My name is John Squires. I live in the Hunter Valley in rural New South Wales, on land which has been cared for since time immemorial by the Gringai people (one of the First Nations of the island continent now known as Australia). I have been an active participant in the Uniting Church in Australia (UCA) since it was formed in 1977, and was ordained as a Minister of the Word in this church in 1980. I have had the privilege to serve in rural, regional, and urban congregations and as a Presbytery Resource Minister and Intentional Interim Minister. For two decades I taught Biblical Studies at United Theological College at North Parramatta in Sydney, and more recently I was Director of Education and Formation and Principal of the Perth Theological Hall. I've studied the scriptures in depth; I hold a number of degrees, including a PhD in early Christian literature. I am committed to providing the best opportunities for education within the church, so that people can hold to “an informed faith”, which is how the UCA Basis of Union describes it. This blog is one contribution to that ongoing task.
For the second Sunday in Epiphany, we are offered a passage from early in the book of signs—the work that we know as the Gospel according to John. It is the first sign performed by Jesus, when he was attending a wedding in the town of Cana in Galilee (John 2:1–11).
I call this Gospel the book of signs because it includes seven clearly narrated signs, or miracles, performed by Jesus. Most of them are inserted in the midst of an evolving narrative, in which followers of Jesus grow in their understanding of who he is, whilst at the same time a movement of those opposed to Jesus gains strength. Both of those features are evident in this first sign.
The author of this Gospel makes it clear that there were more signs performed by Jesus than what is narrated (20:30), and that the signs actually narrated are told in order to strengthen the faith of those hearing or reading them (20:31).
The first and second signs take place in Galilee (2:1–11, 4:46–54). Subsequent signs are located in Jerusalem (5:2–9), the Sea of Galilee (6:1–14), on the Sea of Galilee near Capernaum (6:16–21), back in Jerusalem (9:1–7) and then, for the seventh, and final, sign of those narrated, in Bethany, where Lazarus had recently died (11:17–44).
This final sign provides a clear climax to the Book of Signs, the first half of the whole Gospel. This is the miracle supreme—raising a dead person back to life takes some beating! It is told at some length, with many details, leading to the climactic moment of the appearance of the once-dead man, now alive. “The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.” (11:44).
In the literary framework of the whole Gospel, however, this building to a climax through the seven signs is paralleled by the growing tension as leaders in the Jewish community marshal forces in plotting against Jesus. Initially, there were positive responses to Jesus (2:23, 4:42, 4:45). Then, an engagement in debate and controversy with “the Jews” (5:13) quickly escalated into persecution (5:16) and indeed an attempt to kill Jesus (5:18).
This early opposition then continues unchecked throughout the narrative. Whilst Jesus remained popular in Galilee (6:14, 34) and amongst some in Jerusalem (7:31, 40-41a, 46: 8:30; 9:17, 38; 10:21, 41) and Bethany (11:27, 45), hostility towards Jesus continued, being expressed both in verbal aggression (6:41, 52; 7:15, 20; 8:48; 9:18-19; 10:20), threats of his arrest (7:32, 44; 11:57), direct physical threats (stoning at 8:49, expulsion from the synagogue at 9:22, and stoning once more at 10:31) and threats against his life (7:1, 25, 32).
Then, at the climactic moment, after Lazarus appears, the Jewish leadership plans a strategy to put Jesus to death (11:45-53). The plot is hatched, the fate of Jesus is sealed. That section of the narrative also includes the famous, yet ironic, comment by Caiaphas: “it is better for you to have one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed” (11:50). And so the inevitable process begins, moving towards the death of Jesus (11:53, 57).
For the author of the book of signs, affirming the identity of Jesus shapes the whole narrative of this Gospel. Each sign points to the significance of Jesus. The first sign, in Cana of Galilee, manifests his glory (2:12); the next sign, also in Cana, fosters belief in Jesus (4:48, 53). What Jesus does beside the Sea of Galilee identifies him as “the Prophet who is to come into the world!” (6:14), whilst the sign performed in Jerusalem signal that he is the Son of Man (9:35–38). Later, in Bethany, Jesus raises Lazarus from death, and Martha articulates the faith of others when she confesses Jesus to be Son of God and Messiah (11:27). Alongside these seven signs, the various interpersonal encounters that are narrated illuminate the identity of Jesus.
I read the whole sequence of scenes in this Gospel, from the wedding in Cana, with its implicit criticism of “the Jewish rites of purification” (2:1–11), through the heated debates of chs. 5—8, the high drama of the multi-scene conflict with Jewish leaders and “expulsion from the synagogue” in ch.9, on into the plot of ch.11, as a story that reflects the position of the followers of Jesus who comprised the community in which this book was eventually written.
This group of people (what Raymond Brown called “the community of the beloved disciple”) had been rejected by their fellows, expelled from their community of faith, because of their views about Jesus. They had become yet another sectarian group in the mixture of late Second Temple Judaism, which then bled into early Rabbinic Judaism.
It is this “Johannine sectarianism”, as Wayne Meeks called it, which explains the bruising debates in this Gospel; Jesus is being remembered as “standing up for the truth” by a group of people who had been pillaged and persecuted for standing up for what they say as “the truth”. They had become outsiders; some of them had met death for the stand they took. This was what it meant for them to be faithful to Jesus.
This tragic development is a natural development, at least as the author tells it, from that initial sign, where Jesus is already portrayed as being in tension with others of his own faith. Although it was a wedding—a time of joyous celebration—there were ominous clouds overshadowing what transpired in Cana that day.
Wayne Meeks, “The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism”, JBL 91 (1972) 44–72)
Raymond E. Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (Paulist, 1978)
This coming Sunday, the lectionary offers Luke’s account of that striking moment when Jesus of Nazareth was declared to be the beloved Son, anointed by the Spirit, and equipped for his role of proclaiming the kingdom of God (Luke 3:1–22). This particular Sunday, the first after the celebration of the Epiphany (on 6 January), is always designated as the day to celebrate The Baptism of Jesus, and therefore for those who have been baptised to remember the significance of their own baptism.
The moment of his baptism appears to be a turning point for Jesus. He was already, we must presume, a person of faith. We know that Jesus was raised as a good Jew. We can hypothesise much about his upbringing and faith. There is evidence from the Gospel,accounts of his adult years that he knew the daily prayer of the Jews, the Shema (“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is One”).
Jesus also knew the major annual festivals of his people: Passover, Harvest (later called Pentecost) and Tabernacles. He attended the synagogue each Sabbath, where he watched the scrolls containing the Hebrew scriptures unrolled, before they were read (in Hebrew, the sacred language) and explained (in Aramaic, the language of the common Jewish folk). Jesus, like all his fellow–Jews, believed that his God, Yahweh, was the one true God. He followed the traditional practices of worship and studied the scriptures under the guidance of the scribes in his synagogue.
