Stories Behind the Best-Loved Songs of Christmas

by Ace Collins

  At dusk, a sudden sense of awe fell over Brooks. Under a clear sky, the first stars just beginning to emerge, he rode into the still tiny and remote village of Bethlehem. He recalled the story of the birth of his Savior, and by being present in the place in which Jesus was born, was able to add vivid detail to the familiar tale in Scripture. The great speaker was all but speechless as he considered the heavenly King, born in such modest surroundings. There, on streets almost unchanged since biblical times, Brooks felt as if he were surrounded by the spirit of the first Christmas. He would later tell his family and friends that the experience was so overpowering that it would forever be “singing in my soul.”

  Like the path from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, Phillips Brooks’s own life had often been rocky and winding. At the age of twenty-two, the Harvard graduate was a struggling teacher at Boston’s Latin School. Though his knowledge of his subject was great, he found it all but impossible to teach because his students wouldn’t devote the effort Brooks felt was needed to master the course. Frustrated, Brooks gave up.

  Lacking faith in himself, the young man turned to prayer and Bible study in an effort to find his place in the world. Still unsure of his future, Brooks entered the Episcopal Theological Seminary and began pastoral studies. After graduating in 1859, he began his ministry in Philadelphia.

  What Phillips Brooks had lacked in the classroom, he made up for in the pulpit. His messages were powerful and dramatic. In 1861 he was called to lead the congregation of the Holy Trinity Church in Philadelphia. No sooner had he unpacked his Bible than Brooks contacted well-known real estate agent Lewis Redner. The preacher convinced supersalesman Redner to serve as Sunday school superintendent and organist at Trinity. Together Brooks and Redner welcomed thirty children to their first Sunday morning class. Within a year—thanks to Brooks’s preaching and Redner’s music—the Sunday and Wednesday services were filled to overflowing and one thousand children were attending Sunday school each week. Over the next two years those numbers continued to build.

  O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by

  Yet in thy dark streets shineth, the everlasting light

  The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

  For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above

  While mortals sleep the angels keep their watch of wondering love

  O morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth.

  And praises sing to God the king, and peace to men on earth.

  How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given

  So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven

  No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin

  Where meek souls will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.

  O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us we pray

  Cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today

  We hear the Christmas angels, the great glad tidings tell

  O come to us, abide with us, our lord Emmanuel.

  Yet even as Holy Trinity grew and his fame spread far and wide, Brooks was growing physically and spiritually tired. By 1863, in the midst of the Civil War, the national spirit was dying almost as quickly as the soldiers on the battlefields. Everyone knew someone who had been killed or gravely injured in the conflict. Scores of women in the church wore black as they mourned the loss of a husband or son. While the preacher tried to fight it, darkness fell over every facet of the services. Brooks was severely taxed each time he stood in front of his congregation. They wanted him to be inspirational, to believe that the good things in life they had once known would someday be theirs again. They wanted an end to the war. Yet even though he made a valiant effort, the preacher couldn’t give his flock what they needed most: peace.

  When the war finally ended, the visibly fatigued Brooks felt that the sweetness of life and the soul would soon return to his flock. Yet the pain only intensified when President Lincoln was assassinated. Although he was not Lincoln’s pastor, and felt ill-prepared to preside over the ceremony, Brooks was asked to speak at Lincoln’s funeral because of his reputation as an orator. Digging deep, he found words to fit the moment, but seeing a great leader senselessly slain and the exhaustion of the effort itself left him void of everything he needed as a pastor. In an attempt to rediscover and restore his own faith, he left the pulpit to visit the Holy Land. It was a trip that dramatically changed his life and renewed his calling. The dark days ended, the joy of living returned, and his positive attitude again became apparent in his every step and word.

  Returning from his sabbatical with renewed vigor, Brooks tried to relate to his congregation the incredible experience of walking where Jesus had walked. Yet Brooks’s unparalleled oratory still fell short. For the next three years, “the singing in [his] soul” remained strong, but his inability to share the stirring imagery haunted him to such an extent that he wrote the following note in his journal:

  Before dark we rode out of town to the field where they say the shepherds saw the star. It is a fenced piece of ground with a cave in it, in which, strangely enough, they put the shepherds…somewhere in those fields we rode through, the shepherds must have been. As we passed, the shepherds were still keeping watch over their flocks.

  He also added this experience to the log of his trip:

  I was standing in the old church in Bethlehem, close to the spot where Jesus was born, when the whole church was ringing hour after hour with the splendid hymns of praise to God, how again and again it seemed as if I could hear voices I know well, telling each other of the Saviour’s birth.

  Still, even after reliving this rich experience, inspiration about how to convey those amazing moments to his flock did not visit the preacher.

  When Brooks looked ahead to the holiday season of 1868, he again thought of riding into Bethlehem at dusk and the church service that had followed. This time, he didn’t force the words out, he simply relived the experience and jotted down the lines that seemed to float into his head. His thoughts soon took the form of a poem. When he finished, he hurried to share it with Lewis Redner.

