To watch the recording of this sermon, click here: https://youtu.be/f4iHbRuvOYA.

Sermon by Rev. Aaron Linville

Hi everyone, For those of you who have not met me, my name is Aaron Linville. It has been my joy and privilege to serve as the pastor of Millwoods Community Church for the last seven years.

It is also my joy to share our third epistle with you on manifesting hope in the darkness. Today, we focus on the beginning of Jesus’ ministry in the gospel of Matthew and hope in unexpected places.

There's lots of hope in unexpected places in the story of Jesus. For the second week in a row, we hear Jesus calling fisherman to be his disciples. Most of us don't think about fisherman as sources of hope. We think about them as essential for coastal societies to function, but not a source of hope.

The occupation of fisherman reminds me that Jesus was a craftsman, a skilled worker. Again, very important and essential for a functional society, but we don't think of them as sources of hope. When we look at the occupations of the core group of disciples Jesus is beginning to collect they include day laborers, professional fishermen, and tax collectors. This is not a hope inspiring group, and yet Christians would say that Jesus is the hope of the world, and these core disciples were incredibly influential in that hope surviving the death of Jesus. They are all unexpected sources of hope.

And when we dig into this passage about the beginning of Jesus’ ministry in Matthew, the unexpectedness of hope increases.

Jesus’ ministry begins when he hears John the Baptizer has been arrested. His ministry begins not in a moment of hope but a moment of chaos and crisis. Also, we would expect his ministry would begin with something public, but it begins by Jesus withdrawing. That's not a very hopeful action.

And, that only increases when we pay attention to where Jesus withdrew to. The territory of Zebulun and Naphtali is the land of two of the Northern Tribes of Israel who were lost and presumably destroyed 700 years before Jesus walked this earth. Jesus withdrew to a place of cultural grief and loss. It wasn’t really Jewish, but neither was it really gentile. The Jewish people would have expected hope to come from Jerusalem or Judea, not the land of Zebulun and Naphtali.

I've often wondered why these fisherman were so ready to leave their livelihoods to follow Jesus. In the gospel of Luke it makes sense because there is a miraculous catch a fish, but there is no miraculous catch a fish in the gospel of Matthew. Why were they so willing to leave and follow Jesus? What unexpected hope did they see to justify such drastic action?

Maybe it was the fact that they really were not fishing for themselves, but for the empire that occupied their land. Yes, they were earning their daily bread by fishing, but every fish they caught was more food for Roman officials and armies. Every fish was more tax paid to Rome. They weren't really fishing for themselves, but for Cesar. Maybe the unexpected hope they saw in Jesus was getting out of that self defeating cycle and the hope of fishing for people, not just to support the economics of an occupying empire.

The story of Jesus is filled with unexpected hope from the nativity, the calling of the first disciples, and the start of his ministry all the way through to the unexpected hope that death does not have the last word. All of these moments of hope accumulate and then spread beyond this unexpected place of origin to the surrounding areas. This hope spread to Jerusalem, Rome, and then the ends of the world.

And even two millennia later that hope continues to show up and we continue to find hope in unexpected places if we have eyes and hearts to see and feel.

For me, I found unexpected hope in the consistent observations and encouragement in the first two sermons of this series. I don't think Mark and Jamie coordinated that. It just happened. It is hopeful to me that our clergy lift up the message that you are God’s beloved. Full stop. No disclaimers. That’s hopeful.

Another moment of unexpected hope for me in these last few months is the recent Knives Out movie. We typically look to Hollywood for entertainment, not hope, but, I found unexpected hope in Wake Up Dead Man.

It does not shy away from the fact that the church has and does cause harm, and yet is hopeful. Neither does it shy away from the fact that it feels like the church is getting pulled in two incompatible directions.

One is to fight the world and everything about it; to insist on it is the Church's way or no way, even if a lot of people get hurt in the process. On the other end of the spectrum, the church is being pulled to reach out and hold and love the world, to embrace and forgive, and to help us all be the people God has created, and called us to be not through force, but by love, peace, and grace. Wake up Dead man even has a very a hopeful depiction of a complete rejection of spirituality and religion. It is a wonderfully hopeful movie for me as a disciple of Jesus even though it’s an entirely secular ‘Who done it’ movie. It is unexpected hope for me and for the church we so dearly love.

After Jamie’s sermon last week, I commented to Millwoods that we need to choose what we are looking for, because we tend to to find what we look for whether it’s bitterness or compassion. Today I encourage all of you to look for hope, especially in unexpected places.

