For over a decade I’ve offered the congregations I’ve served a ‘star word’ on the Sunday where we’ve marked Epiphany. The stars are face down and the only ‘rule’ I had is that they have to live with the word for a week and if they really don’t like it after that, they can choose another one.

This year, after some email exchange amongst colleagues about choosing a word or having one chosen for you, I decided to do something different and introduced it to the congregation in this way:

In the story of Epiphany, we hear about the magi who set out on a journey guided by a star. It’s a familiar and beautiful image: wise ones from afar, lifting their eyes to the night sky, trusting that a small point of light was worth following. What we sometimes forget is that they did not know where that star would lead them. They did not have a map, or clear instructions, or any guarantee of how the journey would end. They only knew that the star had caught their attention, stirred something within them, and invited them to move. That star didn’t explain itself. It didn’t offer certainty or comfort. It simply shone, and the magi chose to follow. The years that I’ve been with you, as part of our Epiphany practice, I’ve given out stars. In the past, those stars have come with words written on them, words chosen prayerfully, meant to offer guidance, encouragement, or challenge for the year ahead. Perhaps some of you have tucked those stars into wallets, pinned them to bulletin boards, or kept them by your bedside, letting those words echo through the months.

This year, I’m doing something different. Instead of offering you a word, I’m offering you a blank star. Not because there is nothing to say, but because there may be something God is already saying to you. The magi followed a star without knowing where it would lead. In the same way, these blank stars are an invitation, not a conclusion. An invitation to listen. To notice. To pay attention to what stirs in your heart as this new year unfolds. They ask you to trust that God’s call may not arrive fully formed, neatly lettered, or immediately clear. Perhaps a word will come to you today. Perhaps it will arrive in the coming days or weeks, through a conversation, a moment of joy, a season of struggle, or a quiet prayer. Perhaps the star will remain blank for a while, reminding you that listening itself is holy work. As you receive your star, I invite you to hold it gently. Carry it with curiosity rather than pressure. Let it be a reminder that faith is often about stepping forward without knowing the destination, trusting that the light you need will meet you on the way. Like the magi, may we have the courage to follow the star—wherever it leads.

And that’s my window on God’s world.