Epiphany

It is rude, is it not, to just show up on someone’s doorstep empty handed? My Chinese friends are passed masters at this grace of gifting. Most commonly this time of year it would be a bag of clementines (tangerines), always welcome gifts to ward off colds in the region of China south of the Yellow River without winter heat, and bearing the added advantage of being immediately consumable, as the host turns and regifts the visitor with a plate of shared fruit.

But as I remember growing up in central lower Michigan, there was a custom of Sunday afternoon visiting, where friends and relatives dropped-in unannounced on us on a weekly basis, there was no gift required. Their visit was grace enough.

Taking this class on the prophets from Trinity has put me in mind of the eternal struggle between promise and performance. Not the vast gap between my empty promises and my meager performance, but the delicate balance between God’s gracious promise to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves, and his expectation that we will nevertheless endeavor to do what we can in response.

So I am struck with the story of the Magi from the East (Baghdad?) who packed up their gifts to bring offerings to God. And I know all about the deeper meaning of the gold, frankincense and myrrh. And that the gold was especially handy as Joseph over extended his original trip plans to take in Egypt. But the Magi didn’t know any of that, maybe never knew. They just knew, with their oriental sensibilities, that they should oughta bring something. After all, you don’t just come to God empty-handed.

You bring your best. You prepare. You save up a lifetime to make this one pilgrimage. You clean up your act. You get straight. You get right. You hedge your bets, pack up your best stuff, put your out-of-office notice on, and hit the road.

And on the road you rehearse “the speech,” you anticipate the look of pleasure on the face of God, you lie awake and look at the stars, too excited to sleep.

And when you arrive, in the wrong place, unanticipated, somehow coolly unwelcome, ‘terribly sorry to intrude,’ redirected, finally meeting an infant God who teethes on the golden bangles, and snuffs at the incense, and tries to eat the white nodules of poisonous resin. This is your epiphany.

And yet the face of God is oddly pleased. Your gift is inappropriate, your preparations inadequate, your maps inaccurate, but your visit is somehow grace enough. He doesn’t really need anything else you have, just you.