Editor's Postlude: Epiphany in a Cup of Water 

I was offered a cup of cold water as I entered the church on a sweltering hot and humid January Sunday. Yes, I said January! I was attending an Epiphany service at St. Andrew’s Uniting Church in Brisbane, Australia. As I came from the heat and humidity into a non-air-conditioned sanctuary, that cup of cold water was the best welcome. 

The projection screen proclaimed “Happy New Year.” A Christmas tree and life-size nativity figures were positioned to the side at the front of the sanctuary. The service began with the singing of “Joy to the World.” And I felt discombobulated. I had just been out in a kind of day that I would associate with July, not January. Yet here I was surrounded by Christmas decorations, singing hymns I associated with a cold, snowy day. I sipped from the cup of cold water and tried to let my brain find a way to make sense of what was, to my amazement, quite unsettling. The familiar was not so familiar. 

It truly was an Epiphany Sunday for me, on two fronts. First, I began realizing how much my religious celebrations and theologies are rooted in a specific context and kind of weather. Christmas traditions, originating mostly in the north part of the northern hemisphere, are rooted in shorter days and longer nights, cold and snow, and longing for the coming of spring. 

The northernmost northern hemisphere context has shaped the interpretation of scripture and the theology of Christmas, in which we imagine the birth of the baby Jesus in a cold, nighttime stable. Our rituals are shaped around the longing for light to return. Scriptures, such as from Isaiah, declaring that “your light has come” or “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” run in parallel with marking Christ’s birth at the time of the winter solstice. Light is glorified and dark vilified, leading to embedded racism in theology and liturgy. 

But there I was, marking the birth of Jesus and the coming of the magi at the time of the summer solstice. The days were long, and light was not a friend. Sunscreen of at least SPF 50 was required because of the thin ozone layer over Australia. I’m not sure that a new theology of Christmas and light has emerged yet in this context, but what if it had been this context rather than that of northern climes that had shaped the first theologies and traditions around the birth of Christ? What if, instead, light was vilified for its dangers and the return of longer nights and the safe, cooling darkness celebrated? 

The second epiphany for me came with the offered cup of cold water as I entered the church. I thought of Matthew 10:42, in which Jesus declares, “‘Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones…’” On a hot, humid day, that cup of cold water was a precious welcome; for people coming in from a long outdoor trip to church, it was even a health-saving gift. I wondered about what we might provide in my Alberta church that would be an equivalent, especially in the cold of winter?  

Then there was the fact that it was the first thing offered, before introductions and information were shared. Yes, we provide coffee and tea after church, but to be handed a cup of cold water immediately was a profound statement of care and welcome. 

I’m still pondering the experience of Epiphany in summer. It was more disconcerting that I would have imagined. It has left me reflecting on just how much a particular context, and its weather, can shape theology and rituals. And one cup of cold water has challenged me to think about how we welcome people and provide what is needed so that together we can worship our God! 

Susan Lukey, Editor