An Anonymous Gift

Sermon — January 4, 2026
The Rev. Greg Johnston
Lectionary Readings

“Then, opening their treasure chests,
they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”
(Matthew 2:11)

There’s a perfect moment in the first season of the TV comedy The Office in which Michael Scott, reflects on the importance of generosity. For those who don’t know, the series is a pretend documentary about working life in a small office supply company in post-industrial Pennsylvania; Michael Scott is the loveable but completely over-the-top character played by the comedian Steve Carrell.

So in this scene, Michael has a “talking head” interview, where he’s speaking to the camera and starts reflecting on what’s really important in life. Is life about being one of the best young paper salesmen in northeastern Pennsylvania? No. Is it about his meteoric rise into middle management? No. Is it about luxury and glamor? No.

“When I retire,” Michael says, “I don't want to just move to some island somewhere. I want to be the guy who gives it all back. I want it to be like, 'Hey, who donated that hospital wing that's saving so many lives?' 'I don't know. It was anonymous.' 'Well, guess what. It was Michael Scott.' 'But how do you know? It was anonymous.' 'Because I'm him.’”

What makes Michael Scott a good character is that he has a big ego and no filter. But what makes him a great character is that he’s not that different from any of us. He’s not a hero. He’s not a villain. He’s the regional manager of the Scranton branch of a mid-sized paper company. And so, time and time again, he surfaces these tensions that exist in all our lives. Because he’s so over the top, because none of us would ever act that way, his antics never feel like a criticism of us; but they reveal real things about our lives. None of us, if we ever became rich enough to donate a whole hospital wing anonymously, would ever stand outside it whispering, “Psst—You know that anonymous gift? That was me!” But all of us, in our own lives, are constantly dealing with the tension between intrinsic and extrinsic motivations for things: Do we do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do, or do we do the right thing because we want someone to see us doing it?

In our Gospel reading today, we celebrate the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem, bearing what are perhaps the most famous gifts in history. They have seen a star rising at Jesus’ birth, and they have traveled from their homes in the East to Jerusalem, to seek “the child who has been born king of the Jews.” (Matt. 2:2) The current King of the Jews, King Herod, doesn’t like that very much. But he sends them to Bethlehem to find out more, so that he “may also go and ahem pay him homage.” (Matt. 2:8)

The Magi go to Bethlehem, and they see that the star has stopped over a house. And they go into the house, and they see the child with Mary his mother; they kneel down and pay him homage. (Matt. 2:10-11) And then they open their treasure chests, and offer him their famous gifts: gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.

And the Magi have been known for their gifts ever since. On the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6, commonly known as “Three Kings’ Day,” it’s the custom in some places to take chalk and mark your doors with the current year and the letters C-M-B, standing for the initials of the three kings. If you look around this building, you can see some of them – I think there’s one over the doors to the street, and one in one of the bathrooms, maybe? C-M-B, for Caspar, the Indian king who brought frankincense; Melchior, the Persian king who brought gold; and Balthazar, the Arabian king who brought the gift of myrrh. These three kings, coming from three foreign lands, embody the theme of the Epiphany, the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles; in other words, the revelation of the love of God for all people, Jews and Gentiles alike, made flesh in this newborn child. The homage paid by the three kings symbolizes the unification of all peoples under one God, and we remember and honor them still; their three gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh have outlasted any memorial building or hospital wing in the world, and two thousand years later, we still remember their names.

Except. There’s just one thing we need to know about these three kings, Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. Well, three things, I guess. 1) Their names weren’t Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. 2) There weren’t three of them. 3) And they weren’t kings. At least not according to the Bible.

Matthew calls them “Magi from the East,” “Magi” being the Persian name for a class of Zoroastrian astrologers which, when borrowed into Greek, carries connotations of mystery and magic. He doesn’t give any particular number of them; the traditional number 3 comes from the list of 3 gifts, not from any indication that there are 3 magi. He doesn’t call them kings. He doesn’t give them names, or places of origin. They’re simply “Magi from the East.” All the rest of it—all the details we know and love, the names and nations and three little figurines with camels—comes from later legends. And I think there’s something really important there, and it ties back to that uncomfortable tension between recognition and anonymity: We’ve made all these details up, I think, because we can’t handle the fact that such a royal gift could be made with total anonymity.

And yet it was. Some number of Magi from the east came and gave what they had, and they gave a lot: the rich gold with which they would crown a king, the sweet frankincense they would offer to a god, the bitter myrrh with which they would embalm a corpse. But that’s all we know, because they don’t stick around. We never see the Office scene unfold: “‘Hey, who donated that gold that’s sitting next to the baby?’ ‘I don't know. It was anonymous.’ ‘Well, guess what. It was Melchior.’ ‘But how do you know? It was anonymous.’ ‘Because I'm him.’”

Instead, “having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.” (Matt. 2:12)

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a memorial gift. They’re wonderful, in fact. The walls and windows of our own building keep alive the names and memories of a number of the saints of this church, people without whose dedication and service we would not be here together. If you’ve ever spent any time navigating around a hospital, you know that people really do donate whole wings, even building, that save people’s lives every day; and that’s a good and holy thing.

But I suspect most of us find ourselves in the opposite situation. Our problem is not that we are recognized too much; it’s that we’re not recognized enough. All of us have gifts to offer to the world: talents, or passions, or skills that we can share with the people around us. Those of us with nothing to give can give our time, and attention, and love. Some of us will achieve some level of recognition in the world; but if that happens, it will probably be for what David Brooks calls “the résumé virtues” as opposed to “the eulogy virtues.” Most of us won’t have a Wikipedia page listing either. Most of us will spend most of our lives doing good things that no one will remember in a hundred years, let alone two thousand. And many of us may, from time to time, feel unappreciated for what we do, not only by the world as a whole but sometimes by the people we love the most.

But that’s what I love about the story of these anonymous, mysterious Magi from the East. We can name their gifts but we don’t know their names. They give extraordinary things and we don’t remember them at all. And yet the story of their anonymous gift is at the heart of our celebration of the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles. This story of generosity and love—which we tell again and again every year, and then credit to three completely made-up guys—is among our dearest symbols of how God’s love was revealed to the world two thousand years ago.

The Magi gave their gifts, and they went home. They never saw the life of Christ unfold. They never received real recognition for their act. But they gave their gifts anyway. And every one of us can do the same. We can choose to offer ourselves to the world, generously and joyfully. Even if our efforts go unrecognized, we can carry on. Our names may not be remembered in a hundred years, but the gifts we will change the world, in big ways or in small ones. And we will one day meet face to face, with the one who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing, and who chose us before to foundation of the world to give the world all these unnoticed gifts… to the praise of his glorious grace. (Eph. 1:3-4, 6)

Amen.