At a mature age (by tradition, in his early 30’s), Jesus made his way south towards Jerusalem, into the desert regions, along with other Jews of the day. Beside the Jordan River he listened to the preaching of a strange figure—a desert-dwelling apocalyptic prophet named John (Luke 3:1–18). Perhaps he and already encountered John, heard his message, and been inspired by his focus on the need for repentance. At least in terms of how the Gospel writers portray things from many decades later, this moment beside the Jordan River appears to have been a pivotal moment for the pious Jewish man from Nazareth. His encounter with John deepens his faith and sharpens his commitment.
John’s was proclaiming “a baptism of repentance (Luke 3:3), urging people to “bear fruits worthy of repentance” (3:8). This call to repent was the traditional prophetic message, calling for teshuva (Hebrew; in Greek, metanoia). These words are usually translated into English as “repentance” (see Isa 1:27; Jer 8:4–7, 9:4–5, 34:15; Ezek 14:6, 18:30; Zech 1:1–6). Indeed, so many of the oracles included in both major and minor prophets provide extended diatribes against the sinfulness of Israel and call for a return to the ways of righteousness that are set out in the convening with the Lord. When prophets called for teshuva, metanoia, repentance, they were seeking a striking and thoroughgoing change of mind, a reversal of thinking and acting, a 180 degree turnaround, amongst the people. This is what metanoia means.
Accompanying this, however, was a very distinctive action that John the desert dweller performed, of immersing people into the river (Luke 3:21). Our Bibles translate this as “baptising”, but it was actually a wholesale dunking right down deep into the waters of the river.
Our refined ecclesial terminology of “baptism” is often associated, in the popular mind, with cute babies in beautiful christening gowns surrounded by adoring grandparents, aunties and uncles. This leads us far away from the stark realities of the act: being pushed down deep into the river, being completely surrounded by the waters, before emerging saturated and maybe gasping for air.
Such a dramatic dunking was designed to signify the cleansing of the repentant person. Repentance and baptism were necessary for the ushering in of the reign of God, according to John. Jesus appears to have accepted this point of view; it is most likely that his baptism was an intense religious experience for him. He underwent a whole scale change of mind, a reorientation towards the mission that was thrust upon him.
Certainly, the way that the experience is presented by Luke (and also in the other canonical Gospels) presents Jesus as being singled out by God for a special role. There are multiple signs on the short account of this moment (Luke 3:21–22).
FIrst, we note that Luke observes that “the heaven was opened” (4:21a). In Mark’s earlier account, there was a dramatic pairing of the “breaking apart” of the heavens, mirrored in the water of the river, which parts “as he was coming up out of the water” (Mark 1:10). The breaking of the heavens perhaps echoes the cry of the prophet of old: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence … to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence!” (Isa 64:1). Luke, however, has softened the language about the heaven and removed reference to the waters, downplaying the dramatic impact of the story as Mark tells it.
Then, Luke reports, “the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove” (Luke 3:22). The imagery is telling. A dove, of course, appeared at a key moment early in the biblical narrative: as the waters of the Great Flood recede (Gen 8:6–12); but the association of the dove with the Spirit (a commonplace in our thinking today, surely) is not actually made anywhere in scripture before this moment. The dove which appears seems, to Jesus, to come from beyond rest on him, in the way that the prophet declares that “the spirit of the Lord God is upon me” (Isa 61:1). The dove brings a signal from the sky—from the Lord God, perhaps?
A third signal comes through “a voice from heaven” (Luke 3:22). This is a common note regarding the hearing of the divine voice. Moses tells the Israelites, “from heaven he made you hear his voice to discipline you” (Deut 4:36). In the wilderness, God “came down upon Mount Sinai, and spoke with them from heaven, and gave them right ordinances and true laws, good statutes and commandments” (Neh 9:13; also Exod 20:22). Ben Sirach tells the story of the judges, when “the Lord thundered from heaven, and made his voice heard with a mighty sound” (Sir 46:17). David sang that “the Lord thundered from heaven; the Most High uttered his voice” (2 Sam 22:14). So a voice speaking from heaven, in Jewish understanding, is a communication from God.
Finally, the actual words which that voice speaks are deeply significant. “You are my son” are words spoken by God to David (Ps 2:7). “With you I am well pleased” echoes what God says about “my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights” (Isa 42:1); indeed, of the Servant, the prophet declares, God indicates that “I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations” (Isa 42:2). What is heard at the moment of the baptism of Jesus is confirmation of the place of Jesus as one beloved, chosen, and equipped by God for what lies ahead of him. It is a moment of clarity that fuels what lies ahead for Jesus.
So it is that from the moment of this intense experience, Jesus was fervently committed to the renewal and restoration of Israel. We can see this being played out in the narrative that follows on from this crystallising moment. After his dramatic dunking in the river by the desert dweller, Jesus spent some time in the Judean wilderness (Luke 4:1–13), before he returns to Galilee and begins “to teach in their synagogues” (4:14).
What he says in those synagogues is not reported, although perhaps his typical message is contained in the story which follows. Luke notes that Jesus “came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up … went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom … [and] stood up to read” (4:16). His first public words, as reported in this Lukan account of his ministry, were clear and focussed.
Speaking in Nazareth, Jesus quotes from his scriptures (4:18–19, quoting Isa 61:1–2), utilises a proverb about a prophet (4:23), tells stories relating to prophets of old, Elijah and Elisha (4:25–27), and invites his listeners to relate all of this to his very presence in their midst: “today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing” (4:21).
We gather from the Gospel narratives that Jesus had left his family as he travelled around Galilee (8:19–21; 14:26), announcing that the time was near for dramatic changes to take place (10:9, 11). He gathered a group of men and women who accepted his teachings, journeying with him as he spread the news throughout Galilee (8:1–3).
The intense religious experience of his dunking meant that the fierce apocalyptic message spoken by the desert dweller was lived out in a radical way in daily life by this group of deeply committed associates of Jesus. The intense religious experience associated with his dramatic dunking by the desert dweller had a deep and abiding impact. Perhaps, if Jesus had already known John and his teachings, he would have imbibed the fiery apocalyptic language and the deeply confronting challenge of John’s “baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (3:3), calling for people to “bear fruits worthy of repentance” (3:8) and warning that “every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” (3:9).
The radical cost of living in the way that Jesus taught is clear in his words to his followers: “whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple” (14:26); “whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple” (14:27); “none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions” (14:33). For Jesus, it is clear that “unless you repent, you will all perish as they did” (13:3, 5), where he cites recent incidents of the death of those he labels as “sinners” (13:2, 4).
Reflecting on his own baptism, Jesus notes, “I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed!” (12:50). “I came to bring fire to the earth”, he states, “and how I wish it were already kindled!” (12:49). What that means for his followers is crystal clear: “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division” (12:51). Following him means a complete and dramatic life transformation.
The challenge, for those of us who follow him, is to live out this radical way of life today in our lives. As those baptised into the way that Jesus teaches, and lives, our baptism mandates a transformed life. And that’s what we should remember, and commit to, on this Sunday when we remember The Baptism of Jesus.
