I walked into my local SPAR today to buy the bin liners we forgot to grab while doing our shop yet again. As I entered my ears were met by the far too familiar voice of Mariah Carey on the radio singing…well I’m guessing you know the song. And if you don’t I won’t inflict it upon you here. Like so many popular Christmas songs it was upbeat, a kind of blend of pop and R&B and definitely going for a festive vibe with all the sleigh bells. 

I mention it because it might be the polar opposite of my favorite Christmas hymn, Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence. In contrast to Mariah’s powerhouse voice, most recordings of my pick have an almost hushed tone. It is sung not to be heard in a crowded pub while everyone is chatting and laughing, but rather to be heard by people holding their breath in quiet anticipation. It’s also almost always sung in a minor key, not the bright and festive major key of the aforementioned pop song. 

In fact, the origins of this hymn are traced not to an original piece of music but rather to a liturgy. The Liturgy of St. James can be traced to the late fourth or early fifth century. In early church traditions, this was sung or chanted before communion and frequently at the beginning of the Advent season. The priest would beginning by reciting words similar to the following:

Let all mortal Flesh keep silence, and stand with fear and trembling, and ponder nothing earthly in itself; for the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, Christ our God, cometh forward to be sacrificed and to be given for food to the faithful; and He is preceded by the choirs of the Angels, with every Domination and Power, the many-eyed Cherubim, and the six-winged Seraphim, that cover their faces, and vociferate the hymn, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia. 

It wasn’t until 1864 that an Anglican Priest, Gerard Moultrie, translated the liturgy from Greek and it appeared in Lyra Eucharistica by Orby Shipley. Then in 1906 English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams paired it with the tune that we sing it to today. 

If you have never heard the song, or perhaps never pondered its poetry, I encourage you to do so. There is rich language drawing from Habakkuk, Isaiah, the gospels, and Revelation. It, like most good Christmas hymns, walks through the story of the incarnation but then continues to Calvary and again to the second advent which we all still await. It calls its listener to come in reverence by establishing what we are as mere mortal flesh and what he is as the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. By doing this it clearly conveys, without equivocation, what we owe to Him: our full homage. 

We must not make the mistake of thinking that the Christmas story stands alone or that is the beginning of God’s Great Rescue Plan. From the moment of Adam’s sin, God set out to reconcile us to himself. But did anyone ever, or could they have ever, imagined how this reconciliation would come about? The Christmas story is joyful–our saviour has come–but what happened at the incarnation is so astounding, so awesome in the true sense of that word that witnessing it should strike us dumb. We are mere mortal flesh and at Christmas we remember the moment in time that God chose to come and put on that mortal flesh himself. There is a time to keep silence and stand with fear and trembling at the manger. 

It was the moment that the Great Rescue Plan became visible and tangible to us, but the incarnation wasn’t the end. He came to live a life that is worthy and then to give himself to us as heavenly food. He has gone before us into a great cosmic battle. He is the light of light, descending to utterly vanquish the powers of hell and darkness. When I listen to this song it makes me want to sing out with it, “Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, Lord Most High!” 

All I want for Christmas, I realise, has already been given.