A Thousand Miles to Kneel
Blog on Part Two of the Messiah Series
Last week, we peered into the miracle that took place in the filth of a stable.
We smelled the unmucked stalls, heard the bleating of too many animals crammed into too small a space, and watched as the Son of God was wrapped in strips of cloth and laid in a feeding trough. We saw that the Messiah's first breaths were drawn in a place of lowliness and reproach—and we understood why. He came down into our mess so He could be close enough to heal us.
The sign of the manger is the sign of His humility.
But there's another sign in this story. And if we stop at the stable, we miss half of who Jesus is.
A Light in the Eastern Sky
Somewhere far to the east—likely Persia or Babylon, perhaps a thousand miles from Bethlehem—a group of men saw something in the night sky that changed everything.
These weren't simple stargazers. The Magi were scholars, astronomers, advisors to kings. They studied the heavens with the kind of rigor we'd associate with scientists today. They tracked the movements of planets and stars, looking for patterns, searching for meaning. In the ancient world, celestial events were believed to herald earthly ones—particularly the rise and fall of kings.
So when something unusual appeared in the sky, they paid attention.
What exactly did they see? Scholars have proposed several possibilities. Some point to a rare conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn that occurred around 7-6 BC. Others suggest a supernova, a dying star blazing suddenly bright. Still others believe it was something entirely supernatural, a light that defied natural explanation, appearing and reappearing to guide them precisely where they needed to go.
Whatever it was, it was significant enough to make these powerful men do something extraordinary: they packed up gold, frankincense, and myrrh—gifts fit for royalty—and set out on a journey that would take months. Perhaps as long as two years.
Let that sink in. These weren't local shepherds who walked a few miles from their fields. These were dignitaries from a foreign nation who crossed deserts and mountains, who left behind their positions and their comfort, because they believed the heavens were announcing the birth of a King.
An Older Child, A Troubled King
By the time the Magi arrived, the nativity scene we picture had long since dissolved.
Jesus was likely a toddler by now—Matthew's Gospel tells us Herod ordered the killing of all boys two years old and under, based on the time the Magi first saw the star (Matthew 2:16). Mary and Joseph had apparently settled in Bethlehem, perhaps finding work, perhaps staying near family, perhaps simply making a life in the town of David's lineage.
And then the foreigners arrived, asking a question that would set the entire region on edge:
"Where is the one who has been born King of the Jews?" (Matthew 2:2)
Notice: they didn't ask about a future king. They didn't ask about a potential king. They asked about one who had been born King. In their understanding, this child wasn't aspiring to royalty. He already possessed it. The heavens had declared it.
When Herod heard this, Matthew tells us he was "disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him" (Matthew 2:3).
Here's what you need to understand about Herod: he was ruthless, paranoid, and obsessed with protecting his throne. This was a man who executed his own wife and three of his sons when he suspected them of plotting against him. Caesar Augustus reportedly quipped that it was safer to be Herod's pig than Herod's son.
So when foreign dignitaries showed up in his capital city, asking about a rival king whose birth had been announced by the stars themselves? Herod didn't dismiss it as superstition. He took it as a legitimate threat.
He gathered the chief priests and scribes and demanded to know where the Messiah was supposed to be born. They told him: Bethlehem. And then Herod, with calculated cunning, sent the Magi ahead with instructions to report back—so he could "worship" this child too.
We know what he really intended.
Two Signs, One Savior
Here's what strikes me about this part of the story: we have two signs pointing to the same child, and they couldn't be more different.
The sign of the manger speaks of humility. Poverty. Accessibility. A God who would stoop low enough to be laid in a feeding trough, who would let shepherds—the lowest rung of society—be the first to worship Him. This is the Jesus who enters our mess, who isn't repulsed by our brokenness, who comes close enough to touch lepers and eat with sinners.
But the sign of the star? That speaks of something else entirely.
Isaiah describes God as the one who "brings out the starry host one by one and calls forth each of them by name. Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing" (Isaiah 40:26).
The God who commands the stars commanded a star to herald His Son.
This is cosmic authority. This is the kind of power that makes kings travel for years and tyrants tremble on their thrones. This is the Jesus who isn't just meek and mild, but who holds the universe together by the word of His power.
The manger tells us He is approachable. The star tells us He is Almighty.
And we need both.
Why It Matters That Kings Bowed
There's something profound happening when the Magi kneel before this toddler in Bethlehem.