I’ve heard the sad news that New Testament scholar Prof. Richard Hays has died this week. He recently had a recurrence of an earlier pancreatic cancer and just last week entered hospice care. I remember him as a compassionate, insightful, and articulate person, and am sad to hear of his death.
Richard was a member of the Faculty at Yale University when I started my doctoral studies there in 1983. I got to know him through our mutual participation in the NT seminar each semester, and in 1984 I took a seminar course on “War and Peace in the Bible” with him one semester. We grappled with many relevant biblical texts and ethical issues as we engaged with interpreters through 2000 years of Christian history and tradition, across a range of perspectives, from “just war” advocates to Mennonite pacifists, including Reinhold Neibuhr and Roland Bainton, former Yale professors and eminent contributors to the debate. It was a vigorous semester-long exploration of ethics and hermeneutics in relation to the matter of war and peace. It was immensely stimulating!
The major paper that I wrote in this seminar (“Hermeneutical Issues in the Search for the Historical Political Jesus”) was most helpful for me in establishing and consolidating some key elements of my own hermeneutical practice. Then, in 1988, Richard was one of the three examiners of my PhD dissertation—and provided a number of pages of detailed commentary and critique of what I had written about. (He agreed that I should be awarded the degree, however!)
It’s sobering for me to reflect that all three of my examiners, Wayne Meeks, Richard Hays, and Rowan Greer, and my doctoral supervisor, Abraham Malherbe, are now deceased. I am grateful for the important roles that each had (along with other teachers) in preparing me for my subsequent years of teaching, research, and writing.
Just after the turn of the millennium, Richard visited Australia for a conference and spent some time at United Theological College, leading a seminar for interested members of the college community. Elizabeth and I were scheduled to take him out to dinner was, but she was then in her period of extended hospital stays, fighting recurrent lung infections, and so we couldn’t do that. In his typically gracious way, he came with me to RNSH and met with her and me for a meal in the private hospital cafeteria. We had a long, long exegetical discussion as Elizabeth had most recently been immersed in her controversial doctoral research into Matthew’s Gospel. It was not the kind of conversation that usually occurs in a hospital café! We were both very grateful for, and much energised by, this conversation!
Richard has been one of the most well-respected NT scholars in the world. He was the George Washington Ivey Professor Emeritus of New Testament at Duke University in the USA—a prestigious and important post. In an early work, he developed a technical argument that Paul was referring, not to our “faith IN Jesus Christ”, but rather to “the faith OF Jesus Christ” as the basis for salvation. It was a technical linguistic argument with huge theological consequences, and was debated, explored, for it grounded our salvation in Jesus, not in our own actions of believing. This understanding has been largely taken up by a number of leading scholars in subsequent years.
A decade after I had studied with him, Richard had famously argued *against* LGBTQ inclusion in his landmark ethics book, The Moral Vision of the New Testament (1996). In the book, he was seeking to develop a wider framework for ethical decision-making that was not simply pegged onto “proof texts”, but which was developed from the broad sweep of biblical and theological understandings. I realised on reading it that the 1984 seminar had provided the basis for one of the chapters in this book.
The search for a broad biblical-theological basis for ethics eventually led him, more recently, to become a proponent of affirming and inclusion of LGBTG people within the church. With his son, Christopher Hays, a well-respected OT/Ancient Near Eastern scholar at Fuller Seminary, he co-wrote The Widening of God’s Mercy: Sexuality Within the Biblical Story (2024).
The publisher’s blurb says that in this book, the authors write about “a dynamic and gracious God who is willing to change his mind, consistently broadening his grace to include more and more people. Those who were once outsiders find themselves surprisingly embraced within the people of God, while those who sought to enforce exclusive boundaries are challenged to rethink their understanding of God’s ways.”
In closing the last chapter, the father and son authorial team write, “This book is therefore not just an argument about the meaning of the Bible in the past, but an invitation to readers to make new meaning in the present by listening to the Spirit and joining God now in saying, “I will gather others to them besides those already gathered” (Isa 56:8) … We hope that this book offers encouragement to see that the inclusion of sexual minorities is not a rejection of the Bible’s message but a fuller embrace of its story of God’s expansive mercy.” Richard in particular offered his own declaration of repentance for his earlier writing.
It was an act of deep humility; and a wonderful “last word” from this great scholar and fine man.
We are drawing to the end of The Twelve Days of Christmas, and closer to the celebration of Epiphany, which takes place on 6 January. Traditionally, this special day commemorates the visit to Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, of “the three wise men” (or as one carol has it, the “three Kings” who came “a-sailing by”). But we are not quite there yet; it is only the eleventh of the twelve days. And so this is your cue, James Coombs: pipe away!!
I’ve already explored the part of the biblical story dealing with “the slaughter of the innocents” ordered by King Herod in posts earlier in this series. Today our attention turns to these characters who came “from the east”, following a star all the way to Bethlehem. To take our attention away from the cacophony of piping pipers, leaping lords, milking maids and mooing cows, along with a growing large assortment of birds, each contributing their own distinctive sounds into the musical melee, I offer two fairly contemporary pieces for Epiphany: first, a sonnet, and then, a carol.
The carol uses the story of the journey of the wise ones that is celebrated at Epiphany as the basis for considering our own journey of discipleship, following Jesus. It is another gem from the pen of Shirley Erena Murray and, as always, her words suggest ways that we can connect into the story in our own time, two millennia later.
Wise men came journeying
Wise men came journeying, once, long ago,
camel hooves swirling the sand dune and snow,
gold in the saddlebag, myrrh in the jar,
incense to honor the Child of the star.
Wise are the travelers led to move on
following signs where the Christ light has shone,
facing the deserts and crossing the lines,
heeding no limits that culture defines.
Wise are each one of us looking for change,
stargazer people, respecting the strange,
inner and outer worlds open to light,
centered on seeing the real and the right.
Wise ones keep journeying all through their days
bringing their gifts to the source of their praise,
And here is a poem in classic sonnet form, by Arthur Shippee, a friend and fellow-student I met while studying in the USA four decades ago. He writes sonnets for various times of the ecclesial year; this one is for the current time.
A Scribe at Herod’s Court, the Magi Having Left
The King rages — they’re gone off home, he’s heard.
That star puzzled, till foreign sages came
With reading they called fair — to us a word
Ill-starred and dark, obscure, a threatening claim.
So, worried Herod sought out guidance from
Us priests and scribes and shaped an answer shrewd:
Contextualising our Carols: the work of Shirley Erena Murray
Shirley Erena Murray, of Aotearoa New Zealand, has been one of the most prolific and important hymn writers of the 20th century. One of my favourite quotes from her is “I’m despairing of outdated hymns and songs that are irrelevant to contemporary life and the way we live it”. As you may have guessed, I am right on the same wavelength as Shirley Murray!