  While reading the simple words, Redner finally understood the power of what Brooks had experienced in the Holy Land. To further share this message, the organist tried to compose music to accompany the poem. For hours he struggled at the piano. Finally, on December 24, as Redner went to bed, he was forced to admit he had failed.

  Just as Brooks had been unable to find dynamic oratory to fully describe what he had experienced in Bethlehem, Redner was unable to compose a majestic rhapsody to carry the preacher’s simple words. It was only in his bed, long after he had given up his efforts, that the organist found an unadorned and straightforward tune. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Redner discovered the tune given to him in slumber perfectly fit Phillips Brooks’s words. As if blessed by God himself, on Christmas morning “O Little Town of Bethlehem” was complete.

  For the next six years “O Little Town of Bethlehem” was a Philadelphia favorite. Printed in cheap leaflet form, almost every church in the city used it during their Christmas services. In 1874, William Huntington published Brooks’s impressions and Redner’s music in The Church Porch music collection. By the time of Phillips Brooks’s death in 1893, “O Little Town of Bethlehem” had become one of the most beloved Christmas carols in the world.

  Phillips Brooks is now recognized as the greatest American preacher of the nineteenth century. His first volume of sermons sold more than two hundred thousand copies when released in 1878 and is still read and studied today. There is even a building named for the preacher at Harvard University.

  Yet it is the songwriter, not the preacher, whose work millions now know and cherish. It is the simple language of a common traveler in search of spiritual renewal that continues to touch lives today. In a sermon Brooks once said, “It is while you are patiently toiling at the little tasks of life that the meaning
and shape of the great whole of life dawns on you.” On a horse, in a tiny village, a half a world away from his home and family, the meaning of Phillips Brooks’s life and the purpose behind his work were brought into sharp focus. Since that time, millions have been blessed because of his ability to share his revelation with the world.

  24

  RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER

  In 1938, as the Great Depression wound down and even as the prospect of better times loomed on the horizon, Bob May was looking toward another bleak Christmas. An advertising copywriter for Montgomery Wards, living on a meager salary, May was on the brink of bankruptcy and exhaustion. After fighting cancer for two long years, his wife, Evelyn, was losing the battle. Staring into each other’s eyes, they both knew she wouldn’t last long. Their daughter knew something was wrong too.

  On a cold December night, after visiting her bedridden, emaciated mother, their four-year-old, Barbara, climbed up into her father’s lap. “Why isn’t my mommy just like everybody else’s mommy?” she solemnly asked.

  How could he explain to a small child that her critically ill mother wanted to play with Barbara, read her stories and—more than anything in the world—be with her for every important moment in life? How could he tell an innocent girl that illness and death were a part of life? That Evelyn wanted to be like other mothers, but illness had excluded her from all the activities that children and their mothers normally enjoyed? How could he give her the answers she needed without breaking little Barbara’s heart in the process?

  In their drafty, two-room Chicago apartment, with the cold north wind rattling the windows, Bob May held his daughter in his arms and struggled to answer the child’s simple question. He recalled the pain he had always felt growing up because he had been considered different. May had been a small, thin child, constantly picked on by other children, called “sissy” and other names he didn’t want to remember. Even in college he was so slightly built that he was often mistaken for a boy.

  Despite having a college degree, the country’s sorry financial state had made it almost impossible for May to find any other job than the position at Wards that was far beneath his skill level. Yet when he found Evelyn and they fell in love and married, Bob suddenly felt like a king. For the first time he had a place in the world where it was all right to not fit the mold. Their daughter’s birth seemed to assure the man that good times were just around the corner. But then Evelyn got sick and the cost of fighting the cancer stole not only his wife’s energy but the family’s savings as well. Bob sold everything of value and they lived in what amounted to a slum.

  But on that cold, windy night, even with every reason to cry and complain, Bob wanted his daughter to somehow understand that there was hope…and that being different didn’t mean you had to be ashamed. Most of all, he wanted her to know she was loved. Drawing from his own life experiences, the copywriter made up a story about a reindeer with a large, bright red nose. And as little Barbara listened, May described in story form not only the pain felt by those who were different but also the joy that can be found when someone discovers his special place in the world.

  The tale was a big hit with Barbara, and thereafter she demanded that her father tell it to her each night. With every new telling the plot grew more elaborate, and the reindeer, Rudolph, became less a fictional character and more a member of the May family.

  Unable to purchase a gift for Barbara that Christmas, Bob decided to carefully craft his story about Rudolph into a homemade book, drawing on his own abilities as an artist for the pictures. Many evenings after his wife and daughter had gone to sleep, Bob carefully worked to finish his unique present. But tragedy struck the May family before Christmas could arrive: Evelyn lost her battle with cancer.

