Who Would Imagine a King

Every parent dreams about their child’s future. From the moment they hold that tiny life in their arms, the world suddenly feels full of possibility. Mommies and daddies always believe that their little angels are special indeed—born with something extraordinary tucked quietly inside. They look into those new eyes and wonder: what will you become? What gifts will you give the world? What purpose were you made for?

It’s one of life’s most sacred mysteries—that moment of imagining. You picture your child growing into kindness, courage, compassion. Maybe you dream of them becoming a teacher, shaping young minds. Or perhaps a doctor, healing bodies and hearts. A builder, an artist, a dreamer, a leader. Every parent dares to dream, because love has a way of seeing greatness in the smallest of beginnings.

But over two thousand years ago, there was a young mother named Mary, and her dream looked unlike any other. When the angel came to her, her whole world changed in a heartbeat. He told her she would give birth to a son—the Son of the Most High—and that He would save His people from their sins. Imagine that. Imagine being told that your baby, the one you’d hold and feed and comfort, would one day be King. Not a king who sat on a golden throne, but a King who would reign from a wooden cross.

Mary must have wondered what kind of future lay ahead for her child. A shepherd? A teacher? A carpenter? Those were lives of quiet purpose, noble and humble. But who would imagine—a King?

And not just any king. Not one with crowns or armies or grandeur. But one born in a stable, wrapped not in silk but in simple cloth, laid not in a cradle but in a manger. The world didn’t expect Him. Power didn’t recognize Him. But Heaven knew.

It was so clear when the wise men arrived. The stars themselves had pointed the way. The angels filled the skies with song. Heaven stood still to proclaim that something extraordinary had happened—that love had taken form, that hope had become flesh, that light had entered the darkness once and for all.

Mary must have held that child close, breathing in the wonder of it all, her heart torn between awe and the quiet weight of what was to come. How could she have known that this little boy—the one whose tiny fingers wrapped around hers—would one day stretch those same hands across the world in mercy and grace? How could she have known that her baby would heal the blind, calm the storm, raise the dead, and bring salvation to every heart willing to believe?

Every parent dreams of greatness for their child, but Mary’s dream was wrapped in divine mystery. She didn’t need to imagine her son as a king—He already was one. The King of kings. The Prince of Peace. The Word made flesh.

It’s humbling to think about it—that the Savior of the world came not as a warrior, but as a child. That the Almighty chose to arrive in weakness, to grow under the care of two ordinary people. God didn’t send His Son to rule through might, but to reign through love. And that’s the heart of the Christmas story: that greatness is not always clothed in grandeur, and kingship is not measured in crowns.

The world has always looked for kings who conquer, who command, who dominate. But God sent a King who knelt, who washed feet, who touched lepers, who wept with the broken, who gave everything for those who didn’t deserve it. A King whose throne was a cross and whose crown was made of thorns. A King who traded power for compassion, and victory for sacrifice.

“Who would imagine a King?” The words of that song aren’t just about Mary’s wonder—they’re about ours, too. Because if you look closely at the world today, you can still see His fingerprints everywhere. Every act of kindness, every moment of grace, every glimpse of beauty and hope is a reflection of that same King.

When we see a child laugh, when we hold someone’s hand through pain, when we forgive, when we love despite the hurt—that’s the same light that first shone over Bethlehem. The same love that made Heaven stand still still moves through us today.

Maybe that’s what makes this story so timeless—it’s not just something that happened once. It’s something that’s still happening. The same King who came to dwell among us still lives in us. And every time we choose love over hate, every time we show mercy instead of judgment, every time we serve instead of demand, we carry His kingdom a little further into the world.

For those of us who have loved and lost, who have struggled and prayed and hoped for better days, there’s comfort in this story. Because if God could take something as small as a manger and turn it into the birthplace of salvation, then He can take the broken pieces of our lives and create something beautiful out of them too.

The birth of Jesus wasn’t just an event—it was a declaration. A reminder that God’s glory doesn’t need grandeur. His miracles don’t need perfection. His presence doesn’t need palaces. He meets us right where we are—in the quiet, in the chaos, in the fear, in the faith.

And maybe that’s what Mary understood that night as she looked at her newborn son. Maybe she realized that the same God who entrusted her with His greatest treasure would also give her the strength to let Him go. To watch Him grow, to follow His path, to believe even when it broke her heart.

Because this King came to change everything. The world would never be the same again. The angels knew it. The shepherds knew it. Heaven knew it. And now, all these centuries later, we know it too.

Every Christmas, when I think about that song—“Who Would Imagine a King”—I can’t help but feel the awe of it all. That God saw fit to send His Son not in power, but in love. That He chose to come near, not to rule from afar. That He entered our mess, our sorrow, our humanity, so we would never have to walk through it alone.

It makes me think about how many times we underestimate what God is doing in our lives. How often we overlook the small beginnings because we’re expecting something big and spectacular. But maybe the next miracle, the next move of God, won’t come with lightning or fanfare—it’ll come quietly, like a baby’s cry in the night.

Maybe the things we think are ordinary—the conversations, the kindnesses, the everyday acts of faith—are the very places where God is birthing something divine.

So tonight, as the world slows and the lights twinkle against the winter sky, I’ll think again of Mary and Joseph, of a manger and a miracle, and of a love so vast that it stepped down from Heaven just to be near us.

Who would imagine a King?
God did.

And because of that, the world—and every single one of us—will never be the same.