Shirley Erena Murray, pictured in 2009
“I choose to write with liberal intent, persuading people to look again at what the Gospels actually say and what new truths can come out of them”, she said. With over 400 hundred hymns written by her over her life, and many of them published in more than 140 collections across denominations, countries and continents—including Together in Song—she is well-qualified to speak about this. “What has nudged and provoked me”, she continued, “are the people I admire who have gone to the edge in terms of taking the gospels seriously and followed the Jesus principles.”
Perhaps her best-known Christmas hymn is surely Star-Child, earth-Child:
Another insightful carol reflects the “upside-down” nature of Christmas in the southern hemisphere. It begins:
Carol our Christmas, an upside-down Christmas: /snow is not falling and trees are not bare. / Carol the summer, and welcome the Christ Child, / warm in our sunshine and sweetness of air.
Commenting on how she approaches such seasonal carolling in a 1996 interview, Shirley said: “All our theology in New Zealand is upside down. We don’t have springtime at Easter. Instead, we think of burning leaves and planting bulbs for the spring. We can’t talk about robins and reindeer and snow at Christmas time, which is why I wrote Upside Down Christmas. This explores the images that make sense to us in summertime.” (Peace is Her Song p.137).
Joy Cowley, in her introduction to the 1996 collection that was entitled Carol Our Christmas, wrote: “For this country and its people, the prevailing symbol of the Christmas season is not snow but light. The star that heralds the Christ child in our midst is the sun, and even the sound of its name is symbolic blessing … In this volume of New Zealand carols … not only do the words and the music here reflect Christmas in Aotearoa, they offer us a wide experience of music and rejoicing.” (Peace is Her Song p.115)
In a 2004 interview, Shirley Murray said: “Carols are one of my favourite areas of work, because they are so challenging, not just because I am a southern hemisphere person when Christmas comes. They are the most theologically challenging part of the story for me. Incarnation is much more important than arguing about resurrection; being embodied is more important than talking about where we go hereafter.”
So in “Summer sun or winter skies”, she writes a carol with many of the “classic” carol elements (Christmas, shepherds, angels, silent night, lullabies) but with a potent message for the contemporary world: “silent night a violent night, hawks are in control of a nation’s soul … goodness will outclass the gun, evil has no tooth that can kill the truth”.
She continued: “Carols have always posed a lot of questions. How do you relate to what might be called the gaiety and festivity of what Christmas is meant to be and how do you say something about the child in the manger? … I have written about 20 carols and every Christmas, I struggle again to deal with humanity and God and this amazing baby. Carols have kept hustling me, annoying me, making me work on them.” (Peace is Her Song p.114)
So in 2013 she published The Christmas Child is a Troublesome Child, containing the insightful words that this child was “as troublesome as the Word that stirred the waters from the deep … who questions given rule, who flouts convention’s pious face … whose vision takes a thorny path whose cross may be our own”.
Commenting on this carol, Murray observed: “The childhood of Jesus … was surely like any other kid’s. Jesus became very annoying to the system. When you remember that, carols cease to be throw-away, jolly songs, and start to dig at you, to make you worry and wonder what God is saying through this. I sometimes introduce imagery from my own country but generally I write songs that will apply to almost anybody wanting to talk about the Jesus person, not just the Jesus baby.” (Peace is Her Song p.114)
I am going to include the words of a wonderful Epiphany hymn that she wrote in tomorrow’s post in this series. But for today, perhaps a novel way to end this exploration of Murray’s Christmas carols is to offer the words of her Lullaby for Judas (2001). In Peace is Her Song, her grandson Alex specifically notes this hymn, and reflects on how his grandmother “wanted to picture the human experience in its highs and lows, humans as fallible beings, with weaknesses and strengths. She dealt with the light and the dark of human experience—she didn’t gloss over things. She had the courage to confront the difficult topics, I find this particularly inspiring, and it is what makes her reputation so great.” (p.167)
The child is sleeping sound whose star is yet to rise. Like any baby born, an innocent he lies, this Judas child, a happy child, with laughter in his eyes.
The child can never dream the wonders he will meet: the hungry filled with bread, the bitter lives made sweet, the friend, forgiving to the end, who sees his heart’s deceit.
The child is sleeping sound who knows no horoscope: his kiss that will betray, his hand to grasp, in hope, the money bag, the silver swag, and then, the knotted rope.
Unfortunately the hyperlinks no longer appear to be active.
Shirley’s life and contribution to the worldwide church are now told in a biography, Peace is Her Song: The life and legacy of hymn writer Shirley Erena Murray. Written by journalist Anne Manchester, the book draws on rich sources of material, particularly Shirley’s own words as recorded in several audio and video interviews, and published articles.
While we are looking into carols for the season of Christmas: what about The Twelve Days of Christmas? This English Christmas Carol, some have claimed, had a pietistic purpose: a kind of sung catechism about the central features of the Christian Faith, put into code by Roman Catholics in England when their faith was outlawed. (One is Jesus, two symbolises the two testaments, three indicates faith, hope and love, four refers to the Gospels, five to the Books of Moses, and so on …)
Nice theory, but there is no evidence at all that this was the case … and the origins of the theory go back no further than a speculation by a Canadian hymn writer in an article published in 1979. (And snopes.com agrees; you can read the detailed rebuttal at http://www.snopes.com/holidays/christmas/music/12days.asp )
The Twelve Days of the #twelvedaysofchristmas technically refer to the days from Christmas Day, the first day of Christmas, through to Epiphany, Twelfth Night. So the song should be sung from Christmas Day onwards. And the gifts that are given each day accumulate until the twelfth night, the evening before Epiphany, when gifts were given to Jesus by the Magi visiting from the east.
Professor Bruce Forbes writes that “In 567 the Council of Tours proclaimed that the entire period between Christmas and Epiphany should be considered part of the celebration, creating what became known as the twelve days of Christmas, or what the English, called Christmastide. On the last of the twelve days, called Twelfth Night, various cultures developed a wide range of additional special festivities. The variation extends even to the issue of how to count the days.” (Christmas: A Candid History, 2008, p.27).
Forbes also notes that there are divergent chronologies at work in different parts of the church: “If Christmas Day is the first of the twelve days, then Twelfth Night would be on January 5, the eve of Epiphany. If December 26, the day after Christmas, is the first day, then Twelfth Night falls on January 6, the evening of Epiphany itself.”
There’s a suggestion that The Twelve Days of Christmas song was originally sung in French . . . or, at least, that the line for the First Day originally included both French and English terms for the bird; thus, “partridge” (in English, and then in French, “perdrix” (pronounced per-dree) . . . which makes no sense, really; but this is a Christmas Carol, and such songs don’t really have to make sense, do they?
On the Second Day, two turtledoves are to be given. But for what purpose? Since this song relates to Christmas, can we assume that there is some religious or spiritual significance with this gift??
