Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

Suddenly, Balthasar entered the conversation. “Herod spews honey from his lips, but his heart is coated with poison.” Then, just as suddenly, the big man changed the subject. “What did you bring for a gift to the king?” Caspar and Melchior were so startled that they didn’t reply immediately. Melchior thought, “He dismisses the conversation with a sudden exclamation, and changes the subject to his own choosing so quickly.” Nevertheless, Melchior answered, “I brought a silver jar of frankincense. It’s a symbol of deity, you know, and I took it from the tree myself. It’s as white as the clouds!” Balthasar didn’t look at Melchior when he spoke, but he responded, “It’s a fitting gift. What did you bring, Caspar?” “I brought a pouch of gold,” Caspar answered. “It’s a symbol of kingship.” he faltered. “My father selected the gift.” Caspar was reluctant to speak of his father’s death, and Balthasar made no comment, but continued staring at the ground. The slow wheeze of the camels became monotonous as the procession moved in the direction of the star. Quite unexpectedly, Balthasar spoke once more, his face showing no emotion whatever. “I’ve brought a bottle of myrrh. It’s a symbol of mortification.” “Myrrh?” exclaimed Caspar in surprise, quickly wishing he could recall the word even as it left his mouth. Trying to recover his outburst, he added, “It’s a very costly spice.” “Cost is of no consequence. It’s a gift selected by God, and I could bring no other.” Balthasar’s tone carried a note of finality. The other wise men knew he would say no more. And for days, he did not. Then one morning as they were eating breakfast, Balthasar spoke quietly, “We’re near the end of our journey.” Caspar turned and looked at him. His face showed no sign of weariness. “How can he be so eternally refreshed?” he thought. “He shows no indication that he has any feeling at all. He never looks tired, or happy, or mad, or anything. I think this man has no human feelings.” Aloud he said, “I hope you’re right, Balthasar, because I’m getting tired.” “I am right.” answered Balthasar. “I am right.” Melchior’s face seemed to lose some of the strain as Balthasar spoke. His age made the weeks of travel difficult for him, but enthusiasm regenerated itself when he heard Balthasar. “I’m happy that our quest is going to be over soon,” he smiled. “I don’t know how many more days my faith could conquer my age.” Looking at the star, he continued, “I’ve waited many years for the fulfillment of the prophecy. I’ve prayed I might be allowed the privilege of seeing the Son of God for myself. I’d be upset if I should come so close and die of exhaustion before we reach the end of the journey.” Riding in silence, the three men were occupied with their own thoughts again. “I wish I had the confidence in myself that Balthasar has,” Caspar mused. “He’s wise beyond any man I ever knew. He speaks with authority, but isn’t ever stern or severe. He’s truly a man.” Melchior’s thoughts were of a somewhat different nature. “I’m so tired. The prospect of seeing the child has awakened me from my fatigue, and yet I fear there may be no end to our journey. We’ve traveled for days, and we seem no closer to the star than we did at the beginning.” He glanced sideways at Balthasar. “Would that I had the stamina Balthasar has. I can’t even hazard a guess at his age, yet he looks as wise as any man I ever met, but his face never shows the strain of years or work or worry. It’s just always placid and stoic, like one obsessed with a single thought.” Slowly the procession continued. No conversation passed between the men. Suddenly, without warning, Balthasar stopped and dismounted from his mount. “We’ll make camp here.” “But Balthasar,” began Melchior, “it’s not even evening, and we’re in sight of a town where we can rest and get supplies.” “We will camp here.” Balthasar said with finality. “We won’t be here long.”