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There’s a story told about the 19th century American poet, Emily Dickinson. After graduating from what would have been the equivalent of high school in our day, she was sent to a women’s seminary for religious education. At the end of her time there, the principal did what they did in those days and grouped the students into three categories to assess their faith: there were those who were “established Christians”; those who “expressed hope”; and those who were “without hope”.

The story goes that the principal asked all those who wanted to be Christian to stand up. Emily Dickinson remained seated and was thus put in the “without hope” category. She was later asked why she didn’t stand up and wasn’t she worried that people thought it “queer” that she didn’t? In other words, wasn’t she worried about being seen as unladylike, unfit for a woman’s place in society for expressing such independent thinking?

She remarked, with a twinkle in her eye, “I thought a lie would be queerer.”

I love this story. Everything in Emily Dickinson’s poetry suggests that she had quite a robust Christian faith, actually, but to be asked to conform to a very particular expression of that faith, one befitting of a 19th century Christian woman who never questioned her place in society, this was so not on for Emily Dickinson!

I will say, though, the categories “established Christian”, “expressed hope”, and “without hope” are helpful markers, I think, of where any one of us might find ourselves in our spiritual journeys. They are fluid categories, to be sure, ones we might move between on any given day, or over any number of years. “Expressed hope” might describe our faith in one set of circumstances while “without hope” may very well be true in another. 

That there are three categories has me thinking on this Sunday of the Epiphany about the three wise men, or the three Magi. Tradition holds that they could have been kings, or astrologers, or priests from the Zoroastrian sect. If the Magi were to have their faith assessed, I wonder where they would fall? Maybe there was one who was “established” in their faith, eager to meet and embrace this child called Emmanuel, God with us? Maybe one had “expressed hope” when the star appeared, and said to the others, “What’s the harm in checking things out?”

Maybe there was one who was of the Emily Dickinson variety, who didn’t buy any of it at all— at least not in the way it was being presented to them at that time. 

At the beginning of the Advent season, when we were preparing to welcome the Christ child, we spoke about leaving a “gap” for  Christ to enter in. We talked about how sometimes when our calendars open up, we are quick to fill them with more things, more activities, more busyness. Leaving a gap is one way, one spiritual practice, where we can intentionally leave room for God to enter our lives in unprogrammed, unanticipated ways. 

When I think of this Epiphany story, and the three magi, (three being a number that is entirely made up, we don’t actually know how many wise men there were, we assume three because of the three gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but I digress), when I think of this Epiphany story, I’m amazed at how we might leave a gap for God to enter in, but God leaves an entire night sky for us to enter in.

It reminds me of the hospitality, the room I observe here in this community. There are some who might identify as established Christians, some who would say they have hope, others who might say they have no faith. Then there is everyone in between. We might have our own ideas of where we fit, we might have our own ideas about where other people fit. The funny thing is, God doesn’t seem to prioritize or favour or lift up any one of the wise men in particular. whether their faith is established or otherwise. All are included under this great big sky where this star shines leading the way. All wind up at the manger. 

I like to think that maybe some of the magi were there to sing spiritual songs to the child. Some were there to engage in rigorous debate, careful study about the nature of this Christ-child’s birth. Still others were there to see if the manger needed some maintenance, weather stripping or a couple of new screws. 

In her famous poem, “Tell the Truth, but tell it slant”, Emily Dickinson writes: 

"Tell all the truth but tell it slant —

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —"

The truth is all around us, friends. For some, for most, it dazzles gradually, like a star. All of us have gifts to offer and God’s got plenty good room to receive them. Amen.