Turtle doves could be offered as a sin-offering (Lev 5:7). Is this why they were given? Or perhaps, as the alternate offering for a poor woman, seeking purification after giving birth (Lev 12:8)? This at least links in to the Christmas story (at Luke 2:24), which is what the song is supposed to be about! But it does seem like a long shot …
So, what about as a guilt-offering when cleansing a leper (Lev 14:22)? Or maybe for a Nazirite who has touched a corpse (Num 6:9)? Or as a means of cleansing after sexual discharge (Lev 15:14)? Or maybe the text is multivalent, and we are supposed to bring all of these allusions to mind. Because we know our Bible so well. And we know this is meant to be symbolic. Eh?
Next, on Day Three, the gift to be given is three French hens. Some suggest they are Faith, Hope and Charity, the key Theological Virtues. But only three? There are actually four types of French Hens (Faverolles, La Fleche, Crevecoeurs and Marans). So do we know which one of the four missed out on its moment of glory in this Christmas carol? It’s a worry.
On Day Four, four birds form the gift. Ah, but what type of birds? Calling birds? So you might think. But older versions of the song identify them as Colly Birds. Which are … …??? A colly bird is a black bird. A coal mine is called a colliery, so ‘colly’ or ‘collie’ is a derivation of this and means black like coal. So, no more whitewashing, let’s sing “four black birds”, and be clear about it, eh?
And … while we are at it … Day Five: Five Golden Rings? But they are surrounded by flocks of birds (swans, geese, colly birds, hens de la France, turtle doves, and a partridge). Rings are out of place. So, it is believed that this verse originally referred not to jewellery but to ring-necked birds such as the ring-necked pheasant. So, let’s now sing: “five ring-necked birds”! Context is everything!
The sixth of the #twelvedaysofchristmas is the midpoint of the 12 days, when we can look back on the story of Christmas (the birth and the shepherds), and forward to the story of Epiphany (the visit of the Magi). The gift for the Sixth Day focusses on new life: six geese a-laying.
It is said that, while chickens lay eggs regularly (usually each day ), geese only lay 30-50 eggs a year. This means they are a less productive bird to keep. It takes longer to increase the size of the flock for meat production. And their eggs are very high in cholesterol. Was this a wise gift? (Of course, you may well score the goose that lays the golden egg.)
On Day Seven, the gift is seven swans a-swimming. Well, yes; that’s what swans do. But who in their right might give this as a gift? Where would they all be put so that they could keep swimming? In a huge bathtub? This is quite unrealistic. Anyway, I guess it proves that the carol was not written by a football-mad fanatic. (They would have had swans kicking goals.)
On Day Eight, we are exhorted to give eight maids a-milking. In older English, to “go a-milking” could mean to ask a woman for her hand in marriage; OR to ask a woman to go “for a roll in the hay”, as it were. Is this Christmas carol concealing a reference to illicit sexual encounters? And does that make it more interesting than just getting some milk in order to make some cheese?
Today is Day Nine. The gift is nine ladies dancing. Liturgical dances, I presume? In explore the significance of these ladies, I am somewhat stumped. Any clues, anyone?
Meanwhile, I am starting to compile my list of ‘not relevant downunder’ secular Christmas carols. Because here, in Australia, we are in the midst of summer—not winter, as all the upover northern hemisphere Christmas songs assume. So, not relevant to downunder would include: Anything with snow, for a start. And bells. And holly. And fir trees. And … well, the possibilities are endless.
Tomorrow, on Day Ten, the gift is to be ten Lords a-leaping. Alliteration, indeed; but why leaping? Perhaps there is a textual transmission problem here. Maybe it should be: Lords a-leasing? (what to do with their huge old castles and manors)? Or Lords a-sleeping? (in the upper chamber of the British parliament)? Or perhaps Lords a-weeping? (at the decline of their much- loved aristocratic powers). Who knows?
Then comes the eleventh day of (the season of) Christmas. With eleven pipers piping. So perhaps this comes from a Scottish variant (like day one comes from the French version). Perhaps the Scots packed their song full of food? In this, the gifts would include twelve alka seltsers, eleven Blue Lagoons, ten creme de menthe, nine vodka and limes, eight nips of whisky, seven rum and cokes, six Carlsberg specials…you get the picture? (Yes, I know, this is becoming quite speculative!!)
Or — does the Scottish reference (bagpipes) mean that I should refer to the crackpot theory that this whole carol was a coded reference to the right of Bonny Prince Charlie to regain the British throne? Yegods … …
But I do note that, in other versions, there are eleven ladies spinning, eleven ladies dancing, eleven lads a-louping, eleven bulls a-beating, and eleven badgers baiting!! Make of them, what you will.
Finally, we will arrive at the ultimate (last) of the #twelvedaysofchristmas. Day Twelve. Twelve drummers drumming. Since the gifts are cumulative, and repeated on each day, on Day Twelve we actually have drummers drumming, along with piping pipers, leaping lords, bleating cows, tapping toes, shuffling shoes, a horde of aviary escapees, and the whole schemozzle. It’s all too loud, I think — and the incessant fights amongst all those squawking birds! Oh dear; time for a doze, instead.
The evening of this twelfth day will, quite obviously, be Twelfth Night. What follows that is Epiphany, a day to celebrate the coming of the magi to the infant Jesus. Time, indeed, to rest.
The lectionary for this Sunday suggests, as a companion piece to Luke’s account of The Baptism of Jesus, when the Spirit descends on Jesus (Luke 3:1–22), a short section from Luke’s second volume telling of further baptisms and gifting of the Spirit to new believers in Samaria (Acts 8:14–17).
In chapter nine of Acts, Saul is “converted” by a vision seen on the road to Damascus, is struck blind, then has his sight restored, is “filled with the Spirit”, and receives his commission to preach to the Gentiles (Acts 9:1–19). This would prove to be a significant turning point in the story Luke tells, which soon morphs into an account of the travels undertaken by Saul, who adopts the name Paul, and his various companions, as they preach to Jews and Gentiles in many different towns and cities.
In chapter ten of Acts, Peter is likewise “converted” by a vision seen on a rooftop in Joppa, travels to Caesarea, preaches to the household of Cornelius, and sees that “the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out even on the Gentiles, for they heard them speaking in tongues and extolling God” (Acts 10:45–46). This was a second crucial turning point, for it enabled Peter, at a later gathering of leaders in Jerusalem, to affirm that “God made a choice among you, that I should be the one through whom the Gentiles would hear the message of the good news and become believers” (15:7), and then that God “testified to them [the Gentiles] by giving them the Holy Spirit, just as he did to us; and in cleansing their hearts by faith he has made no distinction between them and us” (15:8–9).
So it was that, in Luke’s telling of the story, these two key figures each pressed the case that “God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life” (11:18, my emphasis added). The third dominant figure in the early days of this movement, James the brother of Jesus, joined his voice to theirs at the council in Jerusalem, giving the final decision of the council that “we should not trouble those Gentiles who are turning to God” (15:19)—they are to be fully accepted within the fellowship of the growing movement. The council sent four members to Antioch with the declaration that “it has seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us” to convey this good news (15:28).
