The Feast of the Epiphany; January 6, 2008

The Rev. Marion E. Kanour

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 “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.”

--an excerpt from Isaiah 60:1-6

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany.  Its observance ends the twelve days of Christmas and points us toward the meaning of the Light we’ve been following since Advent.  We’ve watched the light grow in intensity from the first candle of Advent to the fifth candle on the Feast of the Nativity.  We’ve included the lights of hope, peace, joy and love as individual rays of light participating in the greater light of Christ.  Today the Church highlights the meaning of this beacon with the nuance of Epiphany.  Matthew tells us it dawns on the magi that the babe in the manger is the Messiah—this is the message Matthew wants his readers to understand from the very beginning.  Matthew believes with his heart, mind and soul that Jesus is the long-awaited Messiah.  For Matthew, and for generations of Christians after him, the babe in the manger is the Light of Isaiah’s prophecy.  The question posed by the Feast of the Epiphany isn’t whether Isaiah would agree, as scholars seem to suggest; rather, the question is:  do we?  Is the Light of Christ the only Light or is Christ one ray in a larger beacon? Some would even ask whether there is a beacon at all or do we only hope there is.  People of faith, regardless of faith tradition, have decided to believe there is a beacon, that there is some One or some Thing we call God.  The question the Feast of the Epiphany asks us to consider is whether the babe in the manger is the only Light.

A colleague suggested that, on the eve of major surgery, I’d be well-served to color within the lines in today’s sermon, lest I tempt Fate.  The comment was playfully-intended, but it makes the point exactly.  Does God color within the lines of Christianity?  Would the Creator of the universe unconditionally love baptized Christians only?  Must you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior in order for God to love you?  I would surely hope not.  It would grieve my soul to think the rays of God’s Light were refracted to shine only on only one path.  There are, of course, many Christians who believe Jesus is the only Light, the only path leading to eternal salvation.  We each have to decide for ourselves what we think about that claim.  Our individual decisions impact how we live our lives and how we appropriate our faith.  If fear of eternal damnation rules your soul, clearly you’d be well-served to find a path (or the path, as some would say) that leads to eternal salvation.  If, however, damnation or salvation seems to be questions for this world rather than the next, the nature of the path you’re searching for will necessarily be different.  One path focuses on the soul’s presumed end point; the other path focuses on the journey of the soul along the way.  

Ray Beasley struggled with how best to negotiate the path so publicly that his journey remains alive in my mind’s eye.  Ray was a member of the Larchmont Baptist Church—the faith community of my childhood.  The folks there believed, for the most part, Christ was the only path leading to eternal salvation.  The path was important only because it led you to heaven. “I am the way, the truth and the light. No one comes to the Father but by me” was the most often cited biblical proof for that belief.  Ray Beasley was a Deacon in that parish.  He was so thoroughly convinced non-Christians were going to hell that he gave his life’s work to funding missionary efforts in this country and overseas.  He was passionate about his belief and quite articulate.  Twice yearly—at the times of the year when we collected for the Annie Armstrong and Lottie Moon offerings for missionary work—the minister would ask Ray to serve as the preacher.  The minister’s sermon usually ran 30 minutes and was often quite boring.  Ray preached for 45 and I was always captivated.  He was a wonderful story-teller who could hold the attention of children and adults alike.  His sermons always ended in the same pattern—with tears and emphatic nose-blowing, as he lamented the fate of non-believers.  Only our contributions could help avert existential disaster for those lost souls.  I always wanted to applaud at the end—it was such a convincing performance.  As you might expect, my parents weren’t in agreement about Ray’s premise or style of presentation.  Daddy thought the emotion was cheap demagoguery and that 45 minutes was way too long for anyone to preach.  Mother thought his passion and commitment were laudable and 45 minutes twice a year wasn’t too much to ask to hear about such a worthy topic.  I thought it was great theater.  No matter what you thought about Ray’s sermons, you knew when he climbed into that pulpit he was going to be there for a while.  Which is why I remember the Sunday when that changed.

It was Lottie Moon Sunday.  The minister reminded us of that as he introduced Ray as the preacher for the day.  My father gave a long-suffering sigh; mother stepped on his foot to silence him; and I perked up at the prospect of another award-winning Ray Beasley performance.  Ray didn’t climb up into the pulpit though, signaling something was different.  Instead he stood at what Episcopalians call “the crossing”, in the space between the apse where the altar is and the nave where the congregation is.  Ray said simply, “Today we’re collecting for the Lottie Moon offering to help missionary efforts overseas.  I hope you’ll give generously.”  Then he sat down.  My father beamed; my mother stepped on his foot again and I felt robbed of the anticipated entertainment.  The minister was so stunned he said the closing prayer and announced the final hymn.  We were out of there in record time.  We made up for it in the conversation with Ray Beasley in the parking lot, however.  My father caught up with him there and asked, “Ray, why the change?”  It was then that Mr. Beasley told us of his personal epiphany about the love of God.  It happened while he was serving at the soup kitchen downtown—the equivalent of Lynchburg’s Daily Bread.  After everyone had been served, Ray took his plate and sat down next to one of the guests and asked if he knew the Lord, if he’d been saved.  The man turned to Ray and said with what Ray described as deep compassion, “I know what love is; do you?”  The question seared into Ray’s heart.  In that moment, he realized he’d been substituting hoped-for-love in another realm for incarnated love in this one.  The realization changed his life.  My father said, “So, what now?”  Ray said simply, “It’s a different journey now.”  And it was.  Ray and his wife, Alma, were in their forties at the time of Ray’s epiphany.  They were childless.  Two years later they’d adopted three special needs children and were responsible for Larchmont Baptist Church becoming handicapped-accessible.  Their love for their adopted children was real and present-tense.   Their love had nothing to do with hoped-for salvation; and everything to do with embracing the Light that shines in the darkness.

The glory of God is in our midst.  It has, as Isaiah says, “risen upon us”.  What better response could we have than the one Isaiah proposes:  “Arise, shine, for your light has come!” Love is in our hearts and minds and souls.  We can embrace love as the meaning of the journey or push it from us as something not-yet-deserved.  We can work for the dignity and worth of all human beings, as our baptismal vows ask; or we can decide certain folks aren’t worth as much as others because of their color or sexual orientation or religion or immigration status.  We can become the Light of Christ incarnate or we can distance ourselves from it by worshipping it.   What if the Church became the Light instead of obscuring it?  What if the Church were less about worshipping the distant God and more about embracing God in our midst?  How might the world be different?  How might we be different? 

During Lent this year we’ll be experimenting with what that might mean for us as a congregation—on Sundays and on the Wednesdays in Lent.  Our worship during the five Sundays of Lent will be quite different than what you’re used to.  The change is intended to focus us on the present journey and to connect us more deeply one to another.  The liturgical change will be temporary; the lived change can be more lasting if we choose.  May God add a blessing to our process.

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