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Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you (Isaiah 60:1).
Not long ago, a neighborhood child stood on our front porch and pointed at the chalk markings ab ove our door. “You have chalk on your house,” he said matter-of-factly.
I looked up at the inscription: “20 + C + M + B + 25.” The traditional Epiphany blessing initials, flanked by the year. “That’s our house blessing,” I explained. “It means ‘may Christ bless this house.’ We do it every year on Epiphany, the day we remember the wise men visiting baby Jesus.”
Puzzled, he squinted at the letters, then at me. “What?” he finally asked.
It was, in a nutshell, an Epiphany moment.
We live in a neighborhood full of children. As I listen in on their conversations, I’ve become increasingly aware of how wide the gap is between their language and the language of faith. Like the day my daughter tried to get kids to guess the word “amen” during a game.
“You say it in church,” she prompted. Blank stares. “You end a prayer with it.” More silence. “It starts with ‘a.’” Shrugs all around. “Amen, y’all!” she finally exclaimed, surprised.
When I was growing up, I had one friend who didn’t go to church. Today I’m surprised if my children have one friend who does. Yet what stands out to me about their stories isn’t their resistance—it’s their curiosity.
The magi weren’t steeped in Scripture either. They weren’t part of God’s chosen people. They didn’t share a language of faith with the newborn king. Yet they saw a light in the sky and trusted it enough to follow. God didn’t lead them through familiarity or tradition but through wonder and curiosity.
Epiphany is about openness. It’s about stars appearing in unexpected places and Christ being revealed to people we never imagined were looking.
It’s about chalk-covered doors quietly proclaiming “Christ is here” to children who may not yet know the word “amen.” It’s about making room on our porches, in our homes and in our hearts for neighbors and seekers—those who may not know the stories yet but who are longing for the light.
This Epiphany, our congregation will gather to bless our church doors. Then we’ll send worshipers home with chalk to bless their own. As I chalk my own door once again, switching in a six for a five, I’ll be praying for my neighborhood too—that each threshold, each conversation, each question might become part of God’s radiant epiphany. A light for those who’ve never known it, and a light for those of us who need to see it again.