Before all of this, in chapter eight of Acts, there is another story involving the Spirit. Philip travels to Samaria, preaches to crowds of people, encounters a man named Simon, a local magician, and rejoices when Simon, as well as many others, accept his message and are baptised (8:4–13). However, there is a problem; as Luke comments in a narrator’s aside, “as yet the Spirit had not come upon any of them; they had only been baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus” (8:16). So the two lead apostles, Peter and John, are despatched to Samaria to deal with the situation.
This is the story that the lectionary chooses to place alongside the account of the baptism of Jesus for this coming Sunday, the first Sunday in the season of Epiphany. This day is designated each year as the time to recall the baptism of Jesus. So this passage from Acts seems a suitable companion reading.
In particular, it invites us to explore a little further the place of the Spirit in the early decades of the movement initiated by Jesus. And although the selected passage stops short at verse 17, the narrative continues on, describing the disruption which came from the preaching of Philip and the visit of Peter and John. It was a disruption that brought transformation to Simon the magician (see his prayer at 8:24) and to the Samaritans in other villages where the good news was proclaimed (8:25).
Giorgio Vasari (1511-1574), “Apostles Peter and John Blessing the People of Samaria”
In this short narrative of the apostolic visit to Samaria, the Samaritans who had already “received the word of God” from Philip (8:14) were enabled to “receive the holy spirit” through the laying on of hands by the apostles who had been sent to the region (8:15-18). Although the gift of the spirit (8:17) had been separated from baptism (8:12), as it would later be in a narrative concerning events in Ephesus (19:1-7), Luke does not intend this pattern to be read as prescriptive for all situations, as other accounts of baptisms indicate (2:38-41; 8:38; 10:44-48; 19:1-7).
Baptism had been proclaimed as necessary by Peter, on the day of Pentecost (2:38); this appears to link baptism closely with the gift of the Spirit (2;1-4, 17-21). However, there is no formulaic pattern or process to be followed each time a baptism takes place. The various narratives are somewhat ad hoc. The spirit guides Philip in the encounter with a eunuch returning from Jerusalem to Ethiopia (8:29, 39)—but the spirit appears to have no direct contact with the Ethiopian himself.
Baptism is accompanied by the laying-on of hands here in Samaria (8:15-16) and later in Ephesus (19:6), but not with the Ethiopian. The laying-on of hands results in the holy spirit coming upon those in Ephesus (19:6), a link similar to that made in Samaria (8:15-17, 19) and Antioch (13:3-4). The gift of the spirit leads to speaking in tongues in Ephesus (19:7), as in Jerusalem (2:4) and Caesarea (10:45-46), but not for the Ethiopian.
In Acts, baptism may come both prior to (2:38-42; 8:14-17) and after (10:44-48; 11:15-17) the gift of the spirit; further, the gift of the spirit is not necessarily linked with baptism (for instance, at 2:1-4 and 4:31). Confused? We need to remember that Luke is telling stories, recounting happenings that he has been told about or that he has read in earlier sources. He is not setting out precise liturgical or doctrinal instruction. So, whilst the time sequence of the elements of spirit—laying on hands—water—baptism is found in different patterns, the collation of similar elements across all these stories implies a consistent cluster of elements. Read this way, there is strong continuity with events in Jerusalem, Samaria, Caesarea, and Ephesus. The baptisms in Samaria fit, by inference, within that sequence.
Whenever Christians think about the Spirit—and specifically about the dynamic force that is displayed by the Holy Spirit—our attention goes most immediately to the story of the Day of Pentecost in Acts 2. That’s when the coming of the Spirit was experienced as “a sound like the rush of a violent wind [which] filled the entire house where they were sitting”, followed by “tongues, as of fire … resting on each of them” (vv.2–3).
In the chaos that resulted—“all of them … began to speak in other languages”—the crowd that heard them were bewildered, amazed, astonished, and thought that they were drunk! That’s a disruptive event initiated and impelled by the Spirit right there. The story of Pentecost is a story about God intervening, overturning, and reshaping the people of God. The Spirit certainly was active at Pentecost. It was a transformative moment.
As Luke tells the story of Pentecost, he is deliberately linking his second volume, not only to the activity of the Spirit in Hebrew Scriptures, but also to the way the Spirit overshadowed Mary (Luke 1:35), nurtured John, son of Zechariah and Elizabeth (1:80), descended upon Jesus at his baptism (3:22), led Jesus out into the Judean wilderness (4:1) and then back into Galilee (Luke 4:14) to sustain the activities and preaching of Jesus (4:18; 10:21).
Luke, of course, had received the account of the active role of the spirit in the baptism and testing of Jesus (Mark 1:10, 12) and developed it, just as Matthew had done likewise, introducing the saying of Jesus, “if it is by the Spirit of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you” (Matt 12:28).
Certainly, the activities of Jesus can only be thought of as both disruptive—framed by the breach of the heavens at his baptism, the tearing of the temple curtain at his death—and as transformative—signalled by the transfiguration on the mountain top, as well as the change in the disciples effected by their time with Jesus.
Some interpreters have noted that the book of Acts is less about “the acts (deeds) of the apostles” than it is about “the acts of the Holy Spirit”.
The author himself described the two-volume work (Luke’s Gospel and Acts) as an orderly account of the things that have come to fulfilment amongst us. The work highlights how the Holy Spirit plays a central, active role in what is being reported—how the Spirit might be seen to bring, first disruption, and then transformation, in the movement that Jesus inspired.
The events reported in Acts are generated from the dramatic intervention of the Spirit into the early community formed by the followers of Jesus after his ascension. The story of that intervention reports that Jews came from around the eastern Mediterranean are gathered in Jerusalem for the annual festival (Acts 2:1–13), when the Spirit comes upon them. Each bursts out, “speaking about God’s deeds of power” (2:11). The joy and excitement is tangible even as we hear the story at two millennia’s distance.
Unthinkingly, the wider group of pilgrims hear the cacophony of Spirit-inspired voices, and assume that this is a sign of drunkenness (2:13, 15). Actually, as Luke has made clear, the tongues being heard are not the unintelligible gibberish evident in Corinth, but known languages from the various places of origin of those speaking. And the disruptive element is not from the tongues spoken, but from the actions undertaken by believers in the days, months, and years ahead—as the narrative of Acts conveys. It’s a dramatic story with clear theological guidelines.
Another dramatic story of the coming of the Spirit is told at a later point in Acts—after Peter sees a vision in which God declares “all food is clean”, and he is summoned to the home of the Gentile centurion, Cornelius, in Caesarea (10:1–33). As Peter preaches to the Gentiles, the Spirit falls on them, “just as it had upon us [Jews] at the beginning (11:15). This event is specifically portrayed as a complementary event alongside the falling of the Spirit on Jews on the Day of Pentecost (2:1–4). It is a further disruptive action that the Spirit impels. And its consequences—full acceptance of the place of Gentiles in this movement—were fully transformative.
