By Another Path
Set against the fear and insecurity that marks Herod’s empire, this Epiphany sermon contrasts the grasping of control with the courage of wonder. Through the journey of the magi, it proclaims a God who enters vulnerability and draws forth not fear, but joy and abundance. At the beginning of a new year, it invites us to choose another path—one guided by attention, embodiment, and the quiet hope of a star.
The Glimpses of Grace podcast is a ministry of Grace Episcopal Church in Gainesville, Georgia. We are passionate about supporting the spiritual growth of souls, and we hope these sermons and conversations meet you where you are and enrich your soul as we all continue to make meaning in the world today.
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Transcript
Conflict. Insecurity. Fear.
These are not just words from an ancient story.
These are familiar companions as we step into a new year.
When Herod hears the news of a child born king of the Jews,
he is terrified.
Sure, a child is small, meek, seemingly powerless,
but this child threatens our illusion of control.
As is so often the story of empire…
Herod has built his kingdom on fear, on scarcity.
On the belief that power must be guarded,
that safety comes from domination,
that if control loosens its grip, everything will unravel.
And so his fear spreads.
Jerusalem trembles with him.
Fear does that.
Fear rarely remains contained.
It clouds our judgment, distorts our vision,
and convinces us that there is not enough:
not enough time,
not enough safety,
not enough love,
not enough hope.
So we grasp. We cling. We control.
And the tragedy is this:
Fear always mistakes survival for life.
But fear is not the only response to the unknown.
While Herod tightens his grip,
the magi lift their eyes.
They travel under a vast night sky,
seeking not control, but truth;
seeking light in darkness, meaning in chaos.
They follow a star.
That takes a lot of courage—
to look up when the world below feels fractured.
To pause. To behold.
To allow wonder to interrupt anxiety.
The magi see beauty,
and in seeing, they are freed.
Last week, we heard John proclaim:
“The Word became flesh and lived among us.”
God did not remain distant.
God entered the mess.
God chose embodiment.
And now, Epiphany points to what that embodiment draws forth: Not fear, but wonder.
Not violence, but worship.
Not grasping, but gift.
Herod claims he wants to pay homage,
but his words are hollow. (Fear always clouds intention.)
The magi, however, journey with reverence in mind.
Matthew tells us: they kneel, they bow,
they orient their bodies toward truth.
Herod is consumed by anxiety.
The magi are overwhelmed with joy.
Herod receives no honor.
But in the bowing down of the magi,
we see where true power resides.
Epiphany is a season of revealing—
of seeing the extraordinary breaking into the ordinary.
And the revelation is not found in a palace,
but in a child,
cradled in simplicity,
radiating divine life.
Gold for a king.
Frankincense for a priest.
Myrrh for healing and wholeness.
These are not gifts of domination,
but gifts of devotion.
They are offerings shaped by trust,
not fear.
The magi did not begin their journey with certainty.
They began with wonder.
They saw something—
and instead of dismissing it,
they leaned in.
Wonder is an act of courage.
To wonder is to resist despair,
to refuse the lie that nothing new can emerge from something broken. Wonder cracks open what fear tries to seal shut.
Think of the moments when you have felt betrayed by the world— when grief was heavy,
when trust was broken,
when violence or injustice was close to home.
And yet—
perhaps you noticed something small but luminous:
the kindness of a nurse,
the resilience of someone you love,
the quiet beauty of sunlight reflecting off a lake.
To pause and behold is to say,
“Even here, God is not absent.
Even now, life is still unfolding.”
This is faith.
This is choosing to live as people who believe
the Word still takes flesh.
The magi don’t bring their gifts to Herod’s throne of fear.
They bring their best to vulnerability,
to tenderness, to life beginning.
And in doing so,
they proclaim something radical:
that beauty, truth, divinity
are not found where the world tells us to look—
but in the ordinary,
the overlooked,
the fragile.
This is where Epiphany meets us at the start of a new year.
If the Word became flesh,
then faith is not abstract.
It is embodied.
It shows up where we direct our attention (and intention),
how we use our power,
and whom we honor with our gifts.
We are created in the image of God—
the God who declared the world good.
And we are called to live it,
to create goodness in return.
So this Epiphany, as we step into a new year, the question is:
what path will we take?
Will we walk the road of fear,
tightening our grip,
protecting our illusions,
guarding our power?
Or will we walk by another path—
guided by wonder,
freed by trust,
willing to bring our best
to places of vulnerability and need?
Are you willing to look up,
to notice the stars already shining in your life?
To embody the Word
by choosing presence over fear,
generosity over scarcity,
hope over despair?
Because there is enough.
The star led the magi to Jesus,
and they were overwhelmed with joy.
Their journey tells us this world is not beyond redemption.
Yes, there is pain.
But there is also beauty.
Truth still breaks in,
like a single star
against the night sky.
So, pause. Behold.
Even here, there is beauty.
Even now, there is hope.
Amen.