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It is one thing to have an opinion; it’s something else to have a fight. Let’s reason together. Let’s work together. And, if discussion fails, let love succeed. If love covers a multitude of sins, can it not cover a multitude of opinions? We need an intermezzo of calm in this cacophony of opinions.
Gratefully, we have one. It’s called Christmas.
Father Josef Mohr needed this reminder. He pastored the small church of Arnsdorf near Salzburg, Austria. The congregation, like the village, was comprised of simple people. They were farmers and woodworkers. There was more poverty than affluence. They worked long hours and endured harsh winters. Christmas was one of their few respites. The pastor did his best to make the holiday service special for his flock.
But this year, 1818, he had a problem. The organ had become unfit for use. It was old. Mice had eaten at the bellows. The church needed a new one. But they didn’t have the money. Father Mohr went to his organist and expressed his chagrin, “We must have something special for midnight mass.”
What is Christmas, they wondered, without music? On the day before Christmas Eve, the Father was called to administer last rites to a dying woman. By the time he returned to Arnsdorf, the hour was late. The valley and the village lay in darkness. The priest paused on a height overlooking the town. The events had left him sad: the useless organ, the death of a parishioner, the cold night and long journey.
His heart, like the valley, was lost in shadows. But then he saw a faint light of a distant home. Against the black curtain of night, it shone even brighter. The priest pondered the light, then thought to himself: It must have been something like this–that silent, holy night in Bethlehem.
Suddenly inspired, he hurried home, sat over his desk and wrote:
Silent Night, Holy Night,
All is dark, save the light,
Yonder where they sweet vigils keep,
O’er the Babe, who, in silent sleep,
Rests in heavenly peace,
Rests in heavenly peace.
Silent night, peaceful night,
Darkness flies, all is light;
Shepherds hear the angels sing.
Alleluia! Hail the King,
Christ the Savior is born,
Christ the Savior is born.
Upon arising the next morning, he took his lyrics to Franz Gruber, his organist. Within moments, Gruber imagined the perfect melody. When he sang the song to his wife, she told him, “We will die, you and I, but this song will live.”
It has. Christmas is not Christmas without the song, “Silent Night”. We cherish its promise. The world still sits in shadows. Death casts its shroud. Misfortune silences the organ. Yet, whatever the generations bring, the light of Jesus still shines.
Thank God for Christmas. Thank God it’s Christmas. Because this Christmas, we really need Christmas.
Gratefully, we have one. It’s called Christmas.
Father Josef Mohr needed this reminder. He pastored the small church of Arnsdorf near Salzburg, Austria. The congregation, like the village, was comprised of simple people. They were farmers and woodworkers. There was more poverty than affluence. They worked long hours and endured harsh winters. Christmas was one of their few respites. The pastor did his best to make the holiday service special for his flock.
But this year, 1818, he had a problem. The organ had become unfit for use. It was old. Mice had eaten at the bellows. The church needed a new one. But they didn’t have the money. Father Mohr went to his organist and expressed his chagrin, “We must have something special for midnight mass.”
What is Christmas, they wondered, without music? On the day before Christmas Eve, the Father was called to administer last rites to a dying woman. By the time he returned to Arnsdorf, the hour was late. The valley and the village lay in darkness. The priest paused on a height overlooking the town. The events had left him sad: the useless organ, the death of a parishioner, the cold night and long journey.
His heart, like the valley, was lost in shadows. But then he saw a faint light of a distant home. Against the black curtain of night, it shone even brighter. The priest pondered the light, then thought to himself: It must have been something like this–that silent, holy night in Bethlehem.
Suddenly inspired, he hurried home, sat over his desk and wrote:
Silent Night, Holy Night,
All is dark, save the light,
Yonder where they sweet vigils keep,
O’er the Babe, who, in silent sleep,
Rests in heavenly peace,
Rests in heavenly peace.
Silent night, peaceful night,
Darkness flies, all is light;
Shepherds hear the angels sing.
Alleluia! Hail the King,
Christ the Savior is born,
Christ the Savior is born.
Upon arising the next morning, he took his lyrics to Franz Gruber, his organist. Within moments, Gruber imagined the perfect melody. When he sang the song to his wife, she told him, “We will die, you and I, but this song will live.”
It has. Christmas is not Christmas without the song, “Silent Night”. We cherish its promise. The world still sits in shadows. Death casts its shroud. Misfortune silences the organ. Yet, whatever the generations bring, the light of Jesus still shines.
Thank God for Christmas. Thank God it’s Christmas. Because this Christmas, we really need Christmas.
