At the center of this holiday lies a very simple
story. Around it swirl all the
commercial and sentimental excesses of the season. At the center of the story are simple people whose world is careening violently out of control. At
the center of their story lies a baby. All
the others - Mary, Joseph, the magi and the shepherds - do everything in their
power to protect a newborn child.
 |
| Epiphany, by Janet McKenzie |
They are not “saints,” these people. Not at this
time, anyway. Later generations will call them so, but they would dispute the
claim. They are ordinary people living through extraordinary times. They don’t know -- and they can’t see --
whether their decisions will lead to security or ruin. Only their faith, their
wits and their community keep them from total desperation.
There is, of course, another dimension to this
story. It’s the part that’s true but can’t be verified; that’s real, but can’t be
observed. It’s as “factual” as a well-written poem and as “reliable” as the
harvest moon. It can be encountered only indirectly as the story develops, or
from the future when these days are recalled.
This is the “Eternal” or “Divine” dimension present in every moment of
every life. It slips in through dreams
and stars and official proclamations.
Because the people in our story are spiritually attentive,
a unique and holy child is born. Because they do not count the costs to
themselves, an infant is protected who becomes a blessing for humanity. Because
this child survives, Divine Love reveals a human face. In this child the Holy
One tenderly caresses and strongly embraces all creation. In this child we see
and celebrate the truth about our truest selves.
This is so
extraordinary and so cosmic that we still do not fathom its meaning. It is so
intense and so mysterious that we barely catch glimpses before we turn away. And yet it is only a baby, and a very simple story.
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