Sunday After Epiphany: Year A
“Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth,
and thick darkness the peoples;
but the LORD will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.”
—Isaiah 60:1–2
Sixteen years ago, I made a difficult journey by train from Toledo to Boston.
I had been in Toledo settling business related to my late wife Robin’s death the previous June. It was late February, the dead of winter. The trip was fraught—filled with memories of loss, with grief still painfully fresh. I hated every second of it and felt deeply uneasy about some of the decisions that had been made.
I was in a dark place then. God—if I even believed in him at the time—felt distant and removed from my everyday experience.
I had ordered tickets by phone and was told I could pick them up at the station. But when I arrived, I was informed that Amtrak’s communication system was down and there was no way to retrieve the ticket.
I was instructed to board the train anyway and to visit the ticket office in Cleveland.
I was escorted to the dining car and seated in the area where the conductors were gathered preparing for the journey. The railroad official who had escorted me explained my situation to one of the conductors and asked that I be shown to the ticket office once we arrived in Cleveland.
In the meantime, I was to sit with the conductor.
At first, I felt like a convict in transit, escorted by a correctional officer. Have I done something wrong? I wondered.
But as time passed, I began to feel more at ease. The conductor—whose name I sadly no longer remember—turned out to be a genuinely good man. He was a music minister at his Baptist church, and he told me about his family—his wife and young daughter—about his church, and about his relationship with Jesus.
I shared my own story with him: the somber reason for my travel, the recent death of my wife, Robin, and our years overseas together in Asia. And just before we reached Cleveland, in the small hours of the morning, we prayed for one another.
In that conversation and in that prayer, I felt the presence of God. I saw the light of Christ shining in the midst of a dark, dark winter night.
When we arrived in Cleveland, we hurried to the platform and made our way to the ticket office. It was open—but just as in Toledo, the system was still down.
The woman at the counter said plainly, “Well, you’re just going to have to buy a new ticket or stay here until the system is back up and running.”
The conductor’s face hardened. “No,” he said firmly. “This young man is getting to Boston tonight.”
And with that, he whisked me back onto the train and handed me off to the conductor relieving him. He explained the situation and said simply, “This is Dave. Get him safely to Boston.”
And then we parted.
That conductor’s light—like the star followed by the wise men—pointed to God’s presence in the world. His lovingkindness and mercy reflected God’s own lovingkindness and mercy, perfectly embodied in Christ.
This past week, we celebrated the Epiphany of Our Lord, which in the Western Church commemorates the arrival of the Magi from the East, who came to Bethlehem to pay homage to the newborn Jesus.
In our popular understanding, Epiphany feels like a culmination—an ending. With it comes the close of the Christmas season. The greens are packed away. The three kings have arrived. Now it’s time, we think, to return to the ordinary business of the world.
But today, though it marks an ending of sorts, it is also a beginning.
For the wise men from the East, following the star—a sign from God—beheld God’s own light dawning. In the deepest and darkest of winter nights, they saw the light that would one day overwhelm the face of the earth. They witnessed, in a word, the beginning of the world’s salvation.
In Bethlehem, the city of David, they beheld the newborn Christ—who, by becoming truly human, revealed the glory of God.
And the Church, in her wisdom, does not allow us to linger long at the manger. Almost as soon as the Magi depart, we are led from the stable to the banks of the Jordan River.
For Epiphany is not only the revelation of Christ to the nations through the visit of the wise men. It is also the revelation of Christ in his baptism.
At the Jordan, Jesus steps into the waters—not because he has anything to repent of, but in order to stand fully with us. The heavens are torn open, the Spirit descends like a dove, and the voice of the Father declares, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” The hidden child of Bethlehem is revealed as the Son of God. The light glimpsed by the Magi now shines openly for all to see.
And here, Epiphany reaches into our own story.
At the Jordan, Christ places himself among sinners, just as I once found myself escorted onto that train without a ticket in hand. I had no proof I belonged there, no document to guarantee the journey—only the word of another, who said, “This man is going to Boston.”
So it is with baptism. We come with nothing to present—no merit, no credentials, no claim of our own. Yet Christ stands beside us and says, “This one belongs to me.” And we are carried forward, not by our worthiness, but by his grace, safely conveyed toward the destination God has promised.
In baptism, Christ is revealed not only to us, but for us—and then, astonishingly, in us. The same Spirit who descended upon Jesus has been poured out upon the Church. The same light that dawned over the Jordan has been entrusted to fragile lives like ours.
We too are given signs—stars, if you will—that point to God’s work in the world and to Christ, who has redeemed us.
That February night, in confusion and darkness, I met Christ. In the conductor’s compassion, his love, and his mercy, I saw the hands of God at work. Where have you seen the same in your own life? Where have you seen a star that pointed you toward the Lord?
We are surrounded—even now—by countless signs that point to Jesus.
In this very church are people whose lives bear witness to God, whose presence reminds us that God’s light has dawned. And beyond these walls, the night sky of the world is filled with those who bear witness to the coming dawn.
All we need to do is look, follow, and pay homage to him who has been born for our salvation.
This morning, we will also bless chalk that will be used in our church and in our homes to mark our doors as a sign of God’s blessing and Christ’s presence.
20 + C + M + B + 26, we will write.
CMB stands for Christus mansionem benedicat—“May Christ bless this house.”
My prayer is that each of us marks our doors as a reminder that Christ is present among us, and that his presence continually blesses and consecrates our lives. In a small but powerful way, that inscription points to the truth that Christ’s light has dawned—and that, light by light, star by star, the world is being illuminated.
Even in the darkest and loneliest of nights, the light of Christ is shining.
Let us follow the star, and draw near to him who was born for our salvation. For the light has come — and it is stronger than the darkness
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