When Light Finds Us
Excerpt of “When Light Finds Us,” preached on January 4, 2026
Isaiah 60:1-6 | John 1:10-18
The story of the Magi is one of those biblical stories that feels both richly told and intentionally spacious. Scripture gives us just enough to know this journey mattered — wise travelers setting out across hundreds of miles, carrying provisions and costly gifts, moving slowly on animals through unfamiliar land — yet it leaves wide space for our imagination. We are told they followed a star that would not stay still, leading them forward without revealing the destination. They did not know where they would end up, whom they could trust, or what awaited them when they arrived. Even their encounter with King Herod only deepens the uncertainty, placing fear and political power alongside hope and promise. The Magi’s journey is not driven by certainty or control, but by wonder — the willingness to keep moving toward a light they could not yet explain.
The Gospel of John explains this light in its opening verses, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” Written with theology at the heart of the Gospel, John’s prologue also leaves us with that same tone of a story that is richly told and intentionally spacious. Darkness tried to take root, Herod held the power, yet the light of Christ did not wane and guided the Magi for their journey to meet him and worship.
But John does not stop with cosmic poetry. He presses the mystery all the way into human life. “He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him.” The light does not hover above creation; it enters it. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” Not as an idea, not as an explanation, but as a life we could see and touch. Epiphany is not simply the revelation of divine light — it is the astonishing claim that God chose to meet us from the inside of our world, sharing our limits, our vulnerability, our humanity. That is why recognition matters. The light comes close enough to be missed.
What Epiphany often teaches us is that God’s light does not always arrive in the ways we expect or recognize. It is not loud or obvious. It does not follow the usual scripts of power or beauty. The Magi were not guided by a throne or an army, but a star. John tells us the light shines in the darkness — not that it overwhelms it instantly, but that it persists within it. Epiphany trains us to see differently, to notice the kind of radiance that often goes unnamed and unrewarded, yet is no less real. And that way of seeing is not limited to Scripture; it is something we must relearn in our own lives as well.
Earlier this week, I read an essay by Brandon Vaidyanathan titled “My Mother’s Hidden Radiance.” In reflecting on his relationship with his mother, he offers language that helps name what Epiphany invites us to practice — not just noticing what is obvious, but learning how to see what often goes unrecognized. He describes beauty not as a single thing, but as something that can be encountered in different ways.
Some forms of beauty, he suggests, are familiar and widely celebrated. They follow cultural expectations and shared standards — the kinds of beauty we are trained to recognize, reward, and pursue. These forms of beauty can carry meaning and longing, but they can also become limiting when we assume they tell the whole story. Other forms of beauty are quieter and less visible. They often remain hidden beneath the surface of ordinary life and are revealed only in unexpected moments of recognition, when something true and luminous breaks through.
The danger, he notes, is that when we confuse beauty with conformity, we fail to see the full worth of people and lives that do not fit our scripts. We overlook dignity that cannot be measured at a glance and miss the deeper radiance that does not announce itself. Learning to recognize this kind of beauty requires a different way of seeing — one that slows down, pays attention, and remains open to surprise.
The prophet Isaiah gives us insight into this revealed beauty that discloses itself when we learn how to see. And that movement — from hidden radiance to recognized light — is precisely the movement Isaiah describes. Isaiah 60 is not written in a moment of strength or triumph, but in the long shadow of exile. The city is still broken. The people are weary. Hope feels fragile. And yet, into that context, the prophet does not say, “Fix yourselves,” or even “Create the light.” Instead, he says, “Arise, shine; for your light has come.” The light is already present and the command is not to produce radiance, but to respond to it.
That’s what Epiphany is all about — to awaken our wonder by responding to the light. This is what this series is all about: Light That Wakes Our Wonder. Over the next several weeks we will be returning to this question again and again: What happens when God’s light meets us in places we are not yet looking? It is an invitation to learn how to see — and respond — more faithfully.
This sermon draws on ideas from Brandon Vaidyanathan’s essay “My Mother’s Hidden Radiance.”
