Epiphany returns every year with the magi and their star, and its very familiarity can lull the heart to sleep. Yet what we repeat becomes what shapes us, so this story invites you to listen again with awake attention. Let your imagination slow down at each scene—the rising star, the wrong turn to Jerusalem, the small house in Bethlehem. Ask for eyes to see what you’ve missed before and a heart ready to receive fresh grace. The Child is not different this year, but you can be different as you look again. Savor the well-worn path that leads to wonder. [02:37]
While Herod ruled, Jesus was born in Bethlehem, and travelers from the east arrived in Jerusalem. They said they had noticed a star rise, signaling a royal birth, and they had come to honor the newborn king. Matthew 2:1–2
Reflection: Which familiar Scripture or practice have you stopped truly hearing, and what simple change this week could help you listen for Jesus with fresh attention?
The visitors from Persia may not have known temple rituals, yet they recognized a King and bowed. Their gifts—gold, incense, and myrrh—may have simply been what a young family could use, but their worship was the point. You too can bring what is useful and needed, while keeping your heart low before Jesus. It is not the sophistication of the offering but the surrender of the giver that honors him. Begin with adoration, then let your generosity flow as a natural response. [03:22]
They entered the house, found the child with his mother Mary, lowered themselves in reverence, and presented what they had—gold, incense, and myrrh. Matthew 2:11
Reflection: Who near you could use a “gift card, Tylenol, or diaper cream” kind of blessing this week, and how might you offer it as worship, not just generosity?
The magi were close, yet off by five or six miles—impressive Jerusalem instead of unlikely Bethlehem. We also assume we can “find it from here,” only to learn we need a holy correction. God does not shame us for detours; he rejoices to guide us back by light. When the star stopped, their hearts leapt, and they chose a different road home. Joy is the fruit of reorientation—small turns toward Jesus that change the journey. Take the turn that brings you back under his guiding star. [04:05]
They set out, and the star they had watched earlier moved ahead until it paused above the place where the child was. Seeing it come to rest, they were thrilled beyond measure. Warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they went back to their country by another route. Matthew 2:9–10, 12
Reflection: Where have you been aiming for a “Jerusalem” that looks impressive while God is pointing you to a humbler “Bethlehem,” and what one small step will you take in the next two days to realign?
There is a holy in-between—neither the comfort of what was nor the clarity of what will be. In that liminal space, Christ meets us, disorients us from old patterns, and lovingly reorders our lives. Waiting here is uncomfortable, but it is also where worship deepens and guidance becomes clear. As the magi learned, kneeling in the ambiguity becomes the doorway to a different road. Trust the Light to lead you while you stand on the threshold. [03:48]
Rise, shine—your light has come, and the Lord’s brightness rests on you. Darkness covers the earth and deep gloom the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you, and nations are drawn to your light, rulers to the brightness of your dawn. Isaiah 60:1–3
Reflection: What fear surfaces when you wait in the in-between, and what prayer or practice could help you remain there long enough to be reoriented by Christ?
Epiphany proclaims Jesus made known to the world, and baptism proclaims you made new in him. The “eighth day” invites you to live today as a fresh beginning—God not only creating but recreating you. You belong to the Light who shines now, not someday, and sends you out by a different road. Receive your calling to reflect that brightness in ordinary places and practical love. Let this be the week you walk in newness of life, step by step. [02:59]
Through baptism we were joined with him in his death, so that just as the Father raised Jesus from the dead, we also can step into a new way of living. Romans 6:4
Reflection: If you treated today as your “eighth day,” what one new rhythm—prayer, service, or reconciliation—will you begin and actually place on your calendar this week?
Every Epiphany draws me back to Matthew’s familiar story of wise men following a strange star. Its power is in that very familiarity: we keep repeating what matters. The magi—likely Zoroastrian astrologers from Persia—travel across cultures and borders to honor a king who is not their own. We often focus on their gifts, but the key is what they do with their bodies. They see the star. They enter the house. They kneel. They worship. Their movement tells the story: seeking, seeing, bowing, offering.
I suggested their gifts may have been practical—gold as currency, frankincense and myrrh as medicine—because what matters most in the scene is not the treasure but the homage. The magi are the first to recognize the holy in ordinary space, the divine in a small child, the fullness of God in flesh. But they don’t get everything right at first. They assume Jerusalem, not Bethlehem, and get five miles off. Only when they re-fix their gaze on the star do they find joy, the kind that overwhelms and reorients. Then they go home by another road.
That pivot is where many of us live right now. Our church is in a liminal season—a threshold between what was familiar and what is not yet clear. It’s disorienting to realize the old maps don’t quite work. Yet this is the very place where Christ meets us. The invitation is to dwell in the ambiguity long enough for worship to reshape our direction, to trust the Light more than our assumptions, and to welcome being reordered by love.
So, I asked us to look for Christ in unexpected places this year, to keep our eyes open for small Bethlehems we might otherwise pass by. Around the Table, we remember that life in Christ begins now, not “later,” and that the light we receive is the light we bear. As we renew our baptismal promises, we stand on the “eighth day” of creation—God’s ongoing work of making all things new, including us. Step into the different road. The star still shines.
Since we hear it every year, we might be lulled into ignoring this story — it is easy to let it drift in one ear and out the other because it’s so familiar; yet repetition can reveal what matters most.
These foreigners who came from a different country and followed a different belief system were the first to recognize just how significant this birth really was.
Gold, frankincense, and myrrh may sound exotic to our modern ears, but in first century Palestine, they might have just been the equivalent of gift cards, Tylenol, and diaper cream.
In order to be changed, to experience new life, we must let go of our old ways of knowing and being — we must let go of the old order or orientation and allow ourselves to live for a while in the ambiguity of disorientation or disorder.
They were looking for a Being worthy of their worship: a king — not of their own nation — but a king they could serve, regardless of political or geographic boundaries.
Standing on the threshold, we are neither in nor out. It is in this space between what we once knew as order and what we will eventually recognize as re-order where we find Christ and worship the one who can reorder our lives.
Because if you are, the Light of the World is shining on the way forward. Jesus is calling you into new life — not eventually, or after you die, but life that begins now.
Are you willing to embrace the ambiguity of being disordered long enough to step together into a new sense of God’s purpose? Can you trust, as completely as those Persian magi did, in Christ’s promise to transform us?
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