Sermons

Jan 6 - The Rev. Brian C. Taylor - The Epiphany

The Epiphany
January 6, 2008
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor

We all love stories. Some of my fondest memories of early parenthood were those nights, snuggled up with my boys in bed, reading Goodnight Moon or Where the Wild Things Are, or later, on summer vacation, reading Cold Mountain out loud to the whole family, night after night. I love movies, on DVD or at the theatre, anything with a really good story.

The Bible, of course, is full of good stories. We’ve come to the end of the Christmas story today. We’ve had revelations delivered by angels and dreams, a miraculous pregnancy, a supernova in the sky, 3 mysterious visitors, and symbolic gifts, a bloody slaughter of infant boys, and a desperate flight by night across the desert. Rich stuff!

People often respond to this kind of religious story in one of two ways. On the one hand are the religious literalists. They believe that everything happened historically, just the way it is described. These people search Mt. Ararat for splinters of Noah’s ark and the book of Revelation for numerical clues about the future. They go through mental gymnastics to reconcile vastly different points of view in the Bible. They certainly believe that the story we’ve heard today happened just as it was written.

On the other side are the scientific literalists. They have little use for fanciful stories. Some, including a few biblical scholars, reject anything supernatural in the Bible, including the virgin birth, the physical resurrection, spontaneous healing, and nature-miracles. They say that these things couldn’t have happened because we don’t see them happen in life.

Then there are the rest of us. We agree with Marcus Borg when he says that the Bible is filled with true stories, and some of them even happened. Did Moses part the Red Sea? Was Mary really a virgin? Did Jesus really walk on the water? Were three wise men really guided by a start to search out the Son of God? Well, personally I believe that supernatural things do sometimes happen, and that any of these things could have happened. But my faith is not based upon them having to have happened.

Besides, these are the wrong questions. They are asked from a post-scientific world perspective. Since the 17th century or so, we’ve insisted that the world be divided between things that are objectively, scientifically true and things that are not. Go into a bookstore today, and you’ll see a big section called “Fiction,” separated from another big section called “Nonfiction.” You don’t mix these categories. You don’t see a section in between called “Truthiness.”

But back in pre-modern times when these biblical stories were written, the authors didn’t sit down to write an eye-witness, objective account of historical events. They took things that happened and wove them together with that things that might have happened. They embellished shamelessly. They didn’t have the modern view that some things are fact and other things are fiction. Instead, their view was that some things are good, meaningful and deeply true, worthy of being passed to the next generation through story.

A religious “myth” is a story that is believed to be deeply true. But it is not a fable. It is a story that has elements that happened as described, and some that never took place. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the truth of the story, the depth of meaning it conveys. What matters is the myth’s power to shape our life.

We need story to make sense out of the complexity and chaos of life. I recently saw a cartoon of a therapist saying to a client “I can’t cure you, but I can give you a compelling narrative for your misery.” You don’t have to be religious to seek out compelling narratives. 90% of the top-selling movies of every decade are fantasy, science fiction, action adventure, or animation; most of them are quite mythical. We eat this stuff up.

I was talking with a Roman Catholic at a wedding we did here last weekend, and we remarked on how, for us, a church wedding is so much more meaningful than a secular garden wedding. We noted how hard it is to express profundity when you have to make it up yourself, when you’re not standing in the depth of tradition, in the weight and breadth of thousands of years of human wisdom. This is why so many atheists, agnostics, and people who are spiritual-but-not-religious come to church on Christmas and Easter. They need a compelling narrative to make meaning out of their lives.

When we immerse ourselves in ancient myths, when we look to them on a regular basis to find meaning, we live in two worlds at once. We inhabit the scientific world, knowing that life on earth evolved biologically over millions of years; but we also live in a mythic world where God utters a sacred Word and life comes into being. We know that when you’ve got cancer you have to blast it with chemotherapy or radiation, and we also pray to the Spirit of life for divine intervention. We know that we eat bread and drink wine here, but we also believe it to be the flesh and blood of Jesus. We don’t have to make a choice for one or the other, as scientific or religious literalists insist we do; this is a false dichotomy. We can span both worlds at once.

Which brings us back to the 3 wise men. I’ll bet you thought I’d never get to them. Ah, the three who bring gold, frankincense and myrrh to the baby Jesus, traversing afar through the desert night with camels and jeweled trunks, cleverly tricking King Herod. The three who were possibly Persian Zoroastrian astrologers or priests, or perhaps 3 kings with crowns, with names, even: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. Mythic figures. What do they have to do with us?

A scientific literalist will scoff at such nonsense, noting that they only appear in Matthew’s gospel anyway, and besides, how can you follow a star and arrive anywhere so accurately? A religious literalist will investigate supernovas that happened in the Middle Eastern sky in the early first century.

But a person who lives in two worlds at once will not be concerned with such questions. We will enter the myth. Through this particular myth – whether or not it is historically accurate - we remember that Jesus was born into humble circumstances; his family was poor, he lived among the salt of the earth. And yet he came to be recognized by great people, and his birth had even cosmic significance; it was written in the skies.

But let’s go deeper into the myth. The manger is also our heart, our lonely little heart, sometimes dark and crowded with wild and unpredictable beasts. We’re like an infant, ultimately ignorant and powerless, subject to the vagaries of life. We’re like Mary and Joseph, trying to guard our innocence, all alone in a cynical and dangerous world.

It is precisely in this vulnerable place that the light of God becomes known. As St. Paul says, God’s power is made manifest in our weakness, not in our strength. The way of the cross is the way of life. If we can open the cold and dirty stable of our heart in faith and trust, we discover that we are not alone. Others come to our aid: mothers and fathers, shepherds and wise men and women, even animals. If we can learn to not be afraid of the night, we will find that God’s transcendent light breaks like a star.

The myth of the manger and the wise men also tells us that real power and glory are glimpsed in the common things, the ordinary, the humble realities of everyday life. Forget success, glamour, and possessions; these are cheap imitations of the star-lit stable in Bethlehem.

So look within, into the manger of your heart. Look to the ordinary, the way you feel as you drive alone in the car or lie in bed at night. Look to the common people who surround you, the humble work you do every day. Look into the dark and vulnerable places, where you are most real, most in need of God. Look to Jesus, dwelling with the poor and the poor in spirit, and yet recognized by all wise people to be a great man, a divine presence. If you look deeply enough into this myth, into this stable, you will find this eternal story full of depth and truth. And it is there that God will be born once again, in you.