Good morning from my bed. It is December 26th. I regret nothing. Seriously, show me a mom or a grandmother who doesn’t need to take to the bed like a fine Victorian lady the day after Christmas and I will show you… nothing! Such a creature doesn’t exist. We have bent to the break, twisted like pretzels, and fed many with Herculean efforts only bestowed upon us by Jesus Himself. Our feet hurt and we have a pinchy thing going on in between our shoulder blades. Let us rest. I was all set to pen you a yarn to usher in the new year, but as I scrolled through social media for the first time in days, your beautiful photos of family gatherings and smiles made me emotional. I wound up listening to, of all things, my favorite Christmas carol, O Holy Night. I thought, perhaps, we could chat about that instead, because if you don’t know this story… Actually, that incomplete sentence stands alone. I am too tired to do anything to you other than tell it like it is.
A long time ago, two heathen Frenchmen got together. See! It’s already a great story! It was 1843 OR 1847 – no one knows for sure. It began with a dude named Placine Cappeau, a poet and a wine merchant. Your interest is surely peaked already. Poetry and wine go together like ramma lamma lamma kaa dingity da dinga dong (that’s from Grease). Focus, Dina. So, Placine was super-duper happy because the church organ had just been renovated. I don’t know what was wrong with this organ or how long it had been non-functional, but P was so thrilled to have the organ back, he wrote a poem – an ode to organ, if you will, called Minuit Chretien. Within days, French composer & music critic Adolphe Adam set the poem to music. That’s one story. The contrasting opinion is that it took Adolphe three years to come up with the music. I guess the French music critic business was booming. Regardless, the song had its debut performance in a Catholic church in Roquemaure, France, on Christmas Eve in 1847 featuring both opera singer Emily Laurey and the very organ that inspired the origin of the song, now renamed Cantique de Noel. Yes, the original title was Christmas Carol.
This could’ve been the end of the story, except for two entities who just had to stir the pot. Enter the United States AND the Catholic Church. In 1855, American Unitarian minister and music critic John Sullivan decided to crack his knuckles and translate the song into English. He was another music critic. Goodness, opinions abounded in the mid-1800s. John was a Harvard man, a forward thinker who’d explored things like communal living and had a newspaper column devoted to music. He was that era’s voice for auditory plagiarism, often chastising performers for heavily borrowing from other composers – the music police. Still, he was well-regarded. His translation that took a song known as Christmas Carol into O Holy Night is regarded as the largest, most beautiful feather in a heavily plumed hat. It is unclear exactly when, but in a moment around this time, the church flexed on our beloved song.
French Bishops within the Catholic Church became enraged at the popularity of O Holy Night, both in France and overseas. How dare French citizens support such an abomination. Why, it was written by, depending on who you believe, a drunkard, an atheist, or a person of religious beliefs not grand enough to qualify as one of decent Catholic faith. They really did not like Placide Cappeau. Even more, the music was composed by our friend Adolphe Adam, a Jew! They really didn’t like Adolphe. I am sure they really blew a gasket over the Americanized version supplied by a Unitarian, our buddy Sullivan. For a while, the church was satisfied with excluding the song from all Catholic services. But the people said, “I don’t think so,” and it soared in popularity in “them streets,” as the cool kids say. The Catholic church lowered the boom soon after. All versions of O Holy Night were banned for over two decades. Catholic churches in Canada decided to follow suit, though they were late to the game, banning the song from churches in 1936. They also banned wedding marches, the Canadian National Anthem, and Ave Maria. All were deemed sacrilegious.
It is unclear when or if the Catholic church in France ever revised their ban on this tune. It remained a song for the people, wildly popular with the French working class. Some music scholars cite the Franco-Prussian War’s influence as playing a role in the ban. I don’t fully understand, but it is not uncommon for nations to be extremely strict with their citizens in times of political unrest. Other music critics say that the church banned songs all the time. They were super persnickety with the religious pedigrees of the composers. Once you let the mongrels have a crack at the music, the whole thing could fall apart. Next year, when the church lights dim and the singer starts that first stanza, “O Holy night, the stars are brightly shining,” you can think about the evolution of a song. Words have meaning. Sometimes they ruffle feathers. Sometimes they soothe. Sometimes they isolate. Sometimes they invite. It is good, this favorite Christmas song of mine. I get tingly spine chills when Andrea Bocelli hits the “fall on your knees” part. Next time, I will remember how a war or an organ or many critics caused beauty to hit the streets of France in an unstoppable crescendo. Oh, the impact of a good origin story. Happy 2025, friends.
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