Without trying, we encounter more than enough reasons to despair, so choose to seek out hope. Choose to look for hope, and you will find it, even in unexpected places. And, when you find it, proclaim it and share it.

Our world seems more full of despair and uncertainty than hope right now. That is cause for concern, but it also means that hope shines brighter when it is found. It's the same as lighting a candle and a dark room. A candle may not be all that bright, but it shines in the darkness. Even a little hope shines brightly when there is so much anxiety.
​
Choose to look for hope. Choose to share hope and be a lights to those in darkness. Choose to be a light of hope to yourself, to your neighbor, and in doing so, you'll be the unexpected hope someone else finds. Choose to look for hope, and be a light to the world.

If you would like to view the recording of this sermon, click here.

​Young at Heart Message
 
Good morning! I am Pastor Jamie Almquist and I serve Good Shepherd Moravian Church in Calgary.
 
I am delighted to be a part of this 6-week sermon series on the theme “Manifesting Hope in Darkness.”
 
Today, we heard John the Baptist testifying to and affirming that Jesus is indeed the Chosen One. We follow this with the Gospel of John’s version of Jesus’s first disciples.
 
These disciples have been following John the Baptist, but when they hear John speaking so highly of Jesus, they choose to follow Jesus, seemingly out of curiosity.
 
Jesus asks them what they are looking for, and then he extends an invitation: come and see.
 
Today, we’ll be talking about seeking and finding hope in a world where the shadow of darkness seems to be looming ever larger and more ominously.
 
And as I thought about the theme for today’s sermon, my mind rested on a book I am in the process of reading. The book is called Tattoos on the Heart by Gregory Boyle.
 
The back of the book describes Gregory Boyle as “a Jesuit priest and the founder and executive director of Homeboy Industries.”
 
The beginning of his book introduces us to Homeboy Industries and describes Greg’s work with gang members in Los Angeles.
 
The book is beautiful and has brought tears to my eyes multiple times already, and I’m only three and half chapters in.
 
But in the first chapter of his book, Greg (lovingly called G by the Homeboys) shares a story of a dying man and his son.
 
In this story, the son reads every night to his dying father, and the arrangement is supposed to be that the son reading to his father would encourage his father to fall asleep.
 
However, each night, the father repeatedly opens his eyes to gaze lovingly at his son. G writes that “this evening ritual was really a short story of a father who just couldn’t take his eyes off his kid.”
 
There are few things that, I think, could describe our relationship with God better.
 
It is easy for us to imagine a new mother or father, lying their new baby down to sleep at night and being unable to leave the room because they simply cannot cease gazing at the miracle before them.
 
When I was much younger and my father was still alive, I began writing a blog as part of the work I did for a company called Patheos.
 
I shared the blog with my parents because I was excited about the work I was doing. I sent them the link to look at it, not expecting that they would read it.
 
I simply wanted to show them.
 
After I wrote a handful of times, I got busy and admittedly lost interest in the blog.
 
One day, a couple weeks after I had stopped writing, my Dad called to say hi and check in, and he asked me why I hadn’t posted anything on my blog lately.
 
I was shocked to learn that he was following the blog. He read every single post I made.
 
It fascinated him. I was honoured that he was interested in my life in this way - so much so that it still brings tears to my eyes today.
 
And, looking back on that moment, I realize that my Dad was lovingly gazing upon his daughter with pride and joy and a tremendous amount of love.
 
After sharing the story of the father and son in his book, G drops this golden nugget for the reader.
 
He says, “God would seem to be too occupied in being unable to take Her eyes off of us to spend any time raising an eyebrow in disapproval. What’s true of Jesus is true for us, and so this voice breaks through the clouds and comes straight at us.
 
‘You are my beloved, in whom I am wonderfully pleased.’”
 
As the Homeboys would say, “Damn, G.”
 
The Message
 
So, when we meet the disciples in today’s Gospel passage, they are not entirely sure what they are seeking, and they certainly don’t feel this loving gaze falling on them from anywhere.
 
When Jesus asks them what they are looking for, all they can muster is “where are you staying?”
 
It’s as though they desire to know so much more about Jesus, but they are awe-struck and uncertain.
 
When I shared my blog with my Dad, he could have said “great job!” and then never thought about it again.
 
When these disciples start following Jesus, he could have said “nice to meet you. Best of luck to you.”
 
But instead, my Dad read every post. And Jesus extends an invitation. He doesn’t judge them for their question about where he’s staying. Instead, he invites them to “come and see.”
 
