Epiphany
A manifestation of the divine
I spent the last few days preparing an “Epiphany” play with the teens of the church where I lead the youth group. We worked together to write and organize a modern retelling of when baby Jesus is discovered by the Magi. Our story considers the way that we can be witnesses to, and participate in, love, even in complicated circumstances. The way that when we witness love and walk toward it, we begin to walk closer toward wisdom. And that we walk closer toward mercy, justice, and truth, the manifestation of the divine, when we walk away from images of power, away from images of what it means to be “good,” away from the demands of the world and allow ourselves to be changed and embraced by a more subtle, quieter way in this life.
The narrative has been on my mind for the last week, so I am sharing a post from last year on this same story. The question I ask at the end is really what I am asking again: How might I allow myself to walk toward a good and wise yes for this coming year?
Here in this final “Christmas season” post, I hope you’ll find this reflection worth reconsidering. You’ll find a new, recorded yoga class at the end of the post. Next week, I’ll be back with regularly scheduled posts and some additions for paid subscribers.
I believe, as Mark Twain is rumored to have said, that the truth should never ruin a good story. Whether you or I believe a story to have happened exactly as it’s told, doesn’t matter as much as the story’s ability to grow a richer understanding of the heart of life and the possibility for reflection.
So, imagine with me, long ago, yet somehow not so long ago, a land wracked by war and dissension, split by power hungry rulers bent on spilling innocent blood and keeping people on the margins far from view. In this land, a baby is born. Because the parents are unable to afford good healthcare and most people look upon them as unwelcome strangers, the baby is born out of sight in a place that is unusual for a human birth to take place.
But somehow, like all really good stories, the birth doesn’t remain entirely secret. A few men, the wise ones, happen to be paying attention. We might say they’re simply not distracted by the noise of life and are able to see that something important has happened, a miracle possibly. They’ve heard rumor there’s a different way than discord, injustice and fear. They’ve heard there’s a way of love and peace, and a truth bigger than the falseness the rulers would have them believe. And perhaps it’s because there has been so much hate, so much hardship in the world, that the sweet smelling bundle of a new baby human is exactly the miracle these men need in order to believe it could be possible for love to be reborn in their lives.
These men are an interesting lot—foreigners, strangers in a strange land, their only GPS the light of a star. Of course, without cell reception, the stars would be the their best bet. So they begin their walk toward something new, someone they’ve heard is special. Because they are said to be “wise,” it is as if wisdom itself is walking toward this new life.
In this story, wisdom walks not in plain sight or under the glare of sunlight; not during the constant noise of daytime or revealed in plain sight. Wisdom here walks in in the quiet of darkness, when only the soft light of the stars shines. Wisdom walks away from riches and rulers, and toward that which is vulnerable, soft, tender and innocent.
I imagine these men—wisdom—walking softly, eyes wide with anticipation and wonder, hearts beating with excitement and anxiety. What will they find as they walk toward that which has been born anew? They have gifts to offer from the life they’ve lived, yet somehow they sense that the gift they’re moving toward will be worth more than anything they can carry in their hands.
This is the story I consider in this in-between season. This season hangs like an empty thought bubble above the world. It’s a time in which we are both ending and beginning. Perhaps, some wisdom from the year or years before begins to move toward the possibility of rebirth.
This year, I am imagining myself into this story, walking with soft footsteps from this time into the next, holding riches from what has been while I keep my eyes open for all that is beautiful, waiting in the silent and still darkness ahead. I am holding the story with tenderness, allowing soft and shimmering starlight to point toward a way of greater love—for the past and for the future. I am imagining, what if the static in my head and in the world doesn’t drown out a better story? What might the world know, what might my heart know then?
A New and Quiet Yoga Practice to ease into the start of the year: Yoga with Christa