Following the Star Within

Isaiah 60:1–6 · Matthew 2:1–12

Epiphany is the feast of light. Not the blinding kind. Not the floodlight that exposes everything at once. Epiphany light is quieter—more like a star, small but persistent, bright enough to guide you if you’re willing to keep walking.

Isaiah gives us the poetry first:

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.”

Matthew gives us the story: strangers from the East, astrologers and seekers, following a star toward something they don’t fully understand. Put together, they tell a story that is not only about them—but about us. Arise: Waking Up to the Light Isaiah’s command is surprisingly active: Arise.
Not “wait.” Not “believe harder.” Arise.

Allegorically, this is the moment of inner awakening—the soul stirring from spiritual sleep. Darkness, Isaiah says, still covers the earth. That feels honest. Darkness still covers parts of us too: fear, grief, confusion, habits we can’t quite shake. But the light does not wait for the darkness to disappear.
The light comes anyway.

Epiphany reminds us that grace precedes understanding. God’s glory rises upon us before we know what to do with it. The invitation is simply to stand up and face it.

The Star: Guidance, Not Control
The Magi don’t receive a map. They receive a star.
That matters. The star doesn’t tell them where to stop for the night, which road will be safest, or how long the journey will take. It simply moves ahead of them, enough to keep them going. Allegorically, the star is that quiet inner guidance—intuition, longing, holy restlessness. It’s the question you can’t shake. The pull toward meaning. The sense that there is “more” than what you’ve settled for.

Epiphany faith is not certainty. It’s trust in enough light for the next step.
Jerusalem and Herod: When Power Is Afraid of Light
The Magi pass through Jerusalem, the city of power and religion. Herod is troubled. So is everyone else. Light has that effect.
Allegorically, Herod represents the false self—the part of us that clings to control, status, or certainty. The arrival of true light is threatening because it asks something of us. It asks us to let go.

Not everything in us welcomes Christ.
Some parts feel exposed.
Some parts feel afraid.
Epiphany doesn’t hide that tension. It names it.
The Child: God in Humility
And then—no palace. No throne. Just a child.
This may be the heart of Epiphany’s allegory: God does not reveal himself in dominance, but in vulnerability. The divine light appears not as overwhelming force, but as a presence that can be held, ignored, or adored. The Christ child represents the divine life within us—fragile, easily overlooked, yet radiant with glory.
To kneel before the child is to honor what is small, tender, and true in ourselves and others.


The Magi offer gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Traditionally, king, God, and suffering. Allegorically, they are the offerings of the soul:
Gold: what we value most
Frankincense: our prayer, our longing, our breath turned toward God Myrrh: our wounds, mortality, and honest grief. Epiphany invites us to bring all of it. Not just the polished parts. Even the bitter ones.
Nothing is wasted when placed before the light.
Going Home by Another Way
The story ends quietly: “They returned to their country by another way.” This may be the most Epiphany line of all. Encountering Christ changes the route. Not always dramatically, not always visibly—but deeply. You don’t go back the same way you came. Something has shifted.

Light has been seen.
Joy has been tasted.
And even if the world is still dark, you know now where the star is. Epiphany Today
Epiphany is not just about revelation long ago. It’s about recognition now.
Where is the light rising in your life?

What star are you being asked to trust?
What gift are you ready to place before the Holy?
Arise. Shine.
Not because you have it all figured out—but because the light has already come.
And it’s enough to begin.

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