And so it is with us.
 
We often find that we are seeking something, but we do not know what that something might be.
 
Perhaps we are seeking reassurance that we are on the right path, or we are seeking affirmation of our gifts. Maybe we are seeking people to make us feel loved, or perhaps we are seeking something that might ease our shame, regret, or hopelessness.
 
Jesus reminds us that it does not actually matter what we seek.
 
We will find it in him, if only we are open to accepting his invitation.
 
“Come and see” – these are not empty words. These are the words of a door opening for us.
 
“Come and see” reminds us that we are worthy, and Jesus beckons us. Jesus is like the father who gazes lovingly and with awe on his children.
 
In him, we find hope. In him, we find a love deeper than the ocean and as vast as the universe.
 
This hope we seek is not beyond our reach. It is easily accessible.
 
Jesus invites us to come close, abandon our fears, and follow his beacon of light as we navigate darkness.
 
He invites us to respond to his question, “what are you looking for?”
 
He does not judge or condemn. He merely sets his gaze upon us and loves us unconditionally.
 
Greg Boyle says the following about God’s love:
 
“I was brought up and educated to give assent to certain propositions. God is love, for example. You concede “God loves us,” and yet there is this lurking sense that perhaps you aren’t fully part of the ‘us.’
 
“The arms of God reach to embrace, and somehow you feel yourself just outside God’s fingertips. Then you have no choice but to consider that ‘God loves me,’ yet you spend much of your life unable to shake off what feels like God only embracing you begrudgingly and reluctantly.”
 
What if, instead, it has been God’s absolute joy to love you all along?
 
What if, in Jesus’s invitation to “come and see,” he is actually inviting us to experience God’s love on a much deeper level?
 
What if Jesus is inviting us to see that when God looks lovingly on his Son, he also looks lovingly on each one of us who was also created to be here in this very time and place?
 
We spend our entire lives seeking, and Jesus tells us “hey, come and see. I’ve got what you’ve been looking for.”
 
Suddenly, with a jolt, you realize that you’ve found it.
 
God is gazing upon you with an unimaginable, unchangeable love. A love that is capable of bringing us out of the deepest caves and darkest nights. A love that shines upon us brighter than the brightest star in the sky.
 
So, may you accept God’s loving gaze. May you look upon yourself the way God sees you – brilliantly and beautifully made.
 
You are God’s beloved, in whom God is wonderfully pleased.
 
Come and see. Amen.

Today's sermon is offered by Pastor Mark Guevarra from Edmonton Moravian Church. This sermon was pre-recorded for our service, so the link is provided below along with the manuscript. We hope you enjoy this new sermon series and we hope that hearing the voices of our clergy from around Alberta will provide some new insights and opportunities to worship God.

Here is the link to Mark's recorded sermon: https://youtu.be/JN9T3Y8ApDY.

And here is the manuscript if you wish to read it:

​Sermon by Mark Guevarra
Good morning.
My name is Mark and I’m the pastor at Edmonton Moravian Church.
I am honoured to share my message with you today.
I am also eager to hear the messages from my fellow pastors from our sister churches over the course of the next several weeks in our epiphany series titled “Manifesting Hope in Darkness.”
 
We’ve just heard Matthew’s account of Jesus’ baptism.
For me, the central message is not just about who Jesus is, but who we are, and
where our dignity truly comes from.
 
Many people today struggle with dignity.
We live in a world that constantly measures our worth--
by appearance, influence, productivity, success, or failure.
From a young age, we learn that love often feels conditional:
You are valued if you perform well.
You are accepted if you fit in.
You matter if you prove yourself.
Over time, this can shape how we see ourselves and even how we imagine God sees us.
 
Among those who struggle with dignity are 2SLGBTQ+ people.
We grow up in a world where the norms are heterosexual.
From a young age, many 2SLGBTQ+ people feel less than since they are not like most people.
For me, I was careful about acting masculine to fit in.
This caused me to look down upon men who acted feminine.
Besides being gay, I’m a person of colour.
While I grew up in a multicultural context in Canada, I was also deeply aware about how different I was, particularly in contrast to the white standard and norm.
Growing up in the 80’s and 90’s there wasn’t as much representation in the media of people of colour.
This hyperawareness of my difference caused me to hate my ethnicity.
 
In time, I came to accept every part of me.
Much of that had to do with education, theological formation, but most importantly spiritual direction.
 
