4 January 2025
The God Who Does Not Stay Hidden
I’m an Eagle Scout,
something I’m still very proud of.
Scouting was a major part of my life
—from the time I was two years old going on campouts with my dad and older brothers,
all the way through my teenage years.
When I was about fourteen,
our troop spent the night on the USS Alabama in Mobile.
If you’ve never been on a battleship,
it’s hard to appreciate just how massive it is
—nearly seven hundred feet long,
eight decks,
hundreds of compartments and miles of passageways.
It housed 2,500 sailors during World War II.
It’s less like a ship and more like a floating city.
On this night,
there were about eighty scouts from different troops,
and someone had the bright idea
(not me)
that we should play hide-and-seek.
Which sounded great to a bunch of 14 year olds…
until the game started.
What none of us expected was how someone could completely disappear.
The person who was “it” kept changing.
No one knew who “it” was because everyone was so well hidden.
One scout hid so well that he didn’t see another person for over three hours.
We eventually realized he was missing
so we began searching for him,
of course not telling the leaders because we didn’t want to get in trouble.
We yelled.
We searched.
Nothing.
He never heard us.
We never found him.
Finally
—hours later—
he just walked out,
completely calm, and asked,
“So, who’s ‘it’?”
He was actually on the main deck,
in a room so well enclosed
that he couldn’t hear what was happening outside,
but somehow, we missed him.
Now he wasn’t trying to be lost.
He didn’t mean to disappear.
But in something that big,
it was surprisingly easy to miss what was right there.
And that’s a fitting place to begin today,
because the feast of the Epiphany is about how easy it is to miss what God has placed right in front of us
—and how God reveals Himself.
From the beginning of Advent,
we’ve been tracing a movement.
God draws near.
God arrives.
God dwells.
And today,
on the Feast of the Epiphany,
we see what all of that has been leading toward:
God reveals Himself.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
Not forcefully.
But truly.
Epiphany is not about God changing His mind about how He comes into the world.
It’s about God showing us who that quiet Child really is
—and who He is for.
The prophet Isaiah gives us the language to understand what is happening.
“Rise up in splendor, Jerusalem!
Your light has come.”
In the Jewish imagination,
light is never just brightness.
Light means God’s presence.
Light means God’s faithfulness.
Light means that God has returned to dwell with His people.
For centuries, Israel waited for that light.
They waited through exile, occupation, disappointment, and silence.
And now Isaiah dares to say:
the light has come.
God is near again.
But Isaiah also says something unexpected.
This light is not meant to stay contained.
“Nations shall walk by your light, and kings by your
shining radiance.”
From the very beginning,
God’s plan was never small.
The blessing given to Israel
was always meant to be shared with the world.
Non-Jews were always meant to be a part of the Covenant.
It’s easy for even us to become insular,
to not share this gift.
But this gift is for all peoples.
That’s exactly what Matthew shows us in the Gospel.
The Magi appear almost suddenly.
We’re not told their names,
although we know them from tradition.
We’re not told how many there are,
but we know there are at least three because of the gifts.
We’re told only what matters:
they come from afar,
they are Gentiles,
and they are searching.
They do not have the Scriptures.
They do not have the Law.
They do not have certainty.
What they have is attentiveness.
They notice a sign.
They follow it.
They are willing to move.
And that willingness already sets them apart.
Because when they arrive in Jerusalem
—the city of promise, the center of religious life—
they discover something unsettling.
The light has come…
but many do not see it.
Herod is troubled.
The city is disturbed.
The religious leaders know the prophecy by heart,
but they do not go to Bethlehem.
They know where the Messiah should be born,
but they do not seek Him.
This is one of the quiet warnings of Epiphany,
but it should be a siren to our ears.
Familiarity with holy things
does not guarantee openness to God.
Knowing things about God,
and having a relationship with him should not be separate.
MANY in our Church today suffers from this problem, however.
The Magi, on the other hand, are willing to be led.
God does not overwhelm them with proof.
He gives them a star
—something that invites rather than compels.
God respects their freedom.
He allows them to ask questions, to search.
He allows them to take a journey that will cost them time, comfort, and certainty.
And when they finally arrive,
what do they find?
Not what one would think is a king.
There was not a throne or a crown.
Not power.
Not influence.
They find a child.
Matthew tells us simply,
“They prostrated themselves and did Him homage.”
That gesture has a deep meaning.
In the ancient world,
to kneel was to recognize authority.
It’s why we kneel and genuflect.
To offer gifts was to acknowledge kingship.
That’s why we bring our sacrifices of praise and thanksgiving; our gifts of time, talent and treasure.
Without fully understanding,
the Magi recognize something true.
Their gifts tell the story.
Gold for a king.
Frankincense for God.
Myrrh for suffering and death.
They don’t yet know how these meanings will unfold.
But worship doesn’t require full comprehension
—it requires trust.
God allows Himself to be found by those who were never “supposed” to be first.
Saint Paul names this mystery in the second reading from Ephesians.
What was once hidden has now been revealed:
the Gentiles are coheirs,
members of the same body,
partakers of the promise.
This is not an afterthought.
It is the plan all along.
God does not reveal Himself to draw lines between insiders and outsiders.
He reveals Himself to draw people in.
But Epiphany is not just about who comes to Christ.
It’s about what happens after…
Matthew ends the story with a line we often pass over:
“They departed for their country by another way.”
That line encapsulates the entire feast.
An encounter with Christ changes direction.
The Magi cannot return the same way they came.
They are physically redirected, yes
—but they are also spiritually transformed.
Once you have knelt before the true King,
you cannot pretend the world is the same.
Epiphany reminds us that God does not reveal Himself for information’s sake.
He reveals Himself to invite response,
to seek relationship.
And that invitation remains.
Because the temptation for us
—especially those who know the story well—
is to assume we have already arrived.
We know the readings.
We know the symbols.
We know how the story goes.
We’ve heard this all before.
We can almost get bored with hearing it again.
But Epiphany gently asks:
Are we still seeking? Are you still seeking?
Are we still attentive?
Are we still willing to move when God reveals Himself in ways we didn’t expect?
God may not reveal Himself to us through a star.
But He still reveals Himself quietly
—through Scripture,
through sacraments,
through the needs of others,
through moments that invite trust rather than control.
And sometimes the greatest challenge is not disbelief.
It’s distraction.
Or comfort.
Or apathy.
Or despair.
Or the assumption that God will reveal Himself on our terms.
The Magi remind us that God often reveals Himself just enough to invite the next step.
This feast assures us of something deeply consoling:
God does not stay hidden.
He does not play games.
He does not reveal Himself only to the powerful, the prepared, or the insiders.
He allows Himself to be found by seekers.
And when He is found,
He is still a child
—still humble,
still vulnerable,
still asking not for fear but for trust.
Epiphany invites us to kneel again.
To recognize whose presence we are in.
And to accept that encountering Christ will always change the path we take next.
The light has come.
The question is whether we will follow it.