The Thrill Of Hope

There are certain songs we hear so often that they begin to fade into the background. They become part of the seasonal wallpaper—pleasant, familiar, predictable. Christmas music, especially, can do that to us.

You hear it in grocery stores. In elevators. On hold with customer service. Played softly behind conversations where no one is really listening anymore. And if we’re not careful, even the songs that once stirred wonder can lose their edge.

But every once in a while, a song refuses to become background noise.

For me, that song is O Holy Night.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve heard it. It doesn’t matter who sings it. When those opening notes rise, something inside me still pauses. Something still listens.

Because this is not a song you can rush past.

It slows you down.

It lifts your eyes.

It asks something of you.

And maybe that’s because O Holy Night was never meant to be safe.

>> The Familiar Glow—and the Forgotten Weight of Christmas

When people ask me what my favorite Christmas song is, a dozen melodies flicker through my mind immediately. Carol of the Bells. Be Born in Me. I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day. Even Winter Wonderland sneaks in, because nostalgia has a way of warming the heart.

But the one that never grows old—the one that still gives me chills every single time—is O Holy Night.

Not because it’s easy to sing—most of us should not attempt it publicly.

Not because it’s technically perfect.

But because it dares to say what Christmas actually is.

It does not begin with sentiment.

It begins with darkness.

“Long lay the world in sin and error pining…”

That line alone disqualifies it from being background music.

It assumes the world is broken.

It assumes waiting hurts.

It assumes hope is not cheap.

And perhaps that’s why the story behind this song fits Christmas better than we realize. Because Christmas itself was not neat, approved, or controlled.

>> Poem Written Outside the Religious Lines

The year was 1847.

Not in a cathedral.

Not in a monastery.

But in a small French village preparing for Christmas.

The local priest wanted something special for Christmas Mass. Something new. Something meaningful. And instead of turning to a theologian or church musician, he did something unusual.

He asked the town’s wine commissioner to write a Christmas poem.

Placide Cappeau.

A poet.

A businessman.

A man with little interest in church.

A man known more for being worldly than devout.

Why would a priest do that?

We don’t know.

History is quiet on the details.

Maybe the priest saw Cappeau’s gift and trusted the talent even if he questioned the faith. Maybe he believed that sometimes the best way to reach a soul is to invite it into the story rather than lecture it from a distance. Or maybe—just maybe—God was already moving ahead of everyone else.

What we do know is this: Cappeau agreed.

On a rough carriage ride toward Paris, jolted by uneven roads and winter cold, he began to think about what Christmas really meant. Unsure where to start, he opened his Bible to the Gospel of Luke.

And there—between familiar words—he placed himself into the night of Christ’s birth.

He imagined the darkness.

The silence.

The vulnerability of God stepping into human history.

By the time the carriage reached its destination, Cappeau had written Cantique de Noël.

>> A Song Too Honest to Stay Approved

This was not a sweet lullaby.

It was bold.

It was theological.

And it was dangerous.

It spoke of original sin—not sentiment.

It spoke of chains breaking—not cozy imagery.

It spoke of a Redeemer who doesn’t merely forgive, but liberates.

“The Redeemer has broken every bond.

The Earth is free, and Heaven is open.

He sees a brother where there was only a slave.”

That’s not safe Christmas language.

Cappeau knew the poem needed music worthy of its weight, so he approached a close friend—an accomplished composer, well educated, widely respected.

There was just one complication.

Adolphe Charles Adam was Jewish.

Adam agreed without hesitation. And the melody he wrote soared—full, emotional, demanding.

When the song was first performed at Christmas Mass, the village embraced it immediately. But as years passed, scrutiny followed.

Cappeau drifted toward socialist ideas.

Adam remained Jewish.

And suddenly, church authorities decided the song was unsuitable.

The carol was banned.

But truth has a way of refusing silence.

People continued to sing it quietly in their homes—behind closed doors, in whispers, in memory. Because once light enters a heart, it’s hard to extinguish.

>> Christmas Always Comes Through the “Wrong” People

That pattern should sound familiar.

Because Christmas itself entered the world the same way.

Not through kings, but shepherds.

Not through palaces, but a feeding trough.

Not through power, but vulnerability.