A Carol In The Minor Key
Maybe my heart is three sizes too small, but I think most of our Carols lack the nuance needed for Christians to sing well. The recurring themes of Joy, Celebration, and Thanksgiving, are well-deserved, but to be completely honest, I find the relentless cheer kind of depressing. I’m fearful that the barrage of happy songs only serve to pull the blanket over our head for a few weeks in a vain attempt to hide from the darkness.
Granted, songs of victory and cheer are needed, they are as much the reality we need to sing about as anything else. It’s good and proper to sing songs with broad smiles and joyous hearts, not because the darkness doesn’t exist, but instead to sing in spite of the darkness. Maybe it’s my rebellious convict heritage speaking, or maybe it’s my Scottish DNA, but I kind of enjoy lifting a theological middle finger at death by singing about light in the face of darkness. So don’t get me wrong—let’s sing our happy songs.
But can we sing some carols in the minor key as well? The ravages of time leave scars, and those scars tell a story too. Christmas as a child was simple and straight forward, but with the passing years came complexity, blurred lines, and tears that mix in a strange melody with laughter. We need songs that speak of glorious victory, yet carry a tune of heartbreak that ripples beneath the surface. We need songs that tell the story of our lives, and how the King of Glory heals the broken—but often leaves scars; enters the darkness—but shadows still linger; lifts the burdened—but sometimes leaves a limp; and releases the captive—but knows that some chains take longer to set aside. It’s good and proper to sing songs in the minor key too.
It’s not like we don’t already have the lyrics to support this; dozens of Carols represent the shade we often walk through during this time of year. The light of the gospel is often most apparent when sung about in the dark places of our despair, and the Christmas account is no different. Charles Wesley got this, I think, when he scratched out the lyrics one evening to Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus.
Come, thou long expected Jesus,
born to set thy people free;
from our fears and sins release us,
let us find our rest in thee.
He writes to remind us that the Christmas story is a story of waiting, a story where the predominate setting is darkness, a story that starts with fear and sin. Even when Jesus arrives, he arrives in turmoil and strife, and from this place of confusion and sadness, he brings rest and freedom.
Born thy people to deliver,
born a child and yet a King,
born to reign in us forever,
now thy gracious kingdom bring.
Dear friend, he sees your quiet tears, and knows the ache of your heart this Christmas. To the wife cast aside, wondering why you weren’t enough for him; to the father who’s son refuses to come home this year; to the parents who’ll slip out quietly, while the laughter and lights continue, and stand with tears beside a grave; to the pastor who lost friends this year, and his wife who quietly bears this burden beside him—to all who feel the weight of sorrow and tears of grief, I wish you a Merry Christmas. Dear friends, sing, but feel free to sing in a minor key.
By thine own eternal spirit
rule in all our hearts alone;
by thine all sufficient merit,
raise us to thy glorious throne.
