Epiphany • God’s Story Is Already Moving — Follow the Light • Matthew 2:1–12

Epiphany • God’s Story Is Already Moving — Follow the Light • Matthew 2:1–12

We’re grateful for you and the gifts of God that you bring with you into this space.

As a church, we want to live in God's unfolding story, being transformed by Jesus, learning to belong to each other across our differences, as God invites us into freedom, joy, and boundless generosity.

We pray that whether this is your first time with us this morning, or you've been a part of our community for a while, that you will feel the invitation of the Holy Spirit to join in with our vision.

If you are looking for a church home, we would love to become your church home, and I in particular, would love to become one of your pastors.

This morning, as we begin a new year together, we also begin a new series—one that is not primarily about programs or plans, but about orientation. About how we understand what God is doing in the world, and how we understand our place within that work.

So let’s listen together to Matthew 2:1–12.

Matthew tells us that after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the East arrived in Jerusalem asking a question that immediately unsettled the city.

Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.

That question alone tells us something essential about how God so often works.

The first people to notice that something new was happening were not the religious experts. They were not the temple authorities. They were not the ones with institutional responsibility for interpreting Scripture and watching for the Messiah.

They were outsiders.

Foreigners.

Travelers.

People who paid attention to the world with curiosity and expectation.

Somehow, from far away, they had noticed a sign—a light breaking into the ordinary pattern of things—and they trusted that this sign, a light, was worth following, even though they could not yet explain it fully or control where it might lead.

God is often already at work before institutions are ready to notice what God is doing.

And Matthew wants us to feel the tension their arrival creates.

“When King Herod heard this, he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him.” — Matthew 2:3

That reaction makes sense, because Herod represents a way of being in the world that depends on certainty, control, and power. Herod understands the world in terms of boundaries and threats, insiders and outsiders, stability and danger. Anything that disrupts that system feels dangerous.

We have to talk about power here, because fear is doing a lot of work beneath the surface of this story.

Herod is afraid because power, in his imagination, is always a zero-sum game. If there is a new king, then someone has to lose. If someone else rises, he must fall. And so his instinct is preemptive: take them out before they take you out. That is how his world works.

But what if Herod is mistaken about the nature of power altogether? What if God is not threatened by Herod in the first place? What if Herod poses no real danger to God’s purposes at all?

Still, Herod responds the way people in power so often do when they feel their grip slipping. He gathers information. He consults the experts. He quotes Scripture. He asks where the Messiah is supposed to be born. And once he has the answer, he sends the Magi on their way—asking them to report back to him.

Not because he wants to worship.

But because he wants to remain in control.

What Matthew places before us, very gently but very clearly, is a contrast between two ways of responding to God’s activity in the world.

On one side, we see Herod—close to the center of religious knowledge, armed with certainty, surrounded by experts, and yet deeply resistant to actually moving toward God.

On the other side, we see the Magi—people who are far from the center, who do not have certainty, but who are willing to move in the direction of the light they have been given.

The Magi do not receive a detailed plan. They are not handed a map. They are not told how long the journey will take or what it will cost them. What they are given is direction. And that turns out to be enough.

After leaving Herod, they set out again, and Matthew tells us that the star they had seen when it rose goes ahead of them until it stops over the place where the child is.

And when they see the star, Matthew says, they are overwhelmed with joy. That detail matters.

Their joy does not come from having all their questions answered. It does not come from certainty or control. It comes from recognizing that they are participating in something real—that the light they trusted has not misled them.

When they enter the house, they see the child with Mary his mother, and they fall down and worship him. They open their treasures and offer gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

These are not practical gifts. They are symbolic gifts. They are gifts that say, “We may not yet understand the full story, but we recognize that this child belongs to a story much larger than our own.”

Gold for a king.

Frankincense for worship.

Myrrh, foreshadowing suffering and death.

Even here, at the beginning, Matthew is telling us that God’s unfolding story will not move in a straight line toward comfort and ease, but toward love that is willing to give itself fully.

Then Matthew adds one final, easily overlooked detail.

After being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, the Magi go home by another road.

An encounter with Jesus does that. It reorients us. It changes the way we move through the world, even when our destination remains the same.

The Magi return to their own country, but they do not return unchanged. They have seen something. They have trusted the light. And they have learned that God’s work cannot be contained or controlled by the powers of the world.

This is why Epiphany matters for us at the beginning of a new year.

Because Epiphany reminds us that God’s story is already moving, often ahead of our plans, often outside our expectations, and frequently beyond the boundaries we would prefer.

Some of us are entering this year with excitement and hope. Some of us are carrying uncertainty, fatigue, or anxiety about what lies ahead. Some of us feel the ground shifting beneath us, and we would very much like a clear roadmap before taking another step.

But the story of the Magi tells us that faith does not begin with clarity. It begins with attentiveness. With noticing where the light is showing up. With trusting that God is already at work, even when we cannot yet see the whole picture.

As a church, we are committing ourselves this year to paying attention—to watching for where God is moving, to lifting up Jesus clearly and faithfully, and to trusting that when he is lifted up, he will draw people to himself.

In the weeks ahead, we will talk together about what it means to follow Jesus in a complex world, about how transformation actually happens, about what belonging looks like when we are honest about our differences, and about how freedom, joy, and generosity grow in us over time.

But today, we begin here.

With a star.

With a journey.

With a reminder that God does not wait for everything to be settled before inviting us forward.

The Magi did not know the whole road. They knew enough to take the next step.

So as we stand at the beginning of this year, the invitation is simple, and it is demanding.

Lift your eyes.

Pay attention.

Notice where God is already at work.

And when you see the light—

Follow it.

Amen.