These were Gentiles—foreigners, outsiders to the covenant promises of Israel. And yet they recognized what many of God's own people would miss. They brought tribute: gold for a king, frankincense for a priest, myrrh for one who would die. They laid their treasures at His feet and worshiped.
Meanwhile, Herod—the King of the Jews—plotted murder.
In this moment, we see a foreshadowing of everything that would come. The religious establishment would largely reject Jesus. The Gentile nations would ultimately embrace Him. "He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God" (John 1:11-12).
The Magi remind us that this King isn't just for Israel. He's the King of all nations. Every tribe, every tongue, every people. And He invites everyone—insider and outsider alike—to bring their gifts and bow.
The Question We'd Rather Avoid
Here's where this gets personal.
When I first came to faith, I made a mistake that many people make. I thought I could accept Jesus as Savior without surrendering to Him as Lord. I wanted the fire insurance—rescue from hell—without the life renovation. I wanted Him in my mess, but I didn't want Him on my throne.
But here's the thing: you can't separate the manger from the star.
The same Jesus who is humble enough to enter your brokenness is powerful enough to demand your allegiance. He doesn't just want to visit your life; He wants to rule it. And if we don't give Him that lordship—if we keep Him as a consultant rather than a King—we're not actually submitting to His leadership in a way that will bring order to our chaos.
This is the gospel: Jesus is both Savior and Lord.
He comes to heal us, yes. But He also comes to lead us. To give us purpose. To take every gift, every talent, every resource we have and direct it toward something that matters—His Kingdom.
Magi or Herod?
The story presents us with two responses to the King, and we have to choose which one is ours.
The Magi traveled for years, brought their best, and laid it all at His feet. They didn't negotiate. They didn't hold back. They worshiped.
Herod saw Jesus as a threat to his autonomy. He wanted to remain king of his own life, and he would do whatever it took—even violence—to protect his throne.
Now, most of us won't express our resistance in such dramatic terms. It's subtler in our culture.
It's the college student who says, "I'll live for myself now and start following God later—after I've had my fun."
It's the professional who thinks, "I'll give God my Sundays, but my career is mine to manage."
It's the person who prays, "Lord, I'll follow you... as long as you don't ask me to do something I don't want to do. As long as you don't mess with my plans, my relationships, my money."
But here's the question you have to ask yourself: What is the point of inviting someone into your mess if they don't have the authority to fix it?
If Jesus is just a helpful advisor, a spiritual life coach, a comfort in hard times—He can enter your chaos, but He can't bring order to it. Only a King can do that. Only someone with real authority can restructure a life.
Laying Your Gifts at His Feet
The Magi didn't just bring gifts. They brought tribute.
In the ancient world, tribute was what lesser kings brought to greater kings. It was an acknowledgment of authority, a declaration of allegiance. When these powerful men knelt before a toddler in an ordinary house in Bethlehem, they were saying: You are greater than us. We submit to your reign.
So here's the invitation for you today:
What gifts has God given you? What talents, what resources, what opportunities? What dreams and ambitions are you holding onto?
Are you willing to bring them as tribute? To kneel before this King and say, "Use whatever you've given me for your glory. I want to live with purpose—your purpose—not just my own"?
Paul tells us, "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters" (Colossians 3:23). That means your job, your creativity, your relationships, your influence—all of it can become an act of worship when it's laid at His feet.
The star announced that a King had been born.
The question is: Will you let Him be your King?
A Thousand Miles to Kneel
Last week, we talked about the promise that Christ came so we might be healed. He enters our mess, He touches our brokenness, He makes us whole.
But this week, we add something to that promise: He came so we might have purpose.
When you surrender to His lordship, you don't lose your life—you find it (Matthew 16:25). You discover that you were made for more than just surviving, more than just chasing your own goals. You were made to be part of a Kingdom that will never end, ruled by a King who is worthy of everything you have to offer.
The Magi understood something that Herod never could. They looked at the star and saw an invitation. They packed their treasures and began the long journey. They traveled a thousand miles to kneel in worship before the Lowly, Holy, Cosmic King—the one born in poverty who commands the stars, the one wrapped in rags who holds the universe together, the one who entered our mess so He could rule our lives.
They found Him. And they worshiped.
How far are you willing to go to do the same?
This is Part Two of the Messiah Series: Christ Has Come.
