Where's the King?

Every December, we participate in a kind of agreed-upon illusion.

We smile at mall Santas.

We pose for pictures.

We suspend disbelief—not because we think it’s real, but because we know it isn’t, and we’re okay with that.

It’s harmless. It’s seasonal. It’s fun.

But the Christmas story introduces a question that doesn’t stay in the realm of make-believe. It refuses to be harmless. It disrupts comfort and exposes illusions.

“Where is the King?”

That question didn’t originate in a palace or a synagogue. It came from outsiders—travelers from the East—who had seen something in the heavens that stirred their hearts and set them in motion. They weren’t religious insiders. They didn’t grow up with Scripture scrolls or childhood Bible lessons. But they were paying attention.

And when they arrived in Jerusalem, their question detonated quietly but decisively.

Because Jerusalem already had a king.

Or at least, it pretended to.

Herod sat on a throne, wore the robes, held the title. But beneath the gold and ceremony was a fragile reality: Herod wasn’t born to rule. He was installed. Backed by Rome. Sustained by fear. His authority was borrowed—and he knew it.

That’s why the question disturbed him.

Not irritated him.

Not puzzled him.

Threatened him.

Because fake kings panic when real kings appear.

Herod responded the way threatened rulers always do: with control, manipulation, and violence wrapped in spiritual language. He didn’t say, “I oppose this King.” He said, “I want to worship Him too.” But his words were camouflage. His heart was defensive.

“Herod wasn’t afraid of Jesus being spiritual. He was afraid of Jesus being King.”

That tension still lives with us.

We’re often comfortable with a Jesus who inspires, comforts, and reassures. But a Jesus who reigns? A Jesus who claims authority over our lives, our priorities, our loyalties? That’s where resistance begins.

Sometimes that resistance looks loud and hostile.

Sometimes it looks quiet and religious.

In Jerusalem that day, the religious experts knew exactly where the Messiah was supposed to be born. They quoted Scripture without hesitation. Bethlehem. Five miles away. They had the right answers—and no movement.

Knowledge without hunger.

Truth without traction.

It’s possible to be close to the truth and still unmoved by it.

Meanwhile, the Magi kept moving.

Their journey wasn’t random. Long before a star appeared in the sky, God had planted promises in Scripture—promises that a light would rise, that nations would come, that Gentiles would be drawn in. The star wasn’t a gimmick. It was an invitation. A fulfillment. A sign designed for seekers who knew how to read the sky.

And when that star reappeared—after the tension, after the deception—it didn’t lead them to a throne room.

It led them to a house.

No guards.

No banners.

No ceremony.

Just a young mother. A toddler. Ordinary space. Unremarkable setting.

This was the moment everything could have fallen apart.

If they were chasing power, they’d missed it.

If they were hunting prestige, this wasn’t it.

If they expected spectacle, they would’ve turned around.

But instead, they fell to the floor.

“They didn’t figure Him out. They bowed.”

That’s the turning point of the story.

Because worship isn’t admiration.

It isn’t curiosity.

It isn’t polite respect.

Worship is surrender.

They bowed low. They gave what they valued most. Gold. Frankincense. Myrrh. Gifts that carried meaning far beyond what they understood—royalty, worship, suffering. Even here, at the beginning of the story, the shadow of the cross stretched across the scene.

This King wouldn’t rise by force.

He wouldn’t secure power through violence.

He wouldn’t cling to a throne.

He would lay His life down.

And that changes everything.

Because when you meet a King like that, you don’t leave the same way you came.

The Magi went home by another route—not just geographically, but spiritually. They didn’t report back to Herod. They didn’t explain themselves. They obeyed.

“Once you meet the real King, you don’t keep serving the fake ones.”

That’s where the story turns toward us.

Some of us resonate deeply with the Magi. Curious. Thoughtful. Not sure what we believe yet—but drawn. Hungry. Willing to move toward the light we have. Christianity doesn’t begin with having all the answers. It begins with bowing.

You don’t have to fix your past.

You don’t have to untangle every doubt.

You don’t have to clean yourself up first.

You just have to respond.

Others of us already follow Jesus—and the Magi still speak to us. They remind us that God often draws people we don’t expect. Outsiders. Intellectuals. Influencers. Skeptics. The first worshipers in Matthew’s story weren’t religious professionals. They were Gentiles from far away.

The gospel has always been bigger than our categories.

Our role isn’t to guard the throne.

It’s to point to the King.

And Christmas keeps asking the same question, year after year—not softly, but insistently:

Where is the King?

Not the convenient one.

Not the symbolic one.

Not the one we dress up and tuck away when the season ends.

The real one.

And when you find Him, the response is always the same.

You don’t pose.

You don’t negotiate.

You don’t perform.

You bow.

Because the King of Christmas didn’t come for pictures or pageants.

He came to reign.