I was at my strength training class, struggling through crunches, planks and various other tortures. Though I can hardly form a coherent sentence at that hour of the morning, the instructor is very chatty. She asked if any of us have New Year’s traditions. One person mentioned that for the last 30 years his family has spent New Year’s Eve’s playing games. Another talked about raclette—a fancy kind of Swiss cheese that’s melted and eaten with potatoes or bread and other accompaniments. I, too, enjoy spending New Year’s eating and playing games. I have also taken long walks, sung songs around bonfires, and, my personal favorite: gone to bed early.
Alongside these activities, I have always felt a pull to keep New Year’s as a sacred time. For me, it’s a hinge, a moment to look both backward and forward, to consider the old year – taking stock of its gifts and struggles, setting intentions for what lies ahead. Intentions are not the same as resolutions. Intentions emerge when we pay attention – to ourselves, to the world around us, to the movement of the Spirit within and among all of it. A quote from French philosopher and activist Simone Weil, sums up the importance of this act of paying attention. In her posthumously published writings, titled Gravity and Grace, she wrote: “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love. Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer. If we turn our minds toward the good, it is impossible that little by little the whole soul will not be attracted thereto…’” Let’s take a moment to attend … What intentions are emerging for you in this new year?
New Year’s also coincides with our twelve-day celebration of the Christmas season – capped off by the festival of Epiphany which we are observing today, a couple of days early. The Gospel of Matthew tells a distinct version of the Christmas story. The story opens with a genealogy of Jesus. While it’s mostly a list of male ancestors, as we might expect, it also names four women—Tamar, Rahab, Ruth and Bathsheba. Each of them is in some way an outsider or a foreigner, or a person engulfed in a scandal. Each of these ancestor’s stories mirror Mary’s own vulnerable situation and suggest that (for good of all) God chooses to work through unexpected people and situations.
In Matthew, there is no manger scene, no shepherds in their fields or angel chorus. Instead there’s simply Joseph’s dream in which the angel instructs him to take the surprisingly pregnant Mary as his wife and to name their child Jesus. Immediately after that comes the story of Epiphany—the tale of foreign star-gazers traveling from the East to reveal to the whole world God’s coming to be with us in a holy child; to unveil a guiding light, bring it out of obscurity and let it shine forth for all to see. Despite all the popular myths about the Magi the Bible tells us very little about them. Matthew doesn’t say what a magi is, how many there were, or what country they came from (though scholars do think they were Zoroastrian priests from Persia). The other major character in today’s reading is King Herod, a Roman-appointed ruler known for his cruelty and jealousy. Herod is said to have murdered his own family members when he suspected they were plotting to overthrow him. That’s why when Herod was frightened at the news of a rival King, all Jerusalem was made to feel terror along with him. In the verses that follow our story, Herod ruthlessly hunted all babies under two, in attempt to eradicate Jesus. Meanwhile, Jesus and his family fled to Egypt.
Jesus’ birth story according to Matthew culminates in a moment of overwhelming joy and reverence, as the magi find the child and his mother and offer their gifts. It’s striking how this sacred encounter happened in the midst of such horrific violence. Yet again, through the magi, God chose to tell God’s story through unexpected people and situations. The last line of the text evokes the unconventional choice these travelers made to protect and defend a vulnerable family. “…having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.” The magi resisted the pull of fear, greed and jealousy that infected the world all around them. And they gave their attention to a rising star, to a divine light guiding them towards love, joy, peace, and beloved community.
On social media lately, I’ve noticed that certain videos keep popping into my feed. In these videos, a man dances energetically in the snow with a big broad smile on his bearded face, wearing a bright turban and colorful boots, joyfully kicking up fresh powder in time with the beat of a drum. It turns out that Gurdeep Pandher is a Sikh author, teacher and performer who lives in a remote area of the Yukon in Canada. During the pandemic, he began regularly posting videos of himself dancing traditional Punjabi bhangra folk dance outside his cabin. His introductions to the videos are lovely and wise. This one particularly caught my eye as I considered the magi’s choice to return home by another road. Pandher writes: “Sadness arrives uninvited, spreading easily like winter frost across glass. Joy demands more—it requires us to search, to kindle, to protect the flame against every wind that would snuff it out. Yet this harder path, this deliberate choice to seek light in the dark, becomes the foundation of not just our own flourishing but the very fabric that holds our communities together. When we choose joy despite everything that argues against it, we don’t just save ourselves—we illuminate the way for everyone around us.”1
We are all navigating personal worries, problems, and griefs, even as we face so much evil unfolding in our common life… our neighbors disappearing, our government violating the law, stealing our healthcare, education, housing, food, dignity, our president illegally declaring war on another nation. In this season, it’s crucial that we stay attentive. It’s for the good of all that we set aside time and space to reflect and imagine, to look backward and forward, inward and outward. To gain perspective. To recalibrate. To align our lives with our guiding stars and warning dreams. My friends, if we pay attention, deep loving, prayerful attention, to our lives, to this world, to the Spirit of God moving within and among us, we, too, will be given signs—signs amid threats and violence, chaos and grief—signs that reveal another way. Let us attend to holiness in the small, vulnerable, marginal ones. To surprising journeys and unexpected guests. To opportunities to kneel with reverence. To share gifts. And to be overwhelmed with joy. Amen.