The lyrics captured my imagination the first time I heard the song. 1
“Who knocks tonight so late?”
the weary porter said.
Three kings stood at the gate,
each with a crown on head.
The serving man bowed down,
the inn was full, he knew.
Said he, “In all this town
is no fit place for you.”
A light in the manger lit;
there lay the Mother meek.
This place is fit.
Here is the rest we seek.
Come. Come. They loosed their latchet strings,
so stood they all unshod.
“Come in, come in, ye kings,
and kiss the feet of God.”
Kiss the feet of God. Three wise, wealthy, dignified men barefoot, bending, lying prostrate at the feet of God. Three magnificent kings, subordinating themselves to a greater king. It’s a scene rich for contemplation—a scene worthy of reflection—a scene ripe for a large canvas.
But while we may be able to picture the awesome glory, and ponder the submissive devotion, I am not sure we can comprehend either. Can we draw upon anything comparable in our twenty-first century American life to experience these gut-level, or mind-bending emotions?
We really don’t know diddly-squat about kings. King worship is not in our DNA. Our culture springs from an explicit rejection of a king’s authority, a declaration that we must agree to be governed, and a warning that if we don’t like the one doing the governing, we’ll throw the bum out. Kings are irrelevant in America, and—to the extent we think about them at all—we are irreverent toward royalty in other countries. Does our lack of appreciation for kings make it difficult for us to understand The King? Does our culture weaken a certain aspect of Christian theology—and if so, does it matter?
God is described as a king multiple times in the Old Testament—in the historical records of the Hebrews, the poetry of the psalmists, and the warnings of the prophets. God is great and mighty and all-powerful. God is not someone to be mocked in the tabloids, insulted on Twitter, dismissed on cable TV, or ignored without consequence. Even in the New Testament Gospels, Jesus refers repeatedly to the kingdom of God. Whether you consider that kingdom a metaphor or a reality, a kingdom has a king. God is therefore the supreme ruler, over our hearts or over the world—and rulers are to be obeyed. In the New Testament epistles, Paul writes frequently of being a slave or a bondservant of Christ’s.
But we Americans chafe at the idea of a ruler. (Heck, we grouse about being governed.) And the word “obey” is decidedly out of fashion. Slavery is completely unacceptable. We cringe at the thought of these words, and we recoil from the behaviors and realities they represent. We have for our guide a Biblical text written for a people in very different circumstances than our own.
The ancient texts do use other words to describe God, of course. The Bible compares God to a shepherd. Most of us don’t have a lot of personal experience with shepherds, just like we don’t have experience with kings, but we do understand what it is like to protect those under our care. We like the idea of a God ready to defend us against the wolves in our lives. And Jesus—God Incarnate? He is called our friend and our teacher and our physician. We know all about friends and teachers and physicians. We like the idea of a God who keeps us company, gives us insights, and heals our hurts.
But I think we’re missing something important when we embrace only the warm and fuzzy concepts of God as Shepherd, Friend, Teacher and Healer, and dismiss—because we’re queasy with the idea of it—the astounding, powerful image of God as King. The whole idea of a king is that he is more important than his subjects, he sets the rules they must follow, and he requires devotion. If we reject God as the king figure, to whom or what are we devoted? Whose rules do we follow? Who is most important in our respective lives?
Often, I fear, it is ourselves. Healed of our hurts by the Great Physician, granted insight by the Teacher Rabbi, held in the warm embrace of the Loving Friend, and protected by the Diligent Shepherd, we make ourselves kings of our own life. We’re devoted to ourselves, we make our own rules, and we are the center of our own universes. That might not be horrible for civilization, if human nature could be suspended—if we all minded our own business, and lived and let live. But, alas.
But I think the most important thing missing when we sideline God as King is our awareness of our own limitations. We need a King bigger and better than ourselves. We need Something or Someone awesome, majestic, and unknowable to remind us to be humble—and to stretch us beyond ourselves. A kingdom we can rule is a very small realm, indeed. The real universe is great and mysterious and awe-filled. We, by contrast, are infinitesimal.
Do you bow your head when you pray or do you look up into that blue space?
Take your choice, prayers fly from all directions.
And don’t worry about what language you use,
God no doubt understands them all.
Even when the swans are flying north and making such a ruckus of noise, God is
surely listening and understanding.
…
Yes, I know, God’s silence never breaks, but is that really a problem?
There are thousands of voices, after all.
And furthermore, don’t you imagine (I just suggest it) that the swans know as
much as we do about the whole business? 2
From God’s perspective, I agree—we know as much about God as the swans do. Our comprehension is as a grain of sand on the beaches of the world. What a relief—to not be responsible for the whole universe. What a thrill—to have so much yet to seek. Let us take off our shoes, bow down, and kiss the feet of God, King of Kings.
_________
1Laurence Housman. The Three Kings. Healey Willan; music. Recording by Chanticleer
2Mary Oliver. Felicity: Poems. New York, New York: Penguin Press, 2016
