It was about this time ten years ago that I was walking the streets of Jerusalem and Bethlehem and Nazareth. We arrived in the Holy Land around the Baptism of Our Lord. Christmastide was officially over, but the streets and churches were bedecked with evergreens and lights. It was still Christmas in the land that Jesus had walked. In some sense, it’s always Christmas.
I couldn’t imagine a more mystical time to be there. Poetry was in the air. The whole land is poetic. I learned after only a handful of visits to sacred sites that the Holy Land is no place for literalists. And yet, ironically, the leader of our tour group was one such literalist. He had an uncanny ability to take the mystery out of almost every site we visited.
It’s true that some of the famous sites of pilgrimage in the Holy Land can’t be verified as the actual sites of the events they commemorate. But the historical veracity of those locations is hardly the point. What is certain is that all those places are deeply holy. They are full of God’s poetry, which transcends mere literalism.
The clash of factual accuracy and poetic mystery came to a head one day on the tour bus. Our guide had just finished a long lecture in which one more sacred site was demystified. I don’t remember what he said, but I will never forget how his words crushed the poetic world of a member of our group. Sitting across the bus aisle from me was the mother of a Presbyterian pastor traveling with my group. Suddenly, this woman burst into tears. Full of heartfelt faith, she had journeyed from her small town to accompany her daughter on the trip. Some may have called her faith a simple faith, but in the end, isn’t all faith simple? And in the tour guide’s quest for factual accuracy, the poetry of her theological world was shattered.
My own heart broke for her, but the irony of hindsight is not lost on me. I do believe that the mother of that Presbyterian pastor understood more truth about the Holy Land than any claim to historical accuracy could assert. After all, as a seminary professor of mine once said, all theology is poetry.[1]
And that may very well be the reason that St. Matthew brings the magi into this story of Jesus’s birth. I’m quite sure that the leader of our tour group ten years ago would have pointed out that we have no historical verification of the magi’s existence. Maybe the wild star was Halley’s comet or something of that order, as some have suggested in their grasping at historical straws. Science tells us that stars don’t behave like that star did.
Well, maybe they don’t, and maybe they do, we might retort. With God anything is possible, and I mean that with full sincerity. If we can’t think like poets, then we will never understand the story of the magi. It’s surely no coincidence that they came from the east with its mystical roots, and it’s surely appropriate that we don’t know the magi’s exact origins. They could have come from Persia, but who knows? I don’t think Matthew wants us to know.
And isn’t it telling that the magi only end up in Jerusalem because they happened to notice an errant star in the sky? What if they hadn’t noticed it? What if they had paid no attention to the epiphany that defies all rational explanation? What if the magi had rationalized a decision to stay put in the east? What would have happened then?
Who knows, because Matthew tells us that they get up and go west, mistaking Jerusalem for their destination. And when they arrive, there’s a significant clash between factual accuracy and poetic imagination. On the side of poetry are Gentile magi who practice astrology and are foreigners to the God of Israel, and on the side of factual accuracy are those who know the Scriptures inside and out. On the side of poetry are pagan star hunters who travel thousands of miles to visit a baby, and on the side of factual accuracy is a ruthless, insecure leader who is so scared of the baby that he cons the magi into diligently finding him.
On the side of poetic imagination are the magi who don’t yet know the king is insincere and who continue to follow a star that could be leading them on a wild goose chase. And on the side of factual accuracy is a paranoid pseudo-king who is so enraged by the birth of a baby that he would order the murder of innocent children.
But somewhere on the road between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, poetic imagination takes over. The star stops over the place where the baby was born, and the astrologers from the East are completely consumed by the poetry that has brought them from so far away. And while Herod stews in fear and unhappiness, the poets from the east are so overtaken with joy that they drop to their knees in worship of a child. They worship a true King of which their own religion knows nothing, and they give him gifts of which he has no need.
The poetry of this moment runs over in excess. While Herod’s excess is his cruelty, paranoia, obsession, fear, and rage, the excess of the magi is the genuineness and joy of their worship and the holy uselessness of the gifts they bring to a newborn child. There’s nothing to calculate here. There’s no datum to verify. There’s only a child—and a king at that—to worship and adore.
Matthew has drawn us into a poetic world because this poetry is the language of God. And the poetry of his account of the magi is duly appropriate for this Feast of the Epiphany because it’s a feast that is all about poetry. We cannot speak of the manifestation of our Lord in the flesh to the entire world without speaking in poetry. This poetry shows us that the manifestation of our Lord to the world must first happen to pagan Gentiles who read signs in the stars and who are bold and generous enough to follow a random star to find a Jewish baby king. This poetry highlights the sad irony that although Jesus came for the lost sheep of the house of Israel, the Gentiles were the first recipients of his manifestation. This poetry gently points out the sadness of an insecure man fearing a gentle child. This poetry demonstrates that those whose imagination is generous and open will find the Christ child first, whether in the extraordinariness of the ordinary or in the mystery of the stars above.
This poetry is true not because it can be quantified by data but because it opens us up to the mystery of God, whose truth transcends all ages. In our own day, tyrants still run in fear of the child whose mysterious reign will outlast them. In our own day, ruthless leaders still exact their vengeance with cold calculation. In our own day, some religious still read the Scriptures unpoetically to buttress the image of those whose favor they court. In our own day, worldly affairs are still conducted secretly while the Gospel is preached openly to the ends of the earth.
But in our own day, there are still stars that defy our human knowledge. There are still signs in the natural order from a God with whom anything is possible and whose words are true. There are still people of generous hearts from other lands and other faiths who help us see the mystery of our own faith. There is still a babe born in a manger whom we are called to worship and adore. There is still a God we worship and adore and who makes the impossible possible.
And to worship this God is why we have come here this evening, in the middle of a work week, in all its superfluousness. We have come to worship a King who needs nothing of our worship, who doesn’t need our gifts of money or time and who doesn’t even need our presence. And yet, we must continue to give him those gifts. What else can we do? Our presence here is the most acceptable gift of all, in all its poetry and excess. Our worship is poetic praise of the One before whom earthly rulers cower. Our praise is fitting for One who reigns forever while earthly rulers know their time is short. And following the example of the magi, we worship the King in the manger, and we lavishly offer him the gifts of our lives because in a world of fear and scarcity, we know that by opening our hearts to his poetic mystery, we will be filled to the brim.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Feast of the Epiphany
January 6, 2026
[1] I’m grateful to the Rev. Dr. James Farwell for this phrase.