Un-Epiphany
Nothing, I mean nothing, in my faith life has turned out as I planned. There are days when this still feels like a gut-punch. This is one of those, I guess
The audio for today’s post is below if you prefer to listen. Again, I apologize for Bonnie’s snores in the background.
This morning, we awakened to rain. When Bonnie nudged me until my eyes opened—before sunrise—I took one look out the window and abandoned plans for a birding outing. I went back to sleep in the guest room (also my writing room—we call it the “she-shed”) to avoid disturbing my husband. Half an hour later, a stir at the window interrupted my dreaming. I opened my eyes to see a flurry of house finches at the window feeder. I installed the thing (which involved pressing heartily on a set of three suction cups) as a Christmas gift to myself shortly after the holiday. I’ve been waiting for the birds to discover this new feasting opportunity for a couple weeks now.
Eyes wide with wonder, I lay very still and let delight enter into me, holding it close and treasuring each flutter of wing, mimicking my heart. I let twenty minutes pass before I realized the date on the church calendar—that today is January 6, Epiphany. And I let myself remember.
When our nest was full, every December, when the time came to get out the Christmas decorations, one of the first things I would pull down from the attic is a simple wooden nativity set that we have had since the boys were small. I would carefully place all the key figures where they belong. Mary and Joseph behind the manger. The shepherds off to the side with their sheep. The angel on the roof of the stable, the donkey in the straw…and when everything was in its place, Jeffrey—our youngest—would take baby Jesus and tuck him away in a secret hiding place, not to be seen until Christmas day.
And the wise men? They would start to wander.
It was a tradition in our home to hide those wise guys throughout the house during our Christmas waiting. Whoever found one—well, it was his or her duty to hide him again. The trick to the game was to find a clever spot, one in which the wise man would be discovered in a surprising way—sort of a hiding in plain sight. Imagine the surprise when one went to don a shoe and found a wise man inside. Or, when turning in for the night, noticing there was a hard lumpy magi under the pillow. One night, Jeffrey even duct-taped one to the ceiling above my bed. The wise men have lurked in branches of the Christmas tree, dangled from stockings, chattered their teeth in the freezer, even tried to blend in with my angel choir on the mantle. The goal, you see, was for the wise men to be found; it wouldn’t do for them to stay hidden. They were on a journey—looking for the Christ-child.
On Christmas morning Jeffrey would pluck the baby Jesus from his hiding place and the core of our nativity was complete. But the wise men? They would still wander. They wandered on for the 12 days of Christmas—which start on Christmas day and ends today—at Epiphany.
This morning, I lay there in bed, watching the finches vie for sunflower seeds, remembering, and suddenly, I felt so lonely. I thought about all the twists and turns my faith life has taken since those long-ago Epiphanies, and I grieved the many losses along the way. Not the least of which has been the death of a simple faith, uncomplicated by the many ups and downs that accompany the accumulation of years as a human being living in a broken world.
The irony does not escape me. I realize the story of Epiphany is the story of us all—here we are, each on our own long journey through life, and we are invited to consider a journey that took place over 2000 years ago. I’m tempted to poo-poo it all, disregard it as an ancient fairytale with no relevance. What in the world could such a story speak into my life today?
I even feel a little angry as I consider the question. Nothing, I mean nothing, in my faith life has turned out the way I planned. There are days when this still feels like a gut punch. This is one of them. I close my eyes and wait for the feeling to pass; chalk it up to the rain, to missing my boys, to those chicken wings I ate last night.
But I know that’s only part of the truth.
The other part is, I have walked a million miles, like those wise men, and I am still not done following that star.
I have traveled so far—searching, longing, trying to move closer to Christ my entire earthly life. And sometimes, I feel tired. I feel, too, a little of what the Magi must have felt: When they departed the safety of their homeland, they had no idea what they were getting into. They did not know where the star would lead them, how long it would take, or what they might find bathed in that starlight. They only felt the pull of that star—knew that it was important for them to follow wherever it might lead. It must have been a powerful tugging at the heart, this thing that led them to leave it all behind and seek after the One. I wonder what their families must have said? I wonder what their friends whispered about them behind their backs. And how it must have mattered little compared to that drive, that pull of the Christ-child.
They said yes to the journey because it was inconceivable to say no. Because something inside of them would not let them say no. It was personal, see. And isn’t that one of the lessons of the Epiphany story? Our journey to find Jesus is a personal story, one that sometimes cannot be explained to others. The star keeps pulling us.
Have you felt it? It’s the sigh in your spirit when the sun makes shine on water, the twist in your heart when you walk under a star-filled sky, it’s the music—so beautiful—that it haunts you in your sleep, the curve of a baby’s cheek, that feeling of small under a forest canopy, the scent of earth filling your nostrils, it’s the way the oceans sings as it strums over a shell strewn shore…the awakening to beauty everywhere. That’s our star. That’s the light of the Holy Spirit inside of us.
But sometimes … sometimes it feels like this journey is going nowhere. Maybe on rainy days or lonely days or days when the birdsong breaks your heart. Maybe, like me, you feel the tired of the journey.
I have no epiphanies for you today. I don’t have the answers. I don’t know what kind of shoes you’ve hidden in. Or whether you’ve stood with chattering teeth in the cold. Maybe you’ve been hanging out in the angel choir but feel deep in your soul you don’t belong. Wherever you have wandered in your faith journey, let me assure of this: you are not alone.
This is what Epiphany means to me: God will never stop calling me ever closer, no matter how tired I am. He gets it. He knows a thing or two about long journeys, after all.
No matter where you have gone in the past, no matter how you are prone to wander…You are seen; you are loved. This ancient story reminds our hearts that Christ came for all and there are some journeys worth the travel. But it’s okay to rest along the way—to delight in a flock of house finches as they gather for a feast, to linger in beauty for a spell.
And be restored.
Start where you are:
the loose-knit knots
of the blanket Susan sent
a blind to hide behind
when the cold, white light
of January blows through
the window, you can sink
deeper into the folds
that hold the warmth
of your thighs, your belly
your gaze, and let this be
the world, all there is—
this moment, this breath—
so that when the house finch
lands at the window feeder,
you startle in memory—
the blackness of her eye,
the streaks on her tawny
breast, how she tucks wings
behind, feathers neatly
rowed, tips curving together
in white bars; sound of millet,
seed hulls discarded, falling
against the glass, her pink
toes grasping, strong tongue
working the seed. She sees
me; she doesn’t see me,
she lifts her body into air
and is gone. start where you
are. But, for the Love—
do not stay there.
Your words invoke a familiar ache. May we never stop following the Star.
This is beautiful and honest. Thank you for sharing the ups-and-downs of your faith journey. I am so glad you bought yourself a window feeder. Our has brought much delight to us. It is a tiny way to find a bit of wonder and surprise up close. And maybe, wonder and surprise are at the core of many epiphanies....