The Three Kings Who Stole My Cake

And the nun who explained it all to me.

I was born on January 6, which meant I never had a birthday party as a child. Growing up in Mexico, the festive season kicked off with the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe on December 12, marking the unofficial start of the holidays. From that point on, the parties piled up, sometimes happening daily—there was the work posada, the compadre posada, the friends' posada, the in-laws' posada, the tennis club posada, and so on. People partied straight through Christmas and New Year’s, and by the time January 6 arrived —despite it being Epiphany, the day commemorating the visit of the Three Kings— no one had the energy for one more celebration, especially not a kid’s birthday party.

Still, everyone remembers my birthday because of those three kings. Is that a good thing? I’m not sure. It’s a bit like being on the Titanic —not remembered for who you were, just for how you went down. I didn’t even get to choose my cake. Instead, I got a Rosca de Reyes, a large, oval-shaped sweet bread decorated with dried fruits and sugar, sometimes with candied figs or cherries —none of which I liked. Inside the bread, small figurines (usually tiny plastic baby Jesuses) are hidden; the person who finds one in their slice is traditionally expected to host a party on Día de la Candelaria (February 2) and provide tamales or other food.

So the parties trampled mine like a stampede of wildebeests —and just kept going. But I shouldn’t complain. The Three Kings are a big deal in Mexico and Spain —bigger than Santa Claus, really, with the minor exception that everyone over eight knows Santa isn’t real, while most Catholics believe the Three Kings existed. One of those believers was Sister Brambila.

She was the nun responsible for preparing me for my first communion. She told me they came from the East —three royal magi named Melchor, Gaspar, and Balthazar— following a star to Bethlehem, where they brought gifts to the baby Jesus. Melchor rode a horse, Gaspar an elephant, and Balthazar a camel, although in some versions of the story, they all rode camels, Sister Brambila said.

“So it’s a story then?”
“No, of course not. It’s in the Bible.”
“So what did they ride?”
“It’s not specified.”
“Why not?”
“God only worries about the important details. What they rode makes no difference.”
“It would tell us something about their place of origin.”
“That we already know. Melchor was from Europe, Gaspar from Asia, and Balthazar from Africa.”
“Where in Africa?”
“Ethiopia.”
“And the others?”
“None of this is relevant to the birth of Jesus.”
“Then how do you know where they came from?”

Sister Brambila went to another room and returned with three nativity statuettes.
“Look,” she said. “This man is Black, this one is white, and this other one is kind of in the middle. Africa, Europe, and Asia.”

“So where did they meet?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a long horse ride from Europe to the East of Bethlehem.”
“That just means they weren’t Jews.”
“And how did they organize if they lived so far from each other?”
“Why does this matter?”
“There were no phones back then. How did they even know Mary was pregnant? They prayed to different gods, so how did they figure out Jesus was the Son of God? And they spoke different languages —so how did they even communicate, or agree where to meet and follow the star?”
“To God, all things are possible.”
“So why did they get lost in the desert?”
“A two-week delay back in those days was normal.”
“They could’ve brought a navigator.”
“God wanted it the way it happened.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to pass this class?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to talk to your mother. You are not about to ruin my perfect graduation record.”

Then Sister Brambila explained that Jesus was born in Bethlehem because the Romans had ordered a census across the empire. The ruler of Judea, Herod the Great, grew alarmed when the three kings arrived asking about a child destined to be king of the Jews. Pretending he wanted to worship the child, Herod told them to find Jesus and report back. The kings, unaware of his true intent, followed the star to where the child was. Overjoyed, they offered gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But after being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they took another route home.

“So Herod didn’t think to follow them to Bethlehem?”
“It’s quite obvious he did not.”
“And he just let it go?”
“He didn’t. To eliminate the threat, Herod ordered that all boys aged two and under in Bethlehem and its surroundings be killed. This is called the Massacre of the Innocents.”
“What?”
“But before that happened, an angel came to Joseph in a dream, warning him to take Mary and the child to Egypt until Herod died.”
“This all could have been avoided if the same angel had told the three kings not to ask Herod about Jesus.”
“And who are you to question God’s will?”
“Angels are not very good at announcing, are they?”
“Angels do as God commands, and so should you.”
“Why didn’t the angel warn the hundreds of families whose children were slaughtered?”
“The important thing is that Jesus lived.”
“The three kings could have brought an army.”
“They brought something more significant: gold for kingship, frankincense for divinity, and myrrh for mortality.”
“So their job was to provide symbols?”
“It’s proof that important people all over the world knew how significant Jesus was, and they traveled from far away to worship him.”
“Seems to me the three kings are responsible for the death of all those innocent children.”
“I’m in charge of deciding whether you’re ready to do your first communion or not.”
“Did you know my birthday falls on January 6?”
“See? You should be grateful to God. You’re such a lucky boy.”
“I don’t even get to choose my own cake.”
“Don’t blame God for that.”
“Nobody comes to my birthday parties.”
“I can see why.”
“I don’t think I want to do my first communion.”
“Yes, you are, and you will. You are not about to ruin my perfect graduation record.”

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