We marvel, don’t we, at pictures of earth taken from the space station or spacecraft orbiting our planet? Spectacular shots of our world at night demonstrate earth’s inhabitants throughout the world, illuminating boundaries of prosperity and purpose. More beautiful is the picture of our Lord’s Epiphany as his presence enlightens the darkness of man’s life on earth. Observing with a bird’s eye view, we see outlines of love, mercy and tender care. 

When we first notice the epiphany of God, he appears with the power of his word to create light that will shine with divine warmth and life. “Let there be light” is the dawn of his appearing in darkness to show his creation the wonder of his love. 

But the tragedy of the Fall brought darkness to his world. It seemed we lost the reflecting rays of God’s love in the gloom of satan’s rebellion and the sin of Adam and Eve. Fleeing the light of life, Adam ran for the shadows of the lush Garden flora, there to hide, to conceal, to veil the offending deeds. St. John reminds us that this is the nature of sin. He writes, “Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed” (John 3:20). 

But then God appeared. There in the shadow of the Fall, God manifested himself, not as a God arriving to punish and damn, but a God present to heal and restore. “Adam, where are you,” is the invitation to grace fanned into brilliant flame by the promise that followed. “I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; he will crush your head, and you will strike his heel” (Genesis 3:15). There, in darkness not seen since before creation, God shined his light so that his forgiven children would know the love and mercy of the Father who gave them birth. It was the first glimmer of hope in a world shrouded by sin.

Other epiphanies dot the landscape of God’s salvation too. In a shadowed land called Mesopotamia, a city groped along in the blindness of its devotion. The place was called Ur. There the gods of the people existed in the shade of spiritual silence, phantom and deception. The gods of the people were wood, stone, animals and the figments of human imaginations. It was a dark world.

But then God appeared. In the night of hopelessness, God beamed an enlightening invitation for one of Ur’s citizens to come to the light. God invited Abram to come and enjoy the warmth and radiance of grace.

In the land of his invitation, the LORD further revealed himself to Abram. Encased by the dreadful darkness of his deep sleep, Abram now saw the living God, loving and merciful. And with a firepot and blazing torch, the LORD guaranteed by covenant a place and person for his promises to come true (Genesis 15:9-21). Though darkness would seem to obscure God’s word, the divine contract affirmed that all his pledges to Abram would bear fruit and Abraham and his wife would bear the seed of promise.

In the dark era of the Judges, when everyone did as he saw fit, another light broke the darkness and led God’s people to living faith. The Midianites, Amalekites and other eastern peoples were threatening to wipe out the people of God. The overwhelming force, thick as locusts, swarmed the Jezreel Valley endangering both God’s children and God’s promise (Judges 7). That night was dark as dark could be.

But then God appeared. With the promises of dew and dream, the LORD led his chosen through the black night, across the valley, to the hill of Moreh—300 men, bottled torch in one hand, trumpet in the other. And in 300 piercing trumpets and blazing torches, the LORD revealed the truth about triumph, the truth about promise, and the truth about love. In the dark, God sees as though it were light. In defeat, God sees his ordained victory, and where God has placed his promise, no shadow can reach. 

Isaiah was granted illumination unknown by light-bearers past or future. He spoke words into the darkness that were, themselves, veiled and shadowed. And yet, though veiled, the hope they showered on God’s people could not be darkened. There, in a land pulled and tugged, jostled and squeezed by Ahabs and Hadads, by Rezins and Remeliahs, by Alexanders and Herods, a sun would rise. There, where foreign merchants and pagan traders scurried along the Via Maris to ply their trade, a light would dawn. 

The Light would be mysterious in its work: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace. The Light would be brilliant yet subdued as it shined grace among the gloomy Gentiles. The Light would be marvelous in its divinity born of a virgin. The Light would hurt and blind, being despised and rejected. The Light would cleanse and heal, purify and beautify even while it itself was extinguished. And yet the Light, too, would see the light of life. It seemed Isaiah left us brighter but still foggy, lighter but still grey.

But then God appeared. In the fullness of time, the promises all came focused and fulfilled in a manger hidden in Bethlehem. In the dark of night celestial angels beamed heavenly glory over the hills of David’s home and heritage and it radiated in heaven and earth. And at that moment, the long epiphany exuded its brilliance in the one, true Light that had sparked across the pages of time: our Jesus was born. 

In Christ’s birth, obedience, passion and prevalence, Isaiah’s fog lifted in crystal clarity, Gideon’s hope revived in our souls, Abraham’s covenant now bore our names, and the glorious victory of the woman’s Offspring became ours. Divine forgiveness and love has appeared to us in the flesh. 

This Epiphany we celebrate the manifestation of Jesus Christ as God and Savior of the world. But the history of God’s long epiphany is a glorious wonder all in itself. Stand with God’s people this Epiphany season, staring at a thousand twinkling wonders—that God, again and again, appeared for us.