  Though the last few pages of his gift book were stained with tears, Bob would not give up on Rudolph. He knew that his daughter needed the uplifting story now more than ever. He prayed for the strength to finish the project. His efforts were rewarded when a thrilled Barbara found a completed copy of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer waiting for her on Christmas morning.

  Though he hardly felt like celebrating, a few days later Bob was forced to attend a Montgomery Wards’ employee party. His coworkers in the ad department asked May to share his children’s story that night. Though he didn’t feel like it, he took his book and, at the appointed moment, climbed before the crowd and read the story. After the scores of holiday revelers laughed, they stood and gave May and his children’s tale a thunderous ovation. They all loved Rudolph and wanted copies of their own.

  The head of the company felt that Wards could benefit from Bob’s gift to his daughter. For a modest sum, Stewell Avery, the chairman of the board of Montgomery Wards, bought all rights from the cash-strapped and debt-ridden May. Avery then had tens of thousands of copies of Rudolph printed and shipped to Wards stores across the nation in time for Christmas 1939. The response was so positive that for the next six years, each child who visited a Santa in a company store got a copy of May’s book.

  By 1946 Wards had given away six million copies of Rudolph and Stewell Avery was being besieged by offers from every major publishing house wanting to print a new version of the story. In one of the most generous decisions ever made by the head of a large company, the CEO gave all rights back to Bob May. A year later the mass-market release of the book made the Wards copywriter a rich man.

  With the book a best-seller, numerous toy and product deals were soon cut and May’s entire life revolved around a story he had told to comfort a worried daughter. Remarried, and with a growing family, Bob couldn’t imagine anything else that could improve his wonderful life. Then his brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, decided to adapt the story into a song.

  Marks, who had written music for a number of major recording stars, hoped that the “Voice of Christmas,” Bing Crosby, would record the song “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” When Crosby passed, Marks offered the song to Dinah Shore. She wasn’t interested either. Other artists were given the demo, but none of them wanted it. Finally cowboy star Gene Autry was approached. Marks figured that Autry might be looking for a follow-up to his earlier Christmas hit, “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Besides, Gene, unlike Bing and Dinah, often sang kids’ songs. Children were his main audience.

  Like Crosby, Shore, and the other artists, Autry was unimpressed. He had already discovered a song he felt would become a seasonal children’s classic in “If It Doesn’t Snow This Christmas.” There was no doubt that the favored title was a great song and a perfect children’s single, but Marks begged Gene to give “Rudolph” a second listen. The writer figured that Autry might find a place for the misunderstood reindeer on the “B” side of the record.

  Gene took Marks’s demo home and played it for his wife, Ina. As they listened, Autry scoffed that there were already too many songs about reindeer. Ina thought differently. When she heard the line “they wouldn’t let poor Rudolph play in any reindeer games,” it broke her heart. She insisted that her husband cut the song.

  Columbia Records wanted Autry to record four sides (songs) for a Christmas release. “Rudolph” was the last song chosen and cut. A few weeks later, when Autry sang “Rudolph” at the Madison Square Garden rodeo, the crowd went wild. As the cowboy’s fans rose to their feet, the underdog deer flew past the other three new Christmas cuts and became the singer’s holiday release for 1949. While Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore looked on, Gene Autry’s “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” streaked to number one on the charts. It would soon become the second best-selling Christmas song of all time, just behind “White Christmas.”

  Through books, records, television specials, and movies, for tens of millions of children of all ages, Rudolph has become as much a symbol for the secular wonder of the Christmas season as Santa Claus. While there are many lessons to be learned from this magical story—including that while it takes courage to be different, being different can be a blessing—there is an even greater lesson from this story and song that
is now all but forgotten: When you give a sincere gift of love from the heart, that gift will come back to you magnified beyond all expectations and measures. It is a lesson that the fictional Rudolph and the very real May family are still living more than six decades after the story was first told.

  25

  SILENT NIGHT

  Even though “Silent Night” has been recorded more than any other song in history, the fact that we know it at all is a miracle. Created out of necessity and performed in a tiny village on a solitary Christmas Eve by two ordinary Austrians and a tiny choir, this incredibly beautiful and simple carol owes its debut to an organ that wouldn’t play and a priest who wouldn’t hold a Christmas mass without special music. Later, just weeks into the new year, the beloved carol’s march to worldwide popularity was begun by the man who came to fix the faulty instrument.

  In 1817, twenty-five-year-old Joseph Mohr was assigned to the position of assistant priest at St. Nicholas Church in Oberndorf, Austria. A lover of music since his boyhood in Salzburg, Mohr was placed in charge of the music used at the small church and he even wrote poems and song lyrics for special services. A seemingly tireless and giving man, he spent much of his spare time ministering to children from the area’s poorest families. In his desire to serve and inspire, if ever a man fulfilled the full description of the word pastor, it was Mohr.