I recall going on a spiritual retreat in my 20’s and taking a full day reflecting on today’s gospel.
I learned to hear the words “You are my beloved child” not only directed at Jesus, but directed to me.
This forever changed my perspective on things.
Rather than seeing myself as other,
I saw my wonderful individuality as a gift given by God,
and that enabled me to see others as beautifully unique individuals, and
siblings in one human family.
 
In the gospel, we hear that Jesus comes from Galilee to the Jordan River to be baptized by John.
John is hesitant. He knows Jesus’ goodness, his authority, his holiness.
John says, in effect, “This doesn’t make sense. You should be baptizing me.”
But Jesus insists, not because he needs repentance, but because he chooses solidarity.
He chooses to step into the waters of human brokenness to be with us, and to make things right and whole.
 
When Jesus comes up from the water, we know what happens, the heavens open,
the Spirit of God descends like a dove, and a voice says:
“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
 
Notice something important.
At this point in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus has not yet performed a miracle.
He has not preached a sermon, healed the sick, or fed the crowds.
He has not proven anything.
And yet God declares love, delight, and identity.
The love comes first.
And then Jesus’ mission flows from it.
 
This moment reveals a foundational truth about dignity: our worth is not earned; it is given. Jesus is named “beloved” not because of what he has done, but
because of who he is in relationship to the one he called Father.
 
I hope you come to hear the words “You are my beloved in whom I am well pleased” as directed to you.
I hope you believe that you are beloved not because of what you’ve done but simply because you are a child of God.
 
I was baptized on December 25th 1980 and according to my parents, there was not dove descending upon me or a voice from heaven.
It was just the priest, my parents, my 3 year old brother, my godparents, and relatives, all witnessing the ritual and called to raise me to believing that I am God’s beloved child.
I was blessed to have so many faithful people in my life to teach me that truth, but even still I doubted it, as I’m sure you all have.
 
But claiming our dignity begins with believing this truth - not just up here in our heads, but deeply, personally, and courageously.
I recently presided at a funeral of a man who had a strong faith.
I believe that faith was rooted in him knowing in his heart of hearts that he was loved by God unconditionally.
He wasn’t perfect, but even in those time of weakness, he remained faithful to God.
 
Too often, we allow other voices to define us.
Voices of comparison tell us we are not enough.
Voices of shame tell us we are our mistakes.
Voices of fear tell us we must earn love or risk losing it.
Social media has become both a blessing some ways but also a curse by intensifying these voices.
 
But the baptism of Jesus reveals a God who loves first.
A God who names dignity before achievement.
A God whose love is unconditional, faithful, and unshakeable.
 
To claim our dignity, then, is not an act of pride; it is an act of faith.
It means choosing to believe God’s word over every other word that tries to define us.
It means saying, “I am not what I produce. I am not what I lack. I am not what others say about me. I am God’s beloved.”
 
This claiming of dignity has consequences.
When we know we are beloved, we are freed from the exhausting need to prove ourselves.
We can risk compassion instead of competition.
We can serve others not to earn worth, but because we already have it.
And we can manifest hope even amidst uncertainty, darkness, and even death.
 
Jesus’ own ministry flows from this identity.
After his baptism, he is led into the wilderness, where his identity is immediately challenged.
“If you are the Son of God…” the tempter says.
But Jesus does not argue. He does not perform. He stands firm –
rooted in the truth spoken over him at the Jordan.
Knowing who he is allows him to resist lies and walk faithfully into his mission.
 
The same is true for us.
When we claim our dignity as God’s beloved, we become more resilient.
We are less easily defined by failure or success.
We are better able to love others without fear,
because we are not operating from emptiness, but from abundance.
 
This dignity is not private or individualistic.
It shapes how we see others as well.
If our dignity comes from God’s unconditional love, then so does everyone else’s.
Every person we encounter—regardless of gender, ethnicity, ability, sexual orientation, or belief—is someone over whom God delights.
To claim our own dignity is also to honor the dignity of others.
 
At the Jordan River, God does not whisper love; God proclaims it. Publicly. Boldly. Without qualification.
And that same love continues to be spoken over us, again and again, even when we forget, even when we doubt, even when we struggle to believe we are worthy.
 
So today, the invitation is simple, but profound: listen again to the voice of God.
Let it speak louder than your fears. Let it interrupt your self-criticism. Let it heal what has been wounded.
 
You are God’s beloved. Not someday. Not if you succeed. Not if you get it all right.
Now. Always.
 
May we have the courage to claim that dignity, to live from it, and to reflect it to a world desperate to know it is loved.
 
Amen.

