It was 1843, and in the French village of Roquemaure the church organ had just been renovated. The parish priest was looking for a way to celebrate, and he landed on the idea of approaching a B-grade celebrity who had been born in the town. Placide Cappeau sold grog for a living, but he also wrote poetry. He wrote it with his left hand, because his right hand had been blown off by his best friend when they were eight years old and playing with a gun. Cappeau was an intellectual. He studied at the Royal College in Avignon. He was a secularist – he had little time for the authority and prestige of the church and clergy. And he was a socialist – committed to equality and the redistribution of wealth from rich to poor.
He was, perhaps, an odd choice of person to approach to write a poem to celebrate the fact that the organ had been fixed up. But he was a local, and he agreed to do it for his town.
Cappeau was not particularly religious. So, as a student of literature, he prepared to write by reading the account of Jesus’ birth in the gospel of Luke. There, he read Mary’s song, in which God casts down the mighty from their thrones and sends the rich away empty; in which God scatters the proud in the imaginations of their hearts. He read Zechariah’s song in which God brings light to those in darkness and guides their feet into the way of peace. He read of John the Baptiser’s rebuke to the people – ‘you brood of vipers’ and he read Jesus’ inaugural statement in chapter four – ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free…’
When his poem, ‘Minuit, chrétiens’, was read for the first time at Midnight Mass that year, it spoke of the miraculous birth of Christ and invited people to kneel in worship. But the third stanza contained a stinging rebuke to the bourgeoisie:
The King of Kings was born in a humble manger;
O mighty ones of today, proud of your greatness,
It is to your pride that God preaches.
Cappeau concluded his poem with a call to arms. To fraternity and freedom among all people:
The Redeemer has broken every bond
The Earth is free, and Heaven is open.
He sees a brother where there was only a slave,
Love unites those whom iron had chained…
Perhaps Cappeau’s poem would have stayed in Roquemaure. Perhaps it would be just another obscure bit of poetry in that niche genre ‘celebrating organ repairs at Christmas’. But a few years later it was set to music by the composer Adolphe Adam, best known for writing the music of the ballet ‘Giselle’. Adam was not in the habit of writing Christmas carols, what with being a Jew and all, but he recognised a good thing when he saw it. So he wrote what would come to be called the religious Marseillaise, the rousing national anthem of France. The new Christmas carol took France by storm. It was a massive hit.
Across the ocean, in the USA, John Dwight had trained to be a Unitarian Minister. Unitarians share many beliefs with Christians, but they reject our core belief in the doctrine of the Trinity. So Dwight was, by Christian standards, a heretic. He didn’t actually last long as a religious leader, and his stint as leader of a socialist commune didn’t go so well either. But in music he found his great love. He published the highly popular ‘Dwight’s Journal of Music’ and became one of the first major music historians in American history.
When he heard Minuit, chretiens, he knew he had to bring it to the English-speaking world. He did that thing that lyricists do, where they translate something, but also find a new vision for the text and music. ‘O Holy Night’ he wrote ‘the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of my dear saviour’s birth. Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till he appeared and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.’
A classic was born, and since then anyone with a set of vocal chords and a microphone has done a cover of it – from Neil Diamond to Mariah Carey.
Will you do something for me? Some time in the next few days, find O Holy Night on Spotify or Youtube or in your CD collection? Get yourself a snifter of port and a fruit mince pie. Sit on the couch, gather your family and your doggo if you have them. And listen to O Holy Night. And as you listen, remember that the French lyrics were written by a grog seller whose faith in the saving work of Jesus Christ was ambivalent at best. And the music was written by a Jew. And the English lyrics were written by a heretic. But that each of them glimpsed the great truth of Christmas, that the Christ-child comes not merely for the privileged and the powerful, but bearing justice for all the world’s oppressed, and with an end to violence for all who live in fear.\
And, this year of all years, if you need to, have a Christmas cry.
Shed a tear for the millions who have died of this accursed virus, and for the millions more who will live with its effects for years to come. Weep for those who have no work, who queue at welfare offices around the world, desperate for help their governments will not provide. Let your tears flow for those whose lives were already in a living hell before the pandemic– the persecuted Rohingya in Myanmar, the Uighurs in China, the ISIS-ravaged communities in Syria and Lebanon, and the refugees abused by our own vile system of imprisonment and torture, locked in prisons for eight long years. Cry for Priya and Nades and Kopika and Thaurinicaa, who are right now behind bars on an island ironically named ‘Christmas’ as our government spends millions of dollars to ensure they will never be free. Weep for families divided and children terrified. Weep for those who will never see a vaccine. And weep for yourself. And for me. For surely each one of us carries grief and pain in our bodies, and it has been a long year.
And when this feast is ended, and the gift wrapping is put in the bin and the ribbons are carefully put away for next year, and the leftover ham is put in the freezer and you have some time to rest - remember Monsieur Cappeau: who found in the Christmas story a message of hope for all of humanity. Not some fuzzy, ‘aren’t babies beautiful’, sentimental hope. But the hope that, in the Christ child, we will find the strength to get up from off our knees.
You see, Mr Dwight got it wrong in his translation. ‘Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices’, he has us sing three times over. But not Cappeau. He begins with an invitation to kneel in humility and await our deliverance. But he concludes ‘Stand up, people. Sing of your liberation.’ He invites us to stand proudly as Christ returns as redeemer of the world.
Cappeau’s hope, the hope of Luke’s gospel, the hope of the Christian faith is not merely that we will feel better about the disgusting state of the world by lighting a candle and singing some carols. But that, after we have bowed in worship to the Christ Child, bringing adoration and our gifts, we will get up off our knees, rise to our feet and work with Christ to bring liberté, égalité and fraternité for all.
The Lord Be With You