e·piph·a·ny ( P ) Pronunciation Key (-pf-n)
n. pl. e·piph·a·nies
1.Epiphany:
a)A Christian feast celebrating the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi.
b)January 6, on which this feast is traditionally observed.
2.A revelatory manifestation of a divine being.
3.a)A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something.
b)A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization: “I experienced an epiphany, a spiritual flash that would change the way I viewed myself” (Frank Maier).
[Middle English epiphanie, from Old French, from Late Latin epiphania, from Greek epiphaneia, manifestation, from epiphainesthai, to appear : epi-, forth; see epi- + phainein, phan-, to show; see bh-1 in Indo-European Roots.]
epi·phanic (p-fnk) adj.
Today is January 6th. It is known as the Twelfth Day of Christmas. In non-Orthodox traditions,it is also known as Epiphany- the day in the Church calendar that celebrates the visit of the Magi to the child Christ.
I have two distinct memories that will alway stay with me regarding Epiphany.
First, the good:
When I was about seven or so, my mother put together a small Epiphany pageant at our church. It was a tiny Episcopal mission church that had only been around for a year or two- we were a charter family, in fact- and my mother was doing her "Professional Director of Christian Education" act. Which she's really good at, by the way. She can and will resurrect a CE department in any ailing church in under a year. Since we were a fledgling church, we were still worshiping in the gymnasium of a local elementary school. It was hard work transforming the gym into a worship space every week- chairs needed to be set up, basketball hoops needed to be raised, and the portable altar and little electric organ pulled from the corner of the custodian's closet. But they did it. A lot of the members of the church had never really attended church before, much less a "high church", as the Episcopalians tend to be, but my mother, the ever-vigilant theologian (although educated Lutheran) wanted to instill the High Church tradition as much as she could. So hence the Epiphany pageant. Her idea was to take three kids and have them each play a King, processing up while singing a verse of "We Three Kings". Its really hard to get little boys to agree to something like this, so there was a shortage. So what did she do? Of course, she reached into her own bag of resources- and recruited me. If I remember correctly, I think my sister was playing Mary, so she wasn't obligated to do this, although she probably would have jumped at the chance- she was going through the phase where she was convinced she wanted to be an actress. I went through no such phase, because I was a very timid child. But I decided what the hell, I'll do it. I was in charge of the second verse, and walked up while singing Frankincense to offer have I/Incense owns a deity night/Prayer and Praising, all men raising/Worship him, God on high. The only problem was, my mother had taught us, when we were both quite young, and just kind of for kicks, the alternate version of the song that goes We Three Kings of Orient Are/Smoking on a Rubber Cigar.... I managed to get through my part without cracking up, but just barely. I finished my verse and spent the rest of the song snickering, which, unfortunately, my mother did notice. Oops. But I managed to not drop anything or trip, which at that age were two of my biggest talents.
And, the bittersweet:
My freshman year of college, I had just gotten back from Christmas break. We had a J-term, so we usually started classes the next Monday after New Year's Day, instead of waiting for the middle of the month. After class had been going for just a few days, I got a phone call early one morning from my mother. My grandfather had died. I was very, very close to my grandfather, probably closer at that time than I was to either of my parents, and possibly even my sister. People in his apartment building had noticed they hadn't seen him for a few days, and the police and my parents were called. And then my mother called me. The date was January 7th, and even though that was the date on his death certificate, the ME said he'd been dead for about twenty-four hours before they found him. Which would make the date of death actually January 6th. I noticed the irony of the date immediately, the fact that he died during the season of new life, the season of giving and love. It seemed that this was just the excuse needed for the depression that had been hanging around on the fringes to dive right in. The rest of the year of college was pretty much a joke. While I still have problems with depression lingering on the edges, I have healed from his death, but to this day, and for the rest of my life, I miss him terribly. Luckily, his grave is close, so we make a habit of visiting it at least once a year, usually on All Saint's Sunday, to satisfy my Catholic grandmother with the heavy Austrian accent. I still think, from time to time, "I'd really love to show that to Grandpa", or "Wow, I'd love to introduce Grandpa to so-and-so". I really wish that whoever I end up marrying could have had a chance to meet him.
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