So sing the Three Kings in Gian Carlo Menotti's exquisite operetta, Amahl and the Night Visitors. This operetta, which I first saw performed when I was a Brownie Scout, is my absolute, most-ever-favorite Epiphany story. As I have grown through the (many!) years since that first moment, this lovely and tender work of music and drama has sunk more deeply into my soul. I search the newspapers each year, looking for a live production to attend (if you ever hear of one, let me know and I'll make every effort to be there!). I have a videotape of it, now scratchy and worn from many playings, and each year I sit down (with a box of Kleenex right at my elbow) to watch it through. Usually more than once.

For the One who said "I am the Bread of Life" and "I am the Light of the World" is indeed this Child, sought long ago and in our day by yearning seekers; the One who is the color of wheat, the color of dawn. The One whose very being stirs us to pay homage, to travel through deserts and over hills, leaving behind all that is familiar so that we might come near enough to simply kneel in wonder and adoration, offering our gifts.

The story of Amahl and the Night Visitors, for those of you who may not know this incredible work of art, tells of a poor crippled shepherd boy who, with his widowed mother, opens the door of their hut one night to Visitors -- Three Kings, guided by a star to find the Child. In awe at their fine clothing and the dazzling gifts they have brought for the Child, Amahl hears of the dream, the divine revelation, which has stirred them to make their journey.

Inspired by all that he hears from them about this One whom they seek, Amahl longs to go with them. But what gift might he, a poor shepherd boy, bring to the Child who is a King? Ah! His crutch! The crutch upon which he leans as he limps from here to there -- THIS he will give to the Child. No matter whether he will be able to move about without it. Just the holy instinct to give all that he has to give. And the moment he sings out his resolve to make of his crutch a gift, he is healed. "Mother, see; I can dance, I can run, I can play!"

When Amahl decides to offer the crutch -- the gift of his own weakness -- to the Child, he no longer needs it. And of course, this is the point where one grabs for more Kleenex, because a great and powerful truth is here revealed... A Truth not of the mind, but of the heart. The Child, the One whom we seek with all of our feeble capacity, wants that very gift: the gift of our weakness, our handicap, our many limpings. The first gift Christ wants from us is not gold, not even frankincense or myrrh, but every one of the crutches by which we prop ourselves up, moving about life in all our awkwardness. Then, and only then, may we be healed; when all we have, weak as we are, is given to Christ as our free gift.

And then...and then; we truly dance, and run and play. Drawn to the Light of the Bread of Life, we are made whole, bit by small bit, year by year. There is no journey more holy, no other search worth troubling ourselves to make.

We all have a crutch to offer as gift to the Child. Whatever yours is, however it looks or for however long it has propped you up, it can be your gift to the One in whom we are healed, and in whose infinite love we can at last dance on sturdy limbs. Today, as you read this, you can make this offering to the One who is Lord and Savior. Go ahead -- lay that crutch down before him. You'll find that you no longer need it.

A most blessed dancing Epiphany to you all, in the Child who is the color of wheat, the color of dawn.