At the end of my first year as a vet student, I failed one of my subjects.

It was agronomy.

For those of you who don’t know, that’s the study of pasture crops.

Truth be told, it wasn’t a subject that I enjoyed.

Much of the course seemed to be about trying to identify–– 

based on minute differences––

different pasture crops and their seeds…

and drawing them.

So much of it was visual and…

as someone who has aphantasia—

who lacks a pictorial imagination––

I really struggled.

But I also made some bad choices during swot vac and studied the wrong things.

When the result came back as forty-nine percent and an “F”… 

I was, of course, a little disappointed.

But, at the same time, I was also rather relieved because it could have been much worse.

Dad’s reaction, however, was quite the opposite.

He was furious.

He claimed that… 

all my way through school… 

my teachers had told him that I was capable of doing anything that I put my mind to…

so, clearly, I hadn’t tried hard enough…

and, in so doing, I had disrespected the sacrifices that he had made to support me.

He demanded that I apologise to him.

I was flabbergasted!

His response hurt.

And it hurt deeply.

But, at that moment, I couldn’t put it into words.

And, given the mood that he was in, woe betide me if I had tried!

But the pain of his lack of sympathy and support––

and the feeling of rejection––

haunted me…

for years.

Towards the end of my ministry training… 

I was doing some work with a psychologist on handling guilt-manipulation…

and, having told her this story, she encouraged me to confront Dad over it.

Admittedly, by that stage, some eight or more years had passed…

but Dad had absolutely no recollection of the event. 

At all.

Whereas, for me, it had coloured my relationship with him for most of my adult life.

 

Now, in telling you that story, I’m taking a certain risk.

I can imagine some of you coming to me afterwards…

and telling me stories about your relationship with one of your parents… 

which trigger memories and emotions for you.

And there might be some who would simply have an emotional reaction because I told a sad story from my past.

But the reason that I related that story… 

was to illustrate the problem of narrative point of view and perspective.

Because I narrated that story…

and, naturally, I narrated it from my perspective…

you have, in a sense, sided with me.

Did any of you instinctively hear it––

or try to hear it––

from my father’s perspective?

And how different would it have been if he had been telling the story?

 

This morning’s story from Matthew’s Gospel––

is, technically, a third-person rather than a first-person narrative…

but, because the Magi are the central characters…

we tend to hear it from their point of view… 

and try to understand it from their perspective.

The fact that we read it, today, on “Epiphany”…

only reinforces that.

It’s the story of their spiritual quest…

of them finding the Christ-child…

of them having an encounter with God.

Indeed, the celebration of Epiphany… 

itself… 

rejoices in the idea that God’s revelation has been made to ‘the Gentiles’––

that is, to people who weren’t part of the house of Israel.

As such, it speaks of a God whose love and mercy is inclusive.

Of course, in the context within which the author wrote this, the Magi were…

in effect…

the outsiders.

It was quite radical to make them the focus––

the ‘heroes’––

of the narrative.

Ironically, of course, that’s no longer really the case.

When we read this… 

within the setting of the church today…

we’re not the outsiders who are being embraced and included.

Perhaps, rather than identifying with the dominant narrative…

we ought to focus on the secondary one––

if you like, the “Jerusalem” narrative.

 

In the story, the Magi arrive in Jerusalem looking for a new-born king…

and, the author tells us…

“When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him”.

Now, it makes sense that Herod would have been scared.

After all, we know––

from contemporary historians–– 

that Herod was completely paranoid…

and, perhaps, had sociopathic tendencies.

He spent much of his reign disposing of anyone whom he saw as a threat.

And that included most of the Jerusalem aristocracy…

two of his brothers-in-law… 

one of his mothers-in-law… 

one of his wives… 

and even two of his sons.

So, the annunciation of the birth of a rival would have been deeply disturbing for Herod.

 

But why were the people of Jerusalem frightened?

Indeed, the author claims all Jerusalem?

 

Perhaps the author is suggesting that they’re afraid of what Herod will do.

After all, straight after this story… 

he has all of the infant boys in Bethlehem murdered.

 

But that doesn’t make sense.

It certainly doesn’t explain why the whole of the city’s population would be frightened.

Surely, many of them would have had a very different reaction.

Indeed, most of the residents would have been glad to see the back of him.

Herod was deeply unpopular.

He was hated by the remnants of the aristocracy…

who regarded him as a provincial upstart and usurper.

He was hated by many of the religious leaders…

because of his laxity in matters religious.

He was hated by many of the common people…

because of his cosy relationship with the occupying Romans…

his oppressive taxation programme… 

and his economic policies…

which forced many of them off their lands and into poverty.

“Fear” would not have been their first…

or even their dominant feeling.

 

Interestingly, the term that the author uses…

in the Greek…

isn’t the usual one for “to be afraid”.

Rather, the word he uses has more of a sense of “to be troubled”…

“confounded”…

“agitated”…

or “disturbed”.

They find the prospect of a new king––

a different king––

to be disturbing.

After all, as much as they hated Herod––

for a variety of reasons––

they knew where they stood with him.

They knew what to expect.

In some sense, they had learned how to live with him…

they had learned how to operate within the contours of this world…

and…

as much as they disliked him and his methods…

many of them had also benefitted from his rule.

 

Isn’t it the case that––

so often––

we humans will choose what is known…

even if it’s not ideal…

rather than risk the unknown?

So often, we choose to remain in our metaphorical prisons…

even once the doors have been opened…

because freedom can be unsettling…

and, even, scary…

when all you have known are locked doors.

 

And isn’t all of that also true when it comes to God?

How often do we cling to an image or a construct of God––

and a relationship with God––

that is essentially broken…

or unhelpful…

or, even, abusive…

because we aren’t open to grasping a healthy or liberating alternative?

How often do we cling to an image of God that doesn’t disturb the status quo––

that doesn’t demand too much of us––

despite offering us the freedom, love, and forgiveness that we crave?

 

Maybe that’s the true Epiphany.