcome.

That my gesture might seem like just that…a gesture, and a feeble one at that.

But once again: there is no blessing in regret,

at least none that I’ve yet to find.

So, instead, I wonder,

might this story not be over?

Might the border between my world and theirs still have a chance of transgression?

And I keep an astronomer’s eye out for the moment I am ready to go,

to receive and be received.

It is all as mysterious as a star illuminating a Judean stable,

but there is blessing in crossing borders.

Isaac, we will dedicate you this morning,

may you courageously cross borders, encountering others who are different from you, and may you find in the crossing and in the encountering a blessing.

May it be so for each one of us.

In your journeying, may you find blessing.

In your watching for and heeding signs to guide your path, may you find blessing.

In your border-crossing, may you find blessing.

May it be so.