What Child Is This?

I enjoyed a minister recent ranting about ‘Away in a Manger’. ‘The little Lord Jesus no crying he makes?! I don’t believe it! Crying is a good sign of life! If he didn’t cry there was something wrong with him!’

I equally enjoyed a different minister questioning ‘Little Donkey’: ‘I’ve read my Bible. Where in the Christmas story does it talk about a donkey?!’

Another minister had an issue with ‘Once in Royal David City’: ‘Where does the Bible talk about a cattle shed? ‘For he is our childhoods pattern’ – what’s that about? It’s just Victorian melodramatic nonsense!’

What child is this, who, laid to rest
On Mary’s lap, is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet
While shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste to bring him laud,
The babe, the son of Mary.

I understand my friends and their problem with some carols. It’s good to consider our Christmas traditional songs critically. The carol that I’m musing on this morning is also Victorian and open to critical questioning.

Wikipedia tells me: ‘At the time he was writing the lyrics to “What Child Is This?” in 1865, William Chatterton Dix was working as the manager of an insurance company. He was afflicted by an unexpected and severe illness that resulted in him being bedridden and suffering from severe depression. His near-death experience brought about a spiritual renewal in him while he was recovering…’

So bring him incense, gold, and myrrh,
Come, peasant, king, to own him;
The King of kings salvation brings,
Let loving hearts enthrone him.
Raise, raise a song on high,
The virgin sings her lullaby.
Joy, joy, for Christ is born,
The babe, the son of Mary.

The carol questions the identity of Jesus. Who is this baby? Perhaps it’s a question that the shepherds could have asked. They can see it’s ‘the babe, the son of Mary’. Mr Dix directs us to the supernatural… a virgin mother, appearing angels, Christ the King…

In the often omitted second verse, Mr Dix describes Jesus’ identity with bigger, bolder words, as the ‘Word made flesh’, the ‘crucified Saviour’.

Why lies he in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear: for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
The babe, the son of Mary.

This week I shall enjoy our Christmas traditions – family and friends, presents and church services. I’ll even enjoy carols with questionable words. Seeking deeper insight I shall look again at ‘the babe, the son of Mary’. I shall pause and ask again, ‘What child is this?’