Jan. 4, 2026 - Epiphany Sunday

There's something powerful about the word "epiphany." It captures those rare, breathtaking moments when everything suddenly clicks—when understanding crashes over us like a wave and we see the world differently than we did just seconds before. These are the moments that change us, that reorient our compass, that illuminate what was previously hidden in shadow.

Epiphany Sunday, celebrated near January 6th each year, commemorates one of history's most profound aha moments: when ancient priests from distant lands followed a star to find a baby who would change everything.

The wise men—or magi, as they're sometimes called—weren't just casual stargazers. These were Zoroastrian priests from regions we now know as Iran and Iraq, men who had dedicated their entire lives to studying the heavens. Night after night, they charted constellations, tracked planetary movements, and searched the skies for meaning.

Then one night, a star appeared that defied all their charts and calculations. Something extraordinary was happening, and they knew it in their bones.

What's remarkable is that these weren't Jewish scholars waiting for the Messiah. They weren't even part of the covenant community. Yet when divine light broke into their world, they recognized it. They didn't dismiss it, rationalize it away, or ignore it because it disrupted their comfortable routines. Instead, they embarked on a journey that would take them hundreds of miles from home.

And contrary to popular nativity scenes, there were likely far more than three of these seekers. When you witness something that revolutionary in the heavens, you don't make that journey alone. The tradition of three comes from the three gifts mentioned—gold, frankincense, and myrrh—but the caravan of truth-seekers was probably much larger.

Their journey took considerable time. From the Middle East to Jerusalem, then to Bethlehem, following a celestial sign to worship a child born in poverty. The journey was so lengthy that when King Herod later tried to eliminate this threat to his power, he ordered the murder of all male children two years old and under—accounting for the time it would have taken these travelers to see the star, prepare for the journey, and finally arrive.

These wise men experienced a true epiphany. Their worldview was forever changed. They came seeking a king and found God himself wrapped in swaddling clothes

The Gospel of John opens with a profound meditation on light and darkness. The Word—Jesus—was there at creation, the light of all humanity, entering a dark world. But here's the uncomfortable truth John presents: the darkness did not understand the light. Even more troubling, many preferred the darkness to the light.

Why would anyone prefer darkness?

Because light reveals. Light exposes. Light shows us things we'd rather not see—especially about ourselves.

We live in an age of carefully curated personas, where everyone appears to have it all together. Social media feeds showcase our best moments, our victories, our polished selves. But beneath the surface, we all wrestle with shadows—anxiety that whispers relentlessly in the back of our minds, fears we can't quite shake, habits we can't seem to break, relationships we've damaged, potential we've squandered.

The light of Christ doesn't just illuminate the world around us; it illuminates the world within us. And that can be deeply uncomfortable.

There's a particular danger that faces religious communities: institutionalization. We develop our routines, our preferences, our comfortable rhythms. We like things the way they are. We know what to expect. Change becomes threatening rather than exciting.

This comfort-seeking can transform vibrant faith into mere religious habit. We show up, go through the motions, and leave unchanged. We become more concerned with preserving what we like than with being transformed into what God wants us to become.

The question isn't whether we like church or find it entertaining. The question is: Do we need it?

Do we need the Word of God preached with truth and conviction? Do we need correction, rebuke, and guidance? Do we need to bare our souls before God and community? Do we need accountability, prayer, and the formation that happens when we gather as God's people?

If we're honest, most of us would rather not need anything. We'd prefer to be self-sufficient, complete, already arrived. But that's the darkness talking—the pride that says we're fine just as we are.

Epiphany is ultimately about illumination—about allowing God's light to penetrate the shadowy corners of our lives.

This requires something from us: vulnerability. Honesty. A willingness to admit that we don't have it all together, that we're still growing, still learning, still desperately in need of grace.

It means acknowledging that voice of anxiety that never quite shuts up. It means admitting the fears that drive us, the insecurities that shape our decisions, the wounds we carry that influence how we treat others.

The wise men traveled hundreds of miles, following a star they didn't fully understand, to worship a king they had never met. They made themselves vulnerable—leaving their homes, their routines, their comfortable lives—because they recognized that something greater was calling them.

What might happen if we approached our faith with that same openness? What if we stopped defending our comfortable darkness and instead invited God's light to search every corner of our hearts?

True faith isn't about having all the answers. It's about engaging with the questions, wrestling with mystery, allowing our understanding to deepen and expand.

Does God change? How can Jesus be fully God and fully human? How does the Trinity work? These aren't questions to be quickly answered and filed away. They're invitations to deeper relationship, to ongoing exploration, to a faith that grows richer over time.

The Christian life isn't meant to be static. It's a journey—much like the journey of those ancient stargazers—where we continually discover new facets of God's character, new depths of His love, new areas where His light needs to shine.

On this Epiphany Sunday and in the days that follow, the invitation stands: Will you allow the Light of the World to give you an aha moment?

Will you open yourself to God's illuminating presence? Will you be vulnerable enough to admit where darkness still lingers in your life? Will you be courageous enough to seek deeper understanding, to ask hard questions, to let your faith challenge and change you?

The wise men didn't find what they expected. They found something infinitely better—a God who loved them enough to become small, vulnerable, and human. A God who entered darkness to be our light.

That same God still offers light to anyone willing to follow the star, make the journey, and bow before the mystery.

Your epiphany awaits. The only question is whether you're ready to see.