07.01.2026
Saint Francis
St. Francis Lutheran Church
Pr. Christian Jennert
Festival of the Epiphany (Year A) | January 4, 2026
[Isaiah 60:1–6; Psalm 72:1–7, 10–14; Ephesians 3:1–12; Matthew 2:1–12]
It’s that time of year again. Christmas decorations still linger in our homes and storefronts, even as many of us feel ready to move on. We’ve eaten our fill of cookies and chocolate, the calendar has turned, and the quiet pressure of the
New Year sets in. Four days into January, we may already feel the familiar tug to assess our lives, identify what’s lacking, and draft resolutions we half-suspect we won’t keep.
Perhaps this season invites us to be gentler with ourselves. Less talk of “should”and “oughts”. Less self-imposed pressure. One thing I appreciate most about these first days of the New Year is that they are still largely unwritten — like a blank page or a fresh canvas — and we need not rush to fill it all at once. Instead, we can pause, notice what God is already doing, and trust that the story is still unfolding.
Our readings today mark the Feast of the Epiphany. Epiphany means “showing forth,” “manifestation” — the revealing of Christ to the nations, embodied in the visit of the Magi. It can also describe a sudden insight, a moment when something
becomes clear.
While many are eager to pack Christmas away, the Church invites us — once again — to slow down. Our Eastern Orthodox siblings, after all, celebrate the Nativity on January 6. So today we linger just a little longer in Bethlehem. We stay with the star. We listen.
The prophet Isaiah proclaims:
Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you…
The Holy One will arise upon you,
and God’s glory will appear over you.
The prophet Isaiah gives us language for what happened at Christmas — and for what continues to unfold. Light has entered the world, and we are invited — not commanded — to live by that light. No checklist. No resolutions. Just a steady, gentle following.
At Epiphany, the Church asks us to consider what Christmas means now, at the threshold of a year still mostly unknown.
We stand at a moment of transition, with more questions than answers — and that, too, is holy ground.
Isaiah points us in two directions at once: backward, to Christ’s coming into our world; and forward, to the fulfillment of God’s promises. The Magi, guided by a star, arrive with joy and kneel in homage. They bring gifts — gold, frankincense, myrrh — tokens of reverence and trust. We know, as hearers of the Gospel, that this moment is both fulfillment and foretaste: Christ revealed to the nations, and a glimpse of a reign not yet complete.
So what does Epiphany mean for us—here and now—in a season of transition, as individuals and as a congregation?
I’ll be honest: there are days in ministry when I feel a deep sense of humility. I love theology. I love imagining how God’s reign might take shape among us right here in the heart of San Francisco. And then real life shows up, and I am reminded
of my own limitations.
Some years ago, in a previous congregation I served — around this same time of year — a man stopped by the church office and asked to speak with a pastor. He introduced himself by his first name only and told me that he had arrived in
California just a few weeks earlier. He shared that he was undocumented, without housing, and without work. I couldn’t tell where he was from. He was looking for a job — any job — something that might give him a bit of income.
I could smell cold cigarette smoke on his jacket.
The truth is, I could not help him with a job. I told him there was no work available at the church. So we sat together for a few minutes. We talked — just like that. I shared a few resources.
My dog Wilhelm was with me in the office that day. I rarely brought him along, but for whatever reason, Wilhelm was not anxious or alarmed by this man’s presence at all. He simply stayed close — calm and attentive.
When the man eventually left, nothing about his situation had changed. He was still without shelter, still without work, still living in deep uncertainty. I returned to my desk and found myself wondering how to preach Epiphany. Was that encounter an epiphany for me?
If the Lord has indeed risen upon us — if God’s light has truly shone — how do we, in turn, offer homage to Christ today?
Like the Magi, we bring what we can. We offer what we have — not out of duty or guilt, but in response to the immeasurable gift we have already received.
Together, the Church is the Body of Christ — imperfect, sometimes uncertain, often fragile. A community still following a star, still trusting a promise. Together we offer our prayers, our presence, our listening. We offer our willingness to sit
with one another in pain when no solutions are at hand. We offer our gifts — some polished, some worn, some cracked but precious.
These are gifts rarer than gold.
The journey of faith is long and not always well lit. There are dangers and detours, moments of fear and temptation. And yet the star still shines. When we arrive — again and again — at the manger, we kneel. We rejoice. We offer what we have, because God has already given us everything.
We may wish we could offer more. Often we cannot. But in God’s economy, what we bring is enough. We are enough — created with care, redeemed by love, sent to reflect Christ’s light to all people.
And so, as we step into this New Year, the page before us is still mostly blank. That can feel unsettling. But the good news of Epiphany is this: the blank page does not belong to us alone. God is already at work upon it — writing mercy,
sketching light, tracing hope where we cannot yet see the full picture. We are not asked to fill the page with certainty or perfection. We are simply invited to follow the light, to bring what we have, and to trust that God’s story is still unfolding.
So hear Isaiah once more:
Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of Christ has risen upon you.
With the Magi, may we follow the star — God’s light — today and throughout the New Year.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
