Gold. Incense. Myrrh.
Not, I think, token
gifts.
They come in search
of a future king:
one of their own kind
in a royal court,
a familiar world of
diplomacy and patronage of the arts and sciences.
They find him in
unfamiliar surroundings. A small town on the edge of the capital. The kind of
house the subjects of kings live in, not kings themselves. Not even courtiers,
civil servants, academics.
But they unpack their
treasure chests.
They might have kept
them closed. Told anyone who enquired that they contained necessary provisions
for their trip. Made polite noises – as politicians are supposed to do when
they visit the voting public – and then a swift get-away, speeding up the highway
by night.
But they don’t.
They give what they
have.
The tools of wealth –
which will come in more than handy to a family soon to be political refugees.
The tools of prayer –
of interceding before God on behalf of the poor, of standing with the oppressed.
The tools of mourning
– to give a proper burial to infants massacred by a dictator, or those whose
life would end too soon through the harsh realities of life among the common
man.
Wise Men. Few and far
between today, I tell you.
May the Christ-child,
born again and again, set free within us compassion for our neighbour. Christ,
have mercy.
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