The activity of the Spirit is noted at various places in this sequence of events. The Spirit guides Peter to meet the men sent by Cornelius and travel with them to Caesarea (10:19; 11:12). In reporting to the church in Jerusalem about the arrival of messengers from Cornelius (11:11–12), Peter notes simply that “the spirit said to me to go with them without criticism” (11:12; cf. 10:19–20).
In this report to the Jerusalem church, Peter is short on factual reporting, as it were; he simply states that the spirit fell on them (11:15). His omission of many details (character traits, travel details, conversation and personnel; even, surprisingly, the name of Cornelius) places the focus on the role of the spirit. Once again, what the Spirit impels from this vision, visit, and sermon, is highly disruptive and thoroughly transformative for the early communities of faith.
Jews had been used to eating separately from Gentiles and selectively in terms of food, in accordance with the prescriptions of Leviticus. Now, they are now invited—indeed, commanded—to share at table with Gentiles and to put aside the traditional dietary demarcations.
This is disruptive: just imagine being commanded by God to become vegan and eat meals with the family of your worst nightmares, for instance! And it is transformative: from this sequence there emerge inclusive communities of Jews and Gentiles across the Mediterranean basin, sharing at table and in all manner of ways. That becomes the way of the church.
The importance of the Spirit in Luke’s account of the early movement cannot be underestimated. The significance for the church today of the Spirit’s disruptive, empowering, transformative presence at Pentecost is likewise high. And that transformative activity continues on throughout Acts.
After Peter’s sermon in Caesarea and the gifting of the Spirit to the Gentiles (Acts 10—11), the Spirit guides Barnabas and Paul to Seleucia and onwards (13:2) and then later guides Paul away from Asia Minor, towards Macedonia (16:6–7). This latter move marks a critical stage in the story that Luke tells.
At this key moment of decision in Troas, three injunctions are given; each one is from a divine source. The first of these, an instruction not to speak in the southern region of Asia, comes from the Holy Spirit (16:6). The second direction, a prohibition against any attempt to head north and enter Bithynia, comes from the same spirit, here described as “the spirit of Jesus” (16:7). The third divine interjection takes place at Troas, where a vision is seen in the night with a petition to “come across into Macedonia” (16:9).
The new spirit-inspired direction of travel is disorienting; a serious disagreement between Paul and Barnabas had just occurred (15:39). But this disruption provides the springboard for Paul and Silas to undertake a new mission in Philippi, Thessalonica, and Beroea (16:11—17:15), before visiting the centre of Greek philosophy and politics, Athens (17:16–34), and then Corinth, where Paul stayed eighteen months (18:1–17). Indeed, all that takes place, as Paul travels relentlessly with various companions across many places (13:4—21:17), is driven by the Spirit (13:2, 4), a constantly disruptive and transformative presence.
Much later, Paul’s final visit to Jerusalem and his subsequent arrest takes place under the guidance of the Spirit (20:22-23; 21:11). That event had hugely disruptive consequences for Paul, of course, as he is arrested and spends the rest of his life as a prisoner under Roman guard.
The story of the early years of the movement initiated by Jesus, then, is of multiple events inspired and propelled by the Spirit over these years—intrusive, disruptive, yet transformative events. The Spirit who guides all of this brings both disruption and transformation. We need, today, to be open to the same disruption and transformation.
Today (1 January) is the eighth day in the Season of Christmas. Some may up early, be preparing to collect their eight maids a-milking in order to mdeliver them to their true love, but many others (I suspect) will be enjoying a late start, sleeping off the effects of a long evening of celebrations, topped off by welcoming in “the New Year”.
In the calendar of saints that is followed in Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches around the world, today is the day to remember the Cappadocian Fathers:
Basil the Great: Bishop of Caesarea, lived from 330–379
Gregory of Nyssa: Bishop of Nyssa, lived from 335–395
Gregory of Nazianzus: Patriarch of Constantinople, lived from 329–389
Today is the feast day of Saint Basil the Great in the Eastern churches. Basil wrote many theological works and is remembered (along with the two Gregorys, of Nyssa and Nazianzus—pictured below) as one of the Cappadocian Fathers, who played an influential role in the development of patristic thinking about the triune God.
It is said that Basil was tall, thin, partly bald, with a long beard. (He is the one on the left in the icon above.) He ate no more than was absolutely necessary for his survival; he never ate meat. It is said that he had only one worn undergarment and one overgarment.
Basil said that prayer was the seasoning for our daily work, as we season food with salt; that sacred and holy songs can only inspire us and give us joy and not grief. His philosophy fits well into the Christmas Season, when we season our lives with carols!
At the age of 28, Basil “left the world” and became a monk; at 35 a priest, then at 41, the Bishop of Caesarea. It is said that Basil, being born into a wealthy family, gave away all his possessions to the poor, the underprivileged, those in need, and children.
For Greeks and others in the Orthodox tradition, St Basil is the saint associated with Santa Claus. In Greek tradition, he brings gifts to children every January 1 (St Basil’s Day). It is traditional on St Basil’s Day to serve vasilopita, a rich bread baked with a coin inside.
It is also customary on his feast day to visit the homes of friends and relatives, to sing carols for the New Year, and to set an extra place at the table for Basil.
The celebration of St Basil on 1 January marks the day of his death. In the Western Church, because 1 January commemorates the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, Basil shares his saintly commemoration on the next day, 2 January, with Gregory of Nazianzus.
St Basil’s Hymn is one of many traditional Greek carols (often referred to as calanda) that are still sung by children on St Basil’s feast day (New Year’s Day). In the tradition still practiced to some extent in modern times, Greek children roam the neighborhoods from house-to-house on St Basil’s Day, playing instruments and singing songs, bidding New Year’s tidings to everyone, and receiving gifts of sweets and pastries from householders.
Here is the hymn (in a quirky and rather stilted translation):
It’s the beginning of the month beginning of the year High incense tree Beginning of my good year Church with the Holy Seat It’s the beginning of our Christ Saint and spiritual He got out to walk on earth And to welcome us St. Basil is coming from Caesarea And doesn’t want to deal with us May you long live, my lady He holds an icon and a piece of paper With the picture of Christ our Saviour A piece of paper and a quill Please look at me, the young man
(I’m not sure it’s going to make it onto any supermarket Christmas playlist any time soon …)
I guess those with diligent true loves are busy, today, trying to feed the seven partridges, twelve turtle doves, fifteen French hens, sixteen colly birds, twelve laying geese, and seven swimming swans that their true loves have delivered to them (thus far) to commemorate the twelve days of Christmas. And I hope they have their fifteen gold rings locked away securely!
For my part, I am offering a further carol for The Season of Christmas: another one from the early centuries of Christianity, when theologians wrote the words of songs for the faithful to sing—thereby providing them with meaty teaching in the faith (at least as they understood it). Today, it is one by the forth century theologian Ambrose, who was Bishop of Milan from 374 until his death in 397.
