The Rev. Dr. Brandon Perrine
Christmas 2A
Epiphany Sunday Matthew 2:1-12
January 4, 2026
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.’ When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, ‘In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: “And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.”’
Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, ‘Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.’ When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure-chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.
~o~
The story goes that long ago, in a small Italian village tucked among hills and olive trees, there lived an old woman named Befana. She was known for keeping the tidiest house anyone had ever seen. Her floors gleamed, her pots shone, and everything had its place. Befana worked constantly, sweeping, scrubbing, and polishing from morning until night. It wasn’t that she was unkind—she simply believed there was always one more chore that had to be finished.
One cold winter evening, three strangers came to her door. They were travelers, following a brilliant star that lit the night sky. The men were weary and asked Befana for shelter and warmth. She welcomed them inside, fed them, and listened as they spoke of a wondrous child who had just been born—a child who would bring hope and joy to the world. They invited Befana to come with them, to follow the star and see the child for herself.
Befana hesitated. Her house was a mess, she said. There was sweeping to be done, dishes to wash, work she could not leave unfinished. The travelers urged her gently, but she shook her head. And so, with thanks and blessings, the three strangers continued on their way.
Later that night, the house grew quiet. Befana stood alone, broom in hand, and felt something stir in her heart—a longing she could not sweep away. She wondered about the child, about the star, about the invitation she had refused. At last, she set down her broom, wrapped herself in a shawl, gathered small gifts, and stepped into the night to search for the child.
She followed the star from village to village, knocking on doors, peering into cradles, offering gifts to every child she met. But she never found the one she sought. Still, she did not stop. Year after year, Befana continued her journey, flying through the night, carrying sweets and small presents for children—just in case one of them might be the child she missed.
And so, the legend says, Old Befana still travels on the eve of Epiphany, her broom beneath her, her heart full of hope. For though she once chose her chores over wonder, she learned that it is never too late to go looking for Love incarnate.1
Here we are, one day before the eve of Epiphany. Tomorrow is the twelfth day of Christmas. Despite the fact that stores like Hobby Lobby and Menards have had Christmas wares for sale since September. Despite the fact that streaming services have offered hosts of classic Christmas films—old and new—from White Christmas to A Very Jonas Christmas— for weeks. Despite the performances, the light shows, the decorations. And even despite the fact that we may have put countless hours and many sleepless nights into our own preparations for Christmas. Despite all that—it’s still possible that we, like Old Befana, truly missed the whole thing.
Somehow, the wise ones in Matthew’s story and the shepherds in Luke’s understood something that subsequent generations would increasingly struggle with. It’s not about how much we prepare for Christmas that really matters. What matters is showing up. What matters is not missing the moment when hope, peace, joy, and love take flesh in the world. What matters is the possibility—however brief—of heaven and earth intersecting on a quiet night. What matters is the awakening of ordinary people to the divine spark within them, and the courage to share that light with the world. And if we missed that promise, that possibility, that potential—well, like Old Befana, maybe we missed the whole thing. Or did we? The gospel refuses to let “missing it” be the final word.
The wonderful thing about this story is that it didn’t happen once and for all. It happens again and again—and it can still happen again in us, even eleven days late. We don’t have to spend every Epiphany flying through the night on broomsticks searching for something we missed long ago, because it is still unfolding. Like that babe in the manger, children still embody the hope, peace, joy, and love of Christmas. Heaven and earth still intersect every time someone lives and loves the way Jesus did— whenever we protect what is fragile, repair what is broken, or help co-create a more just and livable world. And whenever we remember Jesus’ words to his disciples—“You are the light of the world; let your light shine”—and we actually do it, we are tapping into that divine spark at our core and letting it shine for the sake of the world. It is not too late for Christmas to come to us—not now, and not six months from now. Because Christmas is always coming.
So if you’re looking back on these last eleven days—or the last month— and thinking, “Where did the time go?” or “I can’t believe Christmas is already over,” maybe that’s because, amid all the other stuff of the season, you missed your moment at the manger. Don’t lose heart. You don’t have to wait until next year to find it. Even as the decorations come down, the carols fade, and the long winter stretches before us, the possibility of Christmas—the possibility of your manger moment—is always just around the corner. It might come quietly, unexpectedly, disguised as a moment of compassion, attention, or courage. The Christ of Christmas is always being born anew in our world, in our midst, in us.
May we be open to receiving Christmas’ promise whenever it finds us— whether on Epiphany, or the Fourth of July. May we learn to notice those moments when heaven and earth brush against one another. And may the Christ of Christmas be born in and through us for the sake of our world, this day and always. Amen.
1 Adapted from Tomie dePaola. The Legend of Old Befana: An Italian Christmas Story, New York: Simon & Schuster, 2017.
