WE THREE KINGS

Courtesy of Author.

One of my favorite Christmas carols of childhood was “We Three Kings.” Besides “Jesus Loves Me,” “Jesus Loves the Little Children of the World,” and Kermit the Frog’s “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” this was the first song I remember singing to myself as I went about my young days of trying to climb the dogwood tree in the front yard and getting my knee caught in its forking trunk, looking for toads around the outside water spigots, where the violets grew,  and trying to lure stray cats out from under the neighbor’s dilapidated shed. 

I knew about the Three Wise Men from kindergarten at First Baptist Church, where I brought a whole orange for my snack most days, that my mother cut a little hole in the top of and then plugged back up with the orange stopper. I remember making a collage of the Three Kings with construction paper and gold foil, brushing the backs of the pieces with thick, clumpy white paste I got from a small jar. I must have first heard the song there too, maybe on the day we did our collages. I knew that the kings had come from very far away, following the special star to Jesus’ manger. I knew that they had camels with them and brought gifts for Baby Jesus. I loved Jesus. I imagined lifting him up from the golden hay of his crib or having Mary place him in my arms to hold. I was going to have a baby in my household too—in about four months—a little brother. I also imagined riding on a camel, holding on to the back of a king. 

The melody and words of “We Three Kings” captured me then. I loved the solemn feeling of the song, which spoke of the kings’ long journey across vast landscapes of “field and fountain, moor and mountain” to arrive at Jesus’ birthplace. The “O—“ of the song’s refrain seemed to hover like a star itself when I sang it. The “O—“ of Love being born into the world on this magical night. Reverence. Beauty. Mystery. I felt it.

As a child I did not know about Epiphany—the liturgical season or the festival day. It wasn’t really celebrated in the Presbyterian Church I went to. It was only later in life that I realized that my January 7th birthday fell right at the beginning of Epiphanytide. Given my special affection for Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar, it was a wonderful surprise. 

I spent many years of my adult life as a seeker, one of the tribe of Magi, moving from church to church to Tibetan Buddhist dharma center to nowhere and then church again. Several churches. It took me a long time to have enough direct experiences of God’s love to stop looking for the distant star to lead me to truth, to love, to belonging. I found that the light I had been looking for was within my own heart, where the Holy Spirit dwelled—and in the hearts of everyone else too. The “star of wonder” was not distant at all, but embedded like an ember in our own hearts. It was as warm as the holy baby I longed to hold in my arms. I could finally take off my heavy crown and rest in what I had found, at last.

Many years ago when I was a member of a beautiful old Episcopal Church in Virginia, my two daughters, who were in the choir, got the singing roles of two of the Kings, and the third part was sung by another girl, who was one of their close friends. The Three Queens. For about a month, our house was filled with the verses of that song as my daughters practiced. “What does this line mean, Mommy? ‘Incense owns a Deity nigh’?” 

When the three girls, each in their turn,  proceeded down the long side aisle dressed in their cloth and cardboard crowns and royal robes of velvet and brocade, carrying their gifts, they sang their solos in the piercingly clear middle school voices of angels. A deep hush fell on the congregation as each young woman slowly passed the stained glass window of the three bearded Magi who seemed frozen in time as they gazed at Bethlehem’s star. These were the kings of my past. My beloved seekers. But these young women were the Queens of the future—and of right now. To hear one of my daughter’s solos, in her sweet, high voice—“Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone-cold tomb”—was poignant in a way I had never experienced the verse before. 

The last verse of the song, “Heaven sings alleluia; alleluia the earth replies,” is such an affirmation of the meaning of the life of Jesus that it has resonated with me through many years, through the many churches I have been in and recordings I have heard. Alleluia! Alleluia! Need anymore be said? 

Three Wise Men (and a girl)

The Wise Men in their cloaks, turbans, and crowns--

with stiff beards and far off gazes 

into the depths of the night sky 

where the star beckoned--

bearing exotic gifts that carried names

I had never heard of before: 

myrrh and frankincense--

and their own golden names:

Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar.

The poetry of the night,

the richness of their clothes,

the regal slowness of their gait

in my mind as they headed 

to Bethlehem accompanied by the music 

of my favorite carol--

We Three Kings...

I wanted to go with them

on the back of a shaggy camel, 

my hands on the dusty reins.

Even as a child I recognized them--

my tribe of seekers

following the mystery, the light. 

A young girl with no father at home--

but in the company of kings

who would honor her

as a fellow companion on the way,

who would offer her seed and honey cakes,

sweet wine and a blanket to keep off

the chill of a dry wind.

I could be useful.

I could water the camels,

draw maps in the sand with a stick,

light a fire. 

They would be glad to have met

such a child.

And when we arrived at the manger

I would stand beside them 

silently watching

in the long purple shadows

they cast.

When it was my turn to come near

I would step forward

kneel and look closely

at the glowing baby,

brighter than any star,

my hands opening 

to embrace love itself.

Would Mary let me hold her child--

and feel the warmth filling up

all the hurting, empty places...

and did she, by chance, have enough love 

left to be my mother too?

I would bask in this scene

of divine love and family, 

visitors and animals from near and afar

until one of the Three Kings would say to me,

It's time to go. We want you to come with us.

You are one of us now. 

He would help me up

onto the back of his camel

and we would journey back

through pages and pages of night

and wind and dreams--

moving away from the star

but carrying the memory of the light

to my new homeland.