Second Sunday of Christmas

Light Enough for the Journey
Rev. Jennifer Masada - St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church - Kapa’au, Hawai'i
January 4 - Second Sunday of Christmas, Year A
Jeremiah 31:7-14; Ephesians 1:3-6,15-19a; Psalm 84 or 84:1-8; Matthew 2:1-12

Every year, our lovely scene here in front of the altar changes the Sunday before the Epiphany. Did you notice? The wise one arrive!

In the time of King Herod, and even today, the wise ones come searching. They travel so long and so far. I wonder how their journey compares with ours? Sometimes we look for certainty, but there is no roadmap. Sometimes we travel on faith, but sometimes we doubt. The wise ones are not guided by certainty, or maps, or political authority, but by a star—by light—and by a deep inner knowing that something holy has entered the world. 

Our gospel story tells us about two very different responses to the Christ child’s arrival. Herod hears the news and is afraid. And all Jerusalem with him is afraid because fear spreads quickly. It is contagious. Herod’s fear escalates beyond personal anxiety; he fears losing control. He is afraid of being displaced. Herod holds fear of a world that might change in ways he cannot manage, and his fear infects everyone around him.

This is one of the enduring dangers of the world we live in: fear that multiplies, fear that hardens hearts, fear that distorts perception. We recognize this dynamic around us today. Fear shapes decisions, masquerades as wisdom, and convinces us we must protect what we have at all costs.

And yet, into this fearful landscape, God does not send force or certainty. Our Creator sends light. A child. A quiet, vulnerable presence.

The wise ones see this, and they respond differently than Herod. This doesn't mean they are naïve, and they are not immune to danger or fear. But they are not ruled by fear. They move with faith. They observe. They listen. They pay attention and trust what is stirring within them. They follow the light available to them. A glimmer in the sky that some might not even notice brings them hope. That light, small as it may seem, is enough to prompt them to make a long and difficult journey.  That is some profound hope!

I’ve been thinking about how much of our daily language is shaped by hope.
“I hope you are well.” “I hope you had a good Christmas.” “I hope you travel safely.”
We carry hopes for ourselves and hopes for others. We share them in emails and conversations and text messages. Hope is part of how we remain connected as human beings.

Our hopes are based on what we think has a reasonable chance of happening. We wouldn't say, "I hope you win $10 million." Okay, maybe we would say that, but we wouldn't plan our lives around it. We base our true hopes on what we’ve observed, what seems possible, what has worked before. That kind of hope matters. We need it. Hope binds us together.

But hope on its own can grow thin. Hope without faith can waver quickly when circumstances change. Hope without faith can turn into wishful thinking or quiet despair.

There’s a certain magic, a kind of alchemy that happens when we add faith to our hope. Faith is the deep trust that even when the path is unclear, we are not alone.
Hope fueled by faith has a different quality. It has substance. It has direction. It has the power to guide us toward the path our soul would choose.

The wise ones hope—but they also trust that faith will guide them. They pay attention to the signs given to them. They are guided by stars and by dreams! They listen when it is time to pause, when it is time to move, and when it is time to change course.

In our Eucharistic prayer, we name this sacred guidance when we proclaim God’s presence through "sun and moon and stars, earth and winds and waters, and every living thing." The same Creator who set the stars in motion continues to speak through creation, through our lives, through the quiet wisdom that grows within us. 

On this last Sunday of Christmas, what do you hope for? Peace? Well being for our families? Health? Stability? The wise ones teach us to ask “what do you hope for,” and then to ask, “What is shaping your hope?” What light are you orienting your life toward? What voices are guiding your decisions—fearful ones, or faithful ones? Where are you being invited to trust, even without clarity?

In our gospel story, the wise ones arrive and are overwhelmed with joy. They kneel. They offer what they have. They do not rush away from the mystery. They linger in its presence. And then, having encountered this child—having come close to pure love made flesh—they leave by another road that takes them away from Herod. In doing so, they are no safer; their fear does not disappear. They do not leave with clear answers about the child they found. But something within them has shifted.

That is what Christmas does. Christmas does not resolve all danger or answer every question. It plants light within us. It teaches us how to live differently in the midst of uncertainty. It forms us quietly, from the inside out.

In these lingering days of Christmas, we are invited to pause without rushing toward answers, but staying close to the light we have been given. To let faith give substance to our hope. And to trust that even now, the Creator is guiding us—step by step—into love. Amen.

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