“Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”

— Matthew 2:2

The story of the Magi is a story about travel—but not the easy kind.

They journey far from home, crossing borders and expectations, following a light only they seem willing to trust. They do not fully know where the road will lead. They only know that something sacred is calling them forward, and that staying where they are is no longer an option.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, the days leading up to Christmas involve a similar kind of journey. We pack our bags and return to places we know well—homes filled with memory, affection, history, and love—but also with silence. With rules about what can be said, what must be edited, and which parts of ourselves are expected to remain unseen. We love our families, and yet the cost of that love can feel heavy when it requires us to step back into the closet, even temporarily.

The Magi understand something about that cost.

They arrive in Jerusalem first, assuming—reasonably—that a king would be found in a palace. Instead, they encounter confusion, fear, and hostility. Herod is threatened, not curious. What begins as a holy quest is suddenly shadowed by danger. Still, the Magi continue on, guided again by the star, which leads them not to power, but to vulnerability—a child, held by his mother, in an unremarkable house.

Matthew tells us that when they see the child, they are “overwhelmed with joy.” Not because everything is safe or resolved, but because they have found what they were seeking. They kneel. They offer gifts. They honor what is holy, even when it does not look the way the world expects holiness to look.

There is something deeply comforting in what happens next. Warned in a dream, the Magi return home “by another road.” They do not retrace their steps through Herod’s court. They do not place themselves back in harm’s way. Encountering Christ changes not only their destination, but their path.

For those of us traveling home this Christmas—especially to places where our fullness is not yet welcomed—this matters. Faith does not require us to be reckless with our hearts. Love does not demand that we erase ourselves entirely. Even Jesus later tells his followers to be wise as serpents and gentle as doves. There is holiness in discernment.

The Christmas story reminds us that God is present not only in moments of joyful arrival, but also in the quiet strength it takes to endure difficult visits with grace. The child the Magi worship is Emmanuel—God with us—not only in affirming spaces, but in living rooms where words are chosen carefully, and truths are held gently, sometimes painfully, in reserve.

If this season requires you to navigate family dynamics that are loving yet limiting, know this: your journey matters. Your star still shines. You are not betraying God by surviving with wisdom, nor are you failing in faith by protecting yourself. The Magi teach us that sometimes devotion looks like perseverance—and sometimes it looks like choosing a safer road home.

As you travel this Christmas, may you be guided by the quiet assurance that Christ meets you on every part of the journey. May you carry within you the knowledge that you are already seen, already known, already beloved—no matter how much or how little you are able to say aloud.

And when the time comes to return, may you do so changed, strengthened, and still following the light.