Probably no-one important

There’s just no peace when you’re a king, you know.

       Stands to reason, doesn’t it? You have all that reigning to do and it’s not a doddle by anyone’s reckoning. There’s the country to run, the government to organize, a court to entertain, the servants to keep busy, the occasional wife to calm or woo or behead and lots of other things to do. You really wouldn’t believe how complicated it can be to get satraps, prefects, governors, advisors, treasurers, judges, magistrates and all the provincial officials into order, and make sure the musicians do their thang as well.

       There are people wanting to show you around their new factory all day, and you have to wear the right protective clothing and those funny hats. There are others needing to be given special awards for services to humanity or sport or industry. Then there are knights to be dubbed and gongs to be distributed and Royal Assent to provide and dignity to be maintained and ceremonial golden carriages to be tolerated and a changing of the guard to organize. And not forgetting the annual trooping of the colour, which, frankly, is a very uncomfortable way to spend a morning, quite apart from the incessant noise of the trumpets and drums and the vast racket of the great unwashed masses who come to line the streets to witness the spectacle and wave their dinky little flags.

       Yes, and then there’s the sitting still long enough for portraits to be carved for the coins. It’s all go, I tell you.

       And as if that wasn’t enough, an out-of-breath messenger arrived the other day with a royal decree from the neighbouring country – from King Melchior II.

       I hardly know him, which only goes to demonstrate my vast majestic wisdom and independence.

       Anyway, he wants me to go with him, for goodness’ sake, to some tiny peasant village near the Mediterranean and honour another king. And this new king isn’t even born yet! We’re supposed to rock up and bow the knee. Not really my style.

       Makes me grind my teeth, the way Melchior assumes I’d want to go and see some has-been two-donkey village in Palestine and coo over a baby. I’ve got far more important things to do with my precious royal time.

       I’ve got fêtes to open, gala performances to endure, official birthday parties to host, state visits to make, horse racing to attend and lots of royal waving to do. Not to mention crown wearing, State Opening of Parliament to perform, wars to consider and such like. And I had hoped to think about re-designing the Royal Crest this week, too.

       That Melchior spends too much time gazing into the sky for my liking. What does he expect to see up there? The stars forming into a giant hand, pointing the way he should go? It’s hard enough to convince myself that the tiny dots line up into the pictures they’re meant to be – the celestial opossum, the wingéd teaspoon, a pair of watering cans and so forth – let alone inventing new formations…

       He says there’s one that’s moving, but it’s probably just what my astrology advisors call an asteroid, a meteorite or a comet.

       There’ll be another one along in seventy years or so, and people will make a ridiculously overblown fuss about that one, too.

       Personally, I’d rather study tea leaves or ferret about among ostrich giblets (actually, I think I’d pay a man to do that for me).

       How can he tell that there’s going to be a new king, anyway? Perhaps he thinks the stars lined up in the shape of a crown with a pacifier; or even that they spelled out novus rex or something?

       Anyway, I never acknowledge a new king until I read about him in Royalty News (incorporating Throne Gazette, Kingsweek and Monarch Magazine). Their Appointments and Court pages are informative and well-written, you know.

       Now, it wasn’t as if I ignored Mel’s letter. I thought it might be a bit of a laugh, spending time with royalty: Mel said he’d also recruited Caspar and Balthasar so far. Caspar’s friendly. But there’s not a ghost of a chance of me changing my mind and making the trip.

Having to take this kiddie gifts isn’t that easy, either. What could I give? Perfume or incense? Nah, one of the others will take that. And I’ve been told one of the visitors will be bringing a bit of twig, for some reason – perhaps it’s that symbolic stuff? Good idea, but I have no idea what other symbols would be the right ones, and I don’t know what religion he is being born into, either, so I’m bound to get it wrong. I could cause untold offence and even start a war without meaning to, and that’d be a shame.

       What about gold? Well, I figure that if he’s a king, he’s bound to have been born into vast wealth anyway. He doesn’t need any little extras from the likes of me. And everyone gives money anyway, particularly when they can’t think of something more meaningful.

       So I haven’t gone. Mel asked fifteen local Kings to go, but most of us were too busy or not convinced it was a worthwhile trip. In the end, I think there are just three of them making the long trek. Good luck to them, that’s what I say.

       Besides, I thought that puppet King Herod was reigning in Palestine at the moment, raised to the throne by Roman appointment in exchange for making sure the locals do as they’re told without much fuss.

       However, this is a question he doesn’t seem to be able to answer: where does this little baby fit in? How can a king be born, anyway? You can be born a prince, but not a king. I know about this stuff, and it seems all wrong.              

       And, to top it all, I reckon Palestine’s a bit of a dump.

       No, I’m comfortable here. If this new king turns out to be anyone important, I expect he’ll come to us on a state visit, and he can ride around in the royal sand-yacht.

       We could lay on a procession of military bands for him, if he likes. It’d be nice to have some slaves do a bit of a special dance (the new one with seven veils sounds good) or have some camel races and I could have a competition for the cooks and chefs to see who can get the popular vote to make a suitable four-course banquet. And we could have music and theatre and fighting men with broadswords and make a real spectacle of it all. I’ll show this little child what being a king is all about! I could have national celebrations and street-parties and… well, time enough for that, though, since he’s not yet born.

       You have to keep a sense of proportion, you see. I think I know what really matters when you’re living the life of a king: affairs of state, politics, governing, being a figurehead and having your feet bathed in many flagons of asses’ milk by scantily-clad dusky young maidens – oh, now you’re talking! But sitting astride an uncomfortable, stinking camel having your insides jiggled about for several weeks as it goes across the sand dunes, just to see a new-born baby? That isn’t my idea of kingly behaviour at all.

       I feel I made the right decision this time.

       Now, where’s my cup-bearer? I’m thirsty after all this wise comment and justifying myself.

The fourth, not-so-wise man, who didn’t visit Bethlehem

What’s your opinion of king’s attitude towards himself, 
his people, his fellow royals, and the newborn King?

What things are really more important than taking time 
to be with Jesus? What crowds your timetable instead?

Which of the King’s planned festivities would be 
appropriate for celebrating the birth of God’s Son?