Sermon Preached on Epiphany at St. John's in the Village in the City of New York.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

When I was growing up in Italy, Epiphany was never a small or secondary feast. It was not a polite epilogue to Christmas, nor a convenient moment to tidy away the decorations and move on. Epiphany was the Twelfth Day, the crown of Christmas itself, anticipated, cherished, and celebrated with seriousness and joy.

Christmas, we knew instinctively, was not finished until Epiphany had come. In fact, there was a saying repeated almost like doctrine: Christmas is not over until Epiphany arrives. The mystery needed time to unfold. The child born in Bethlehem had still to be revealed for who he truly was. And indeed, school would not start until the following day.

My grandmother used to tell me that when she was a little girl, Epiphany, not Christmas Day, was when children received their presents. Gifts were given on the feast of the Epiphany, because it was the daywhen gifts were brought to Christ himself. What mattered was not sentiment, but revelation. Not nostalgia, but recognition.

And of course, there was La Befana, that strange, half-comic, half-melancholy figure of Italian tradition. The old woman who, according to legend, was asked by the Magi to join them in their search for the Christ Child but refused because she was too busy. Later, filled with regret, she wandered the world in search of the child she had missed, carrying gifts as she went.

It is a child's story, but it contains an adult truth: Epiphany is about seeking, about delay, about recognizing too late, and about the mercy of God who still allows us to search again.

Epiphany, in the life of the Church, is not a single day but a season of revelation. It stretches from the visit of the Magi, through the Baptism of the Lord, through the signs and wonders of Christ's early ministry. It reaches its completion at Candlemas, when Simeon takes the child into his arms and proclaims him to be a light to lighten the Gentiles. Only then does Christmas truly end, not with exhaustion, but with fulfilment.

If you were to walk through Rome at this time of year, not on Christmas Day, but now, you would still find the great historic churches richly adorned. Elaborate nativity scenes of astonishing detail remain on display. The Magi are finally placed at the crib.

After the quiet humility often emphasized in Nativity scenes, art sometimes speaks in a different register. Gentile da Fabriano's Adoration of the Magi shows how splendor can also express truth. Its glowing gold, exquisite detail, and ceremonial procession are not meant to describe Bethlehem as it historically was, but to reveal what the moment means. The richness honors the mystery of the Incarnation and the wonder of the Epiphany, the revelation of divine glory within human fragility. Here, beauty becomes devotion, clothing a humble birth in radiance and offering visual praise for a God who enters the world quietly yet transforms it with light.

The Church also refuses to rush away from Christmas. She lingers before the mystery, allowing revelation to ripen. And that patience matters. Because revelation is rarely instantaneous. Recognition often comes slowly. It is precisely this slow, searching revelation that Saint Matthew places before us in today's Gospel.

Wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, 'Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising and have come to worship him.'

The Magi are not kings, but they are wise. They are scholars, watchers of the heavens, seekers of meaning. They come from outside the covenant, outside the promises, outside the boundaries of Israel. They do not know the Law or the Prophets. They do not possess the Scriptures. And yet, they see.

They see a star. And they understand that something decisive has happened in the world. Epiphany begins with this astonishing truth: God allows himself to be recognized by those who were never expected to recognize him. The light of Christ shines beyond the boundaries of familiarity. Creation itself becomes a sign. The heavens proclaim what human hearts have not yet grasped.

The Magi set out not because they understand everything, but because they understand enough. Faith often begins not with certainty, but with holy restlessness.

When they arrive in Jerusalem, however, the tone of the story shifts. Herod hears of the child, and he is afraid. Herod is the embodiment of worldly power: anxious, violent, insecure. He knows how to rule, but not how to worship. And so, the news of a newborn king does not fill him with joy, but with terror. Power that depends on fear always fears losing control.

Herod consults the chief priests and scribes, and they know the answer immediately. The Messiah is to be born in Bethlehem. They can quote the prophet Micah with confidence and precision. And yet, they do not go.

Here is one of the most unsettling moments in the Gospel: those who know the Scriptures best do not seek the Christ they proclaim. Knowledge alone does not guarantee recognition. Orthodoxy alone does not ensure worship. The Magi have the star, but not the Scriptures. The scribes have the Scriptures, but do not move. Revelation demands response.

When the Magi finally arrive at the house, Matthew's language becomes hushed and reverent: They saw the child with Mary his mother, and they knelt down and paid him homage. There is no throne. No army. No visible sign of power. Only a child, held by his mother. And yet, they worship.

This is the heart of Epiphany. God reveals his glory not in domination, but in humility. The infinite God makes himself visible in infant flesh. The King of kings receives the homage of the nations while lying powerless in human arms.

The gifts the Magi offer speak more than they know. Gold, for a king. Frankincense, for one who is divine. Myrrh, for one who will suffer and die. The Church has always heard in these gifts the whole mystery of Christ's life, death, and glory.

At the altar, we do the same. We bring bread and wine, simple, earthly gifts, and place them before Christ. And God takes what we offer and reveals far more than we could imagine. Warned in a dream, the Magi do not return to Herod. They go home by another road.

This is not a narrative detail. It is a theological declaration. An encounter with Christ always changes the direction of our lives. You cannot truly worship him and remain unchanged. Epiphany does not simply invite us to look; it calls us to walk differently. And this brings us to the ancient Epiphany tradition of the chalking of doors.

In many Christian homes, the doorway is marked with blessed chalk, inscribing the year and the letters C + M + B which stand for the Magis’ names: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. These letters recall the traditional names of the Magi, but they also stand for a blessing: Christus Mansionem Benedicat, May Christ bless this house. This is not superstition. It is prayer made visible.

The door is where the sacred and the ordinary meet. It is where we cross from prayer into the world, and from the world back into rest. By marking our doors, we proclaim that this home, imperfect, fragile, ordinary, belongs to Christ.

Just as the Magi marked their journey by the star, we mark our dwellings with Christ's name. Just as they carried the light they had seen back into their own lands, we ask that all who pass through our doors may be shaped by Christ's peace. Epiphany insists that faith is not confined to this place. The light revealed at the altar must shine in kitchens and hallways, in relationships and decisions, in the hidden patterns of daily life.

We live, still, in a Herod-shaped world, anxious about power, resistant to truth, fearful of anything that threatens control. But Epiphany assures us that God's purposes are not thwarted by fear. The star still shines. The child is still revealed. The nations are still invited. To celebrate Epiphany is to become Epiphany people: seekers who follow the light, worshippers who kneel in humility, disciples who choose another road.

May we, like the Magi, recognize the glory hidden in simplicity. May we linger before the mystery, until it completes its work in us. May our homes, our lives, and our hearts be marked as places where Christ is welcomed and adored. And as we journey through this season toward Candlemas, toward the light lifted high for all to see, may we truly be able to say, with the Magi and with the Church of every age: Merry Christmas!

Amen.