Four Doctors of the Church Four panels from a partially-preserved polyptych, dated c. 1495, and attributed to Galleria Franchetti, Ca’ d’Oro, Venice
Amongst the western church, dominated by Roman Catholicism, Ambrose of Milan (339—397) is counted as one of the four Doctors of the Church, along with his contemporaries Augustine of Hippo (354—430) and Jerome of Stridon (342—420). Pope Gregory the Great (540—604) is accounted as the fourth Doctor. All four had the title Doctor attributed to them, in the true sense of the word (it comes from the Latin word for Teacher).
In the eyes of many theological writers, the fourth century was critical in the development of classic orthodoxy, for this was when the various disputes about the nature of Jesus took place. Those who were leading the theological argumentation—including Ambrose, Augustine, and Jerome—contributed to the development of orthodox dogmas which were confirmed by various church councils: Nicea in 325, Constantinople in 381, Ephesus in 431, Chalcedon in 451, and others in subsequent centuries.
Those whose arguments failed to persuade—or who were condemned by decree of one of the councils—are known to us as “heretics”; they include Theodotius of Byzantium, Nestorian of Constantinople, Paul of Samosata, Apollinaris of Laodicea, Eutyches of Constantinople, and perhaps most famously of all, Arius of Alexandria. Legend has it that at the Council of Nicea, Arius slapped Nicholas of Myra (the historical figure who later morphed into Saint Nicholas and then Santa Claus) and so was temporarily defrocked and imprisoned.
Although their writings were instrumental in developing orthodox theology, such men have long been denigrated as heretics—although, in my mind, a number of these “heretics” offered wise and helpful insights. But the verdict of history stands, cemented now by centuries of church tradition and theological dogma.
Ambrose of Milan
It is in this context of debate, disputation, denigration, and entrenched doctrinal disagreements, that Ambrose penned this carol, Veni redemptor gentium (Come, Redeemer of Nations). It is filled with patristic theologising, reflecting the debates of the day, depicting Jesus as “a giant in twofold substance in one” and “equal to the Father”, whilst also affirming his mother as having “virgin honour all unstained”, a “royal home of purity”. These are the seeds for the theological affirmations about Jesus in some of the much later Christmas carols that we sing today!
Here is the hymn of Ambrose in a translation of the original Latin by John Mason Neale (whom we noted a few days ago provided us with the English of Good King Wenceslas).
Closely related to this carol, there is another carol in a 15th century manuscript, the Selden Carol Book, a document which contains music and words for thirty carols of the day. (The manuscript is held in Oxford at the Bodleian Library.)
A page from the manuscript of the Selden Carol Book
This carol, number 28 in the collection, both uses the refrain of Ambrose’s original, and, in verse 3, refers directly to the work by Ambrose. Its author, as with all the carols in the Selden manuscript, is unknown.
Veni, redemptor gencium, Veni, redemptor gencium.
This worle wondreth of all thynge
Howe a maide conceyved a kynge;
To yeue us al therof shewynge,
Veni, redemptor gencium.
Whan Gabriel come with his gretynge
To Mary moder, that swete thynge,
He graunted and saide with grete lykynge,
Veni, redemptor gencium.
Ambrose saide in his writynge
Cryst sholde be in a maide dwellynge;
To make sothe alle that syngynge,
Veni, redemptor gencium.
And Davyd saide in his spellynge
That truthe sholde be in erthe growynge
To us, byer of alle thynge,
Veni, redemptor gencium.
Cryst, ycrowned at oure begynnynge,
Be with us at oure endynge
Us to thy ioye for to brynge,
Veni, redemptor gencium.
The text is from Richard Greene, The Early English Carols (Oxford, 1977), p.36. A version in modern English is offered at
I have been amazed to learn that, back in the fifth century, the poet Prudentius wrote a number of hymns that tell the story of the slaughter of innocent children, ordered by King Herod.
Whilst the basic theological orientation of these hymns is clearly patristic orthodoxy, they do contain a gritty realism that seems to have largely flown out the window when modern day carols are sung!
Here is a hymn which remembers those innocent children who were, according to the theology of Prudentius, “victims slain for Christ the King”.
All hail, you infant martyrs’ flow’rs,’
Cut off in life’s first dawning hours
As rosebuds, snapt in tempest strife
When Herod sought the Savior’s life.
O tender flock of Christ, we sing
Of victims slain for Christ the King
Oppression’s loud lament we raise,
Then join the martyrs’ song of praise:
All honor, laud, and glory be,
O Jesus, Virgin-born, to thee;
All glory, as is ever meet,
To Parent and to Paraclete.
(Prudentius, 5th century, alt.)
This hymn is a cento (a patchwork quilt of words from various sources) from the twelfth and last poem in the Cathemerinon of Prudentius, and in its full form it contains 208 lines. The first line of the complete hymn is Quicumque Christum quaeritis. Four beautiful centos from this hymn were included in the Breviary by Pius V (1568); see https://media.churchmusicassociation.org/pdf/hymnsofbreviary.pdf
The original Latin text of the hymn is:
Salvete, flores Martyrum, in lucis ipso lumine Quos ssevus ensis messuit, ceu turbo nascentes rosas.
Vos prima Christi victima, grex immolatorum tener, Aram sub ipsam simplices palma et coronis luditis.
Quid proficit tantum nefas ? Quid crimen Herodem juvat? Unus tot inter funera impune Christus tollitur.
Inter coaevi sanguinis fluenta solus integer, Ferrum quod orbabat nurus party’s fefellit virginis.
Qui natus es de Virgine Jesu, tibi sit gloria, Cum Patre, cumque Spiritu, in sempiterna secula.
Another of his compositions recounts the same story from the perspective of King Herod.
With boding fears the tyrant hears A King of Kings is hard at hand, Who rule shall claim o’er Israel’s name And high in David’s palace stand.
With wild surprise, ” We die,” he cries, “ Around us lurks a traitor brood ; ” Up, guard, awake, thy weapon take, “ And every cradle drown in blood.”
What boots his ire, and dark desire; What help, if he his thousands slay ? Alone of all, around that fall, The Christ is safely borne away.
Jesu, to Thee all glory be, Of Mary, Virgin-Mother born ; To God Triune all praise be done, Through endless life’s unwaning morn.
The Latin text:
Audit tyrannus anxius adesse regum principem,
qui nomen Israel regat teneatque David regiam.
Exclamat amens nuntio, successor instat, pellimur;
satelles i, ferrum rape, perfunde cunas sanguine.
Quid proficit tantum nefas, quid crimen Herodem iuvat?
unus tot inter funera inpune Christus tollitur.
Iesu, tibi sit gloria, qui natus es de Virgine,
cum Patre et almo Spiritu, in sempiterna saecula. Amen.
This is the 12th and last poem in his Cathemerinon, and in its full form consists of 208 lines. It is found in a 5th century manuscript in the Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris (Prudentius, Opera, 8048, f. 39b).
Though one of the finest poems of Prudentius, it was apparently little used in the services of the Church until the revision of the Roman Breviary after the Council of Trent.
“The Massacre of the Innocents,” an 1824 painting by Léon Cogniet, held in the Musée des Beaux-Arts
An Informed Faith 