Come, they told me.
Well, I had to come. All my life, I’d had to come and go
when those in authority commanded. When I’d finally escaped my master – never
mind how – and joined this caravan, I knew I’d have to go along with whatever I
was told. At least these people didn’t beat me, and made sure I had enough to
eat – far better than an unwanted orphan could expect from most adults. Still,
I never knew if that would change… so for now if they said jump I would jump. I
could at least play for their entertainment, play my drum. My drum. My one
thing that made me useful and my one solace. My drum, the only way I’d ever
been allowed to express my needs, my desires, my feelings, my hurt and
abandonment.
Our finest gifts we bring, to lay before our King.
Gifts. What would it be like to receive a gift? What would
it be like to have parents who love you and want you, and even strangers who
are so glad you exist that they would make a long and dangerous journey to give
you something? What would it be like to be given something, and nothing
expected in return? Who was this child, and why did he inspire this in people?
I have no gift to bring.
The wise men probably had valuable things – they were
dressed in simple traveling clothes to make themselves less tempting to
thieves, but I’d seen a glimpse of their packs, and they had the purple clothes
that only rich people can afford. To my surprise, I wasn’t jealous. Good for
the baby. A baby ought to have a beautiful birthday present to make him smile.
I never had, but this child should. But what could I give him?
And when the first wise man dropped to one knee and held out
his gold to the Child:
The baby glanced at it briefly, as if the shine and luster
were old news to him. He seemed as unimpressed as if he had spent an eternity
in a place of such unimaginable splendor that gold was worthless, fit only for
such menial functions as paving the streets.
And when the second wise man dropped to one knee and held
out his frankincense to the Child:
The baby again seemed unimpressed, as if incense had been
offered to him for as long as human beings had known that there was something
greater than themselves, and that they ought to offer something beautiful and
unique to it as tribute.
And when the third wise man dropped to one knee and held out
his myrrh to the Child:
The baby took one sniff and looked somber beyond his years,
as if he knew that myrrh is used to anoint the dead. He wept, not as babies
weep, but with the solemn, silent tears of a man who knows what he weeps for.
It was wrong, it was wrong, it was wrong, the baby should
not be given things that make him weep, no child so young and helpless should
be made to weep as I have wept.
Shall I play for you?
The words came unbidden, and I immediately felt ashamed. Why
would a crying baby want to hear me banging out pa-rum-pa-pum-pum? But…
Mary nodded.
And maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that
the animals themselves, the stable itself, the world itself, set me a tempo,
the very rocks crying out that he should be given all we could give. So…
I played my drum for him.
I played my best for Him.
I played Him my love and my pain, for they were all I had to
offer.
And as I played, I seemed to be taken elsewhere. I seemed to
see the child grown into a man. I saw him with the long, unkempt hair of a man
who lives wherever he can – hair like mine. I saw him alone, like me. I saw him
unwanted like me, I saw him in pain like me. I saw when the king finally was
crowned – but the crown was wrong, the spikes turned inward against Him. I saw
when He was finally raised up for the nation to see, His kingly title posted
above Him – but it was wrong. I saw a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief
like me, forsaken and abandoned like me. For me.
And I heard His voice, and He embraced me, saying:
Child, I give you My love and My pain, for they are all I
have to offer.
And I was back in the stable, sobbing as I dropped to one
knee and held out the drum to Him.
Then he smiled at me. Me and my drum.
© John M. Munzer
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