​Young at Heart Message
 
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. From a young age, I adored my dad and I wanted to be just like him.
 
When I was four or five years old, I wanted so badly to learn to ride a bike so I could ride with my dad.
 
My parents started me on training wheels, but I hated them. They scared me.
 
Yes, I was afraid of falling, but I was far more afraid of those training wheels.
 
The training wheels created a level of uncertainty and surprise that I couldn’t stand.
 
You’re riding along and then all the sudden you start leaning to one side. Yes, the training wheels catch you, but before they do, you feel like you’re falling.
 
Then, you’re stuck riding off to the side, and you’re too afraid to try to right yourself for fear of leaning too far to the other side and then waiting for the other training wheel to catch you.
 
No thank you.
 
But, I also didn’t want to fall and skin my knees.
 
So, my ingenious solution was to practice in the grass. That way, when I inevitably fell, it wouldn’t hurt so much.
 
It also forced me to learn quickly because I didn’t want to keep falling, even in the grass. But more importantly, I wanted to be able to ride on the sidewalk or the road with my dad.
 
It did not take me long at all to learn to ride a bike. Soon, my dad and I were riding around the block, to the cemetery down the street, and to church.
 
Eventually, I was able to ride by myself on our street. I wasn’t afraid of falling anymore, and I loved being outdoors.
 
One day, I was riding along, just about back to my house from down the street, when I felt my shoelaces get caught up in the pedals.
 
Kids bikes have the brakes on the pedals, or at least they did at that time. You pedal backward to brake, so you couldn’t pedal backward to unloop your shoelaces from the pedals.
 
I had no choice. I had to fall because both my feet were stuck to the pedals. I was scared.
 
I pulled over to the side of the road, found what I thought would be the softest grassy area along the curb, and I fell. Disgraced, I took my shoes off and got the laces free.
 
I was afraid of that happening again, so I learned how to tuck my laces into my shoes so they couldn’t get wrapped up in the pedals. Problem solved, and fear abated.
 
When my family moved to a new house in a rural area, our house was the second one built on our street, which was a cul-de-sac.
 
Unfortunately for me, the cul-de-sac met up with a busy rural road, and I was still young, so I was only allowed to ride my bike on our short street.
 
I was riding one day, and my dad came home from work and drove into the cul-de-sac. The road was newly paved, and they hadn’t built the gravel shoulder up yet, so there was about a 5-inch drop-off from the road to the gravel shoulder.
 
As my dad pulled in, I tried to move over to make sure I gave him plenty of room on the road, and my back tire slid off the pavement.
 
I went down hard. I skinned my knees and I had a huge scrape on my chin.
 
I was distraught, not just because it hurt but because the next day I had my very first day of school at a brand new school. I was starting third grade.
 
This felt like the end of the world. I was afraid of what the other kids would think about this new girl with a huge band-aid on her chin.
 
Weirdly though, I don’t remember being afraid to get back on my bike. I loved riding so much, and I just learned to steer clear of high shoulders.
 
As I got older, my dad and I started to ride together on the busier rural roads.
 
I was afraid to ride alone, and I am sure my parents were afraid to let me.
 
One day, my dad asked if I wanted to ride and I must have said no because he left without me.
 
But then, I must have changed my mind. I hopped on my bike and followed him.
 
But, my dad was too far ahead. The wind was in his ears, and he couldn’t hear me yelling at him.
 
I pedaled harder than I’d ever pedaled, but I couldn’t catch up to him. My bike was smaller than his, and even though by this time I had a bike with gears and handlebar brakes, it still wasn’t big enough and didn’t have enough gears for me to be able to catch him.
 
I rode the entire way with him about half a mile ahead of me, no idea I was behind him.
 
My fear of riding alone on the rural streets was dissipated because, after all, I could see my dad ahead of me. (If anything happened to me though, he never would have known, but that didn’t occur to me.)
 
We got home and I pulled into the driveway after him, out of breath and sweaty.
 
Surprised, he said well, I guess we don’t need to be afraid of you riding alone anymore!
 
As I got older, I rode more and more, and most often I rode alone.
 
In university, I decided I needed to buy myself a decent bike if I was going to take riding seriously.
 
I bought myself a Giant brand road bike. This thing was fancy, and it was expensive.
 
It had the curved handlebars, 21 gears, and… it had pedals that I needed special shoes for so I could clip my feet to them.
 
I hadn’t had my feet stuck to bike pedals since my shoelaces got wrapped around my pedals as a kid.
 
