Star Seekers

I conduct a wedding about every 2-3 weeks. One of the reasons I like to officiate at weddings is I get up close and personal with the couple. As they look at one another, I am reminded of my own wedding day and the myriad of emotions I had. I remember looking with absolute love and devotion at Eric and planning the idyllic life together we would have.

Every once in awhile I have the opportunity to hold a baby. I love infants, truly. Threenagers, not so much. But babies are adorable. When I thought about having children, I imagined being a mother to a baby, and even an adorable child in elementary school. I thought about their accomplishments when they started reading and learning math. I imagined their pride as they learned to play a musical instrument or when they played a sport or learned to swim. I could not imagine being a mom when they experienced teenage angst or adult problems.

When I first made a commitment to God and joined a congregation, or even made a decision to be a minister, I felt a warm assurance about my life and God’s involvement in it. It never dawned on me that there might be periods in my life when I could not pray God’s existence into my heart.

These are times when–if you will accept the metaphor–I was looking for a bright star in the sky to guide me. I suppose such things happen to us all. We start on adventures not certain of the course the adventure will take us.

Today, we are celebrating Epiphany and Epiphany is a time to talk about such times. The word epiphany means, literally, a showing. Traditionally, this showing is accompanied by light; we need light in order to see what is being shown to us. And light is something that every human heart longs for and responds to. In Epiphany, we celebrate the brilliance and vision of certainty, when God brings a clear light into our lives. Imagine the Magi, starting on a long journey from Persia, following a bright spot in the sky in hope of finding something significant. These Magi (probably not three in number, but the gifts listed were three – and not kings, but more like astronomers), were not Jews. Yet, a star is a pretty obvious sign in the heaven. I don’t know about you, but there are times in my life when I have prayed that God would send a sign – like a star. Like the Magi, we look for a star in the sky to guide us.

I know, we celebrated Jesus’ birth just last week – God’s incarnation. The smell of the hay, the sign of the nativity, the tough of the baby, these are all fresh in our memories. Everyone in the birth story had an angelic message from God – from Zechariah to Mary and Joseph to the shepherds and the Magi. But our Biblical story today is about the disciples (later in the gospels) unable to see ahead through the mist that covered the mountain after Jesus appeared to them. They could not see the bright star in the sky guiding them.

As the people were filled with expectation and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water, but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the strap of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” Now when all the people were baptized and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

Have you ever had a time in your life when you were praying – either literally or figuratively – for a bright star to appear and guide you through a situation? By nature and by definition, epiphanies by the divine are rare. Exceptional. That’s one way we recognize them for what they are. Like miracles, they are not part of the normal fabric of our lives. And they are nearly always individual rather than corporate experiences, personal rather than public. We cannot participate in the angel’s announcement of the incarnation to Mary except in imagination. When someone tells us of their supernatural revelation from God, we cannot enter into it except by a faint, imaginative stirring.

Have you ever been in the darkness, alone, wondering if God would come through with an epiphany, a little light, a sparkle of hope, a twinkle of kindness? Are you looking for a bright star in the sky to guide you?

There is a Native American tradition for the ritual of initiation for Cherokee boys who are crossing into adulthood. Around age ten or eleven, the youngster would be taken by his father deep into the forest. Dad would give his son a bow and one arrow. As darkness descended, the father would leave his son alone in the forest to prove his bravery by facing the frightening sounds of the night alone. Most of the boys did not sleep much. Every hoot of an owl sounded like a threatening voice. Every cracking twig conjured up images of a bear or a bobcat on the prowl. Every rush of wind sounded like whispers of the enemy in the forest. However, when daylight began to break, the young boy would spot another Cherokee off in the distance beside a tree. It would be his father, who had been there all along, sitting silently nearby, watching, making certain that his child never actually had to face the darkness alone.

So it is with us. However dark and desperate things may feel, God is near – always watching, always caring, always in the darkness with us – and promising that in due time the darkness will be separated from the light. There will be a bright star to guide us.

I think that may be where the church is today – coming out of a time of darkness, wondering what God’s light will reveal to us. We are looking toward God for a clear vision, a dazzling white light which shows us beyond a doubt where we should go. Make no mistake, the light will come. The good news of the gospel is that God has provided a bright star in the sky to guide us.

Jane Olson writes about this experience: One Sunday last August, my husband, Mark and I were staying with some friends in Indiana. There wasn’t any way to get to church, and our friends were going to be tied up with other obligations most of the morning. So the two of us decided to walk over to Lake Michigan.

Hardly anyone was around. It was still early, and for the most part, no one else had yet shown up at the beach. Everything seemed quiet. No parties. No children running by. No one frolicking in the water. No speedboats. Just stillness.

Mark and I sat there, staring out at the horizon, soaking in the peace, trying to open ourselves to whatever the Spirit would say. We sat there a long time, not saying. Then, after a lengthy period of watching the total emptiness of the of the lake and the horizon, a sunny haze settled over the water and I noticed something. It way, way out there – and very faint. But it was there: a sailboat. One could barely see it, moving silently form left to right across the lake.

Slowly I realized the boat had been there all along. We hadn’t been as alone as we thought. This tall, majestic sail had been standing watch from afar. This boat, far out on the horizon, had been gliding by. Not wanting to spoil the perfectness of the silence, I said nothing to Mark about what I’d seen, but somehow it spoke to me about how God is always with us, even it seems that all the world is empty and still, even it seems we’ve been left alone in the quietness, let along with our aches and pains, left alone with our sorrow and struggles.

Often our eyes aren’t open enough to see the sail quietly moving on the horizon. But the boat is there, I realized, even when we aren’t seeing it. Later, after we’d had a long, refreshing swim, after we’d dried off and were walking back to where were were staying, Mark mentioned that something strange had happened while we had been sitting there on the beach. Way out on the horizon, he said, after a long time, he had spotted a sailboat. It had been there all along, he thought, but in the quietness and stillness of the morning, he had at first missed it.

Seeing it, he said, had been a gift: a reminder that God is always there. Sometimes I get so discouraged about the world, about the wars and violence and hunger and inhumanity that abounds and abounds and abounds. Then, my faithful computer breaks down or I encounter marriages full of pain and suffering. I’m reminded of treasured friends who are sick and dying. I see prisons still standing.

But now, when it all gets totally overwhelming, I’m trying to fix my eyes on that sailboard, far, far out on the horizon. No need to hurry, no need to worry. We don’t travel alone. The burdens aren’t just ours. Far, far out on the lake (or in the sky), where I can’t see them right now, a million sailboats (or stars) have begun their journeys.”