It was the moment of truth. After working our way through the usual Christmas carols, we reached the one that always caused me to avoid eye contact with everyone gathered in my Great Uncle’s living room. It was time to sing We Three Kings, and I desperately wanted to avoid being selected to be a soloist. Even in my youth, I was a magnet for solos. (It wasn’t because I had a good voice. I just wasn’t good at saying “no.”) My gray flannels began to itch, and my necktie tightened. “Let’s see,” our host began as if he hadn’t already made up his mind. “Who should be one of the wise men this year?” My face gets red just writing about it.
It’s not that I disliked the carol. I liked it. I still do. I just didn’t want to sing by myself. I wanted to be part of the chorus. What if I hit the wrong note? What if my voice cracked? I can still hear my snickering relatives when our host looked directly at me and appointed me the last king.
My reluctance was understandable. Few of us want to be a wise man (or woman). After all, people might point as we climb up on our camels and look in the sky for a star. They might snicker because we believe we’re being led, even though we have no idea where our journey might take us. Then, if we survive all that, the time comes when we arrive and present our gifts. Is our gift good enough? How will it compare to what others give? Such thoughts are enough to make clothes itch and ties tighten.
And yet, today we celebrate the three kings, wise men, magi, or whatever you wish to call them. We celebrate their faithful journey, their persistent searching, and their arrival in Bethlehem. We also remember the gifts the offered. In our celebration, however, there is an echo: What journey are we on? Do we feel led, and will we stick with it to the end? And what gift will we offer? Do we have any gold, frankincense or myrrh to offer? If not, maybe we can give something more valuable, ourselves - our minds, heart, and, yes, maybe even our voices.