I was scared to try these new shoes. I mean, who wants to be stuck to their pedals when something comes up and you need to take your feet off the pedals unexpectedly?
 
But, this bike was SO cool, and I was so excited to ride it. I set aside my fear and I practiced clipping and unclipping each foot.
 
Then I rode around large parking lots, practicing clipping and unclipping while I was riding.
 
Soon enough, I was riding and I wasn’t scared of getting my feet stuck.
 
Until one day, it happened. I took a turn wrong, couldn’t get my feet unclipped, and took a huge fall.
 
I don’t know if you know this, but falling as an adult hurts a lot more than falling as a kid.
 
You’re a lot farther off the ground, and I was moving fairly fast.
 
But, the fall didn’t stop me, and fear of falling again didn’t keep me from getting back on the bike.
 
Now that it had happened once, I guess I figured I knew what it felt like. I had learned more about the clips and how to use them, and I loved riding so much that I didn’t want to give it up.
 
I have a million more examples of the fear that has come along with riding my bike.
 
People would often ask me, “aren’t you afraid of getting hit by a car riding on the road?”
 
My response would be sure, if I think about it, I should be scared. A lot of bad things could happen when you mix bikes and cars on the road.
 
But I don’t think about it. Because if I think about it too much, I would never do it again.
 
And that’s where the lesson in this small story lies. There are many, many things that, if we think too hard about all the bad things that could happen, we would never do them.
 
But if we let fear overwhelm us, we would never do anything in our lives, either.
 
Fear can paralyze us. Fear can consume us.
 
And often, we can let other people’s fear become our fear.
 
The Message
 
And this is where we find ourselves in scripture today.
 
Once again, today’s passage starts with a reminder that Herod was king at the time Jesus was born.
 
Sharing this is like asking me “aren’t you afraid of getting hit by a car on your bike?”
 
Everyone knows that Herod is dangerous, violent, and paranoid.
 
Just offering that reminder would fill anyone living in that era with fear.
 
Meanwhile, the magi hear about the birth of Jesus, king of the Jews, and wish to worship him.
 
When Herod hears about this “king of the Jews,” he becomes worried – not because he’s worried for the child, but because he’s worried about the threat to his own reign of power.
 
So Herod calls these magi to him.
 
He lies to the magi and tells them that the reason he wants to know as soon as they find him is so that he can worship him, too.
 
Luckily, the magi were warned in a dream not to take the news of Jesus’s location back to Herod.
 
The scripture doesn’t speak of their fear, but they must have been filled with fear.
 
They were defying the orders of Herod, a ruler known for violence and vengeance.
 
The magi couldn’t possibly have known what was coming next.
 
They could not have known that their act of defiance would cause Herod to order the murder of all the young boys living in or near Bethlehem.
 
And yet, they had to have known that there would be consequences to their actions.
 
And they bravely chose love over fear nonetheless.
 
Their choice could have been the end of Jesus’s life. His life could have ended before it began if they had chosen to give in to their fear.
 
Instead, they chose love. Instead, they chose hope for a better world.
 
They did not allow their fear to stop them from doing what the angel in their dream told them to do.
 
They did not allow fear to paralyze them.
 
And really, when it comes down to it, they did not allow Herod’s fear to become their fear.
 
Herod’s actions – his violence and paranoia – also stemmed from fear. Fear of losing power and control. Fear of someone who may one day be able to turn people against him.
 
Fear of loss of control or power is a major driving force for those who oppress others. It is a contributing factor in many, if not most wars.
 
The magi were certainly afraid, but they did not allow their fear to paralyze them, and they did not allow Herod’s fear to influence them.
 
This is the power of epiphany: the beginning of a new path.
 
The magi do what Herod and his allies refuse to do: they seek, they kneel, and they listen.
 
So, on this Epiphany Sunday, may we wonder how the story of the magi might guide us in our own lives.
 
Like the magi, let us kneel in awe, not before the powerful, but before the powerless Christ, whose birth marks the beginning of God’s peace campaign.
 
Let us believe, with trembling hope, that fear does not have the last word.
 
Because we cannot allow fear to stop us. We cannot allow the fear of others to become our fear.
 
Instead, may love lead us forward. May love lead. Amen.
 
Let us pray:
 
God of the Stars, like the magi, we come to this place searching for you. So today, just like every day, we ask that you would remove any barriers that keep us from your Spirit. Clear out the distractions. Wipe away the doubt. Open up our hearts.  
 
And as you do, help us to keep walking. As you do, help us to move toward you. With hope we pray. Amen.