Christmas carols I have been enjoying at church, on my devices and in my car are lifting my spirits once again. The familiar lyrics and melodies blanket my consciousness like a snow shower I wish we could experience in my mild Texas city.
Perhaps fantasizing about sleigh rides and roasting chestnuts on open fires, I smile at everyone I meet as I move about town with holiday favorites echoing in my mind and heart.
Statue of St. Wenceslas in Prague (Shutterstock)
Good King Wenceslas
Although it is not sung in many Christmas gatherings, likely because its backstory is not well known, “Good King Wenceslas” has a fascinating history and noble purpose.
Robert Sellers
Penned in 1853 by John Mason Neale, it commemorates the account of a 10th-century Bohemian duke named Wenceslas, known for his care of widows, orphans, the poor and slaves, who because of his charity and kindness was popularly called “the father of all the wretched.”
The carol tells of a bitterly cold night when Wenceslas saw a desperate villager attempting to gather firewood despite the harsh, forbidding weather. The duke instructed his page to go with him to bring the poor man both dry firewood and a feast for his family, but the servant said the snow was too deep to walk across the fields. Wenceslas then advised him to follow in his own footprints, and when the page did, the places where his master had stepped warmed his feet so that the servant was able to continue.
This is the miracle that inspired the beautiful Christmas song about giving to the less fortunate. Years later, after the death of the duke, the Holy Roman Emperor Otto I granted the beloved Wenceslas the title of “king.”
The final verse of the carol encourages everyone to walk in the footsteps of the gracious “king”:
In his master’s steps he trod
Where the snow lay dented,
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure —
Wealth or rank possessing.
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.
Thinking about “Good King Wenceslas” recently, I realized some of our favorite carols were inspired by historical people and real-life circumstances. That awareness made me wonder if any of the carols could be related to any historical figure other than Jesus. Interestingly, the same thought also occurred to a political action committee named the “Joint Heirs,” drawn from Romans 8:17, a biblical text that talks about believers being joint heirs with Christ. Perhaps thinking themselves clever for appealing to potential Christian voters in the months leading up to the Holy Season of Christmas — and to the presidential election, they designed a billboard they displayed along the highway near Oglethorpe, Ga. It pictured Donald Trump and the inscription “Unto us a son is born and the government shall be upon his shoulders” — words lifted from the King James Version of Isaiah 9:6 and also from one of the most celebrated choruses of George Frideric Handel’s Messiah, his famous 1741 oratorio.
Reflecting on that Christmas comparison of Trump and Jesus from 2024, I believe it would be just as incongruous to link this president to some other familiar music of the season. My purpose is to illustrate that this man — who loves to be praised — is not worthy of a comparison to the Holy Child of Christmas.
I begin with “Good King Wenceslas.” Would-be king Donald Trump does not notice the poor except with contempt, although they are all around him in the American fiefdom he is creating. Unlike Wenceslas, Trump is a billionaire who pays attention instead to the wealthy and does everything in his power to give favors to and be coddled by the super-rich. No royal title nor inspiring song has been granted him.
To the contrary, 7 million people joined “No Kings” protest marches and rallies in 2,700 cities on Oct. 18 to send Trump the clear message that his elitism and actions against the poor, the homeless and the immigrant do not inspire common people during this season of good will and joy.
A storm rising over Bethlehem, Palestine, with the sun breaking briefly through the clouds. (123rf.com)
O Little Town of Bethlehem
Episcopal priest Phillips Brooks visited Bethlehem in 1868, attending Christmas Eve services in the Church of the Nativity. He was impressed by Bethlehem’s humble setting, particularly when compared to the prominence of Jerusalem.
Three years later, still touched deeply by his journey to the Holy Land, Brooks wrote the words to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Remembering the words of the Old Testament prophet Micah — “But you, O Bethlehem…, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel” — Brooks linked the prophecy with the historical tradition of Jesus’ having been born in the unpretentious “city of David.”
The carol stresses the wonder that a seemingly ordinary, even humble, event that occurred in a most unassuming place could have brought hope to the whole world.
The third verse of the carol certainly does not describe our arrogant president:
No ear may hear his coming,
But in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.
Donald Trump was born in a wealthy family in the largest metropolis in the United States and grew up in the glittering excitement of “the city that never sleeps,” New York City. Perhaps this background explains his preference for glamorous, expensive things. So, he has redecorated the Oval Office with gaudy gold leaf and torn down the East Wing of the White House to build a $300 million ballroom — one that may compete in opulence with Versailles and where only the elite will be welcomed. No one who has observed the president would ever think of him as a “meek soul.” Also, hearing him say he doesn’t need to ask God for forgiveness because he doesn’t make mistakes, we might question whether Trump is one in whom the dear Christ has actually been invited to enter.
(Shutterstock)
I Heard the Bells On Christmas Day
American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the poem which, when set to music, became the traditional carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” Longfellow was shattered by the death of his wife, Fanny, in a devastating fire in 1861. Then, tragedy befell him again when his son Charles was severely wounded in the Civil War.
Overcome by deep grief, both over the continuing conflict and his personal losses, he nonetheless experienced a renewal of hope when he heard the Christmas bells ringing in 1863. Despite the overwhelming reasons he had for despair, the Christmas message reminded him of God’s peace and the believer’s ultimate victory over death.
The familiar words Longfellow wrote have been lifting the spirits of carolers for more than a century and a half.
And in despair I bowed my head.
There is no peace on earth, I said,
For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Then rang the bells more loud and deep;
God is not dead, nor doth He sleep.
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.
There are many reasons this Christmastide for one to despair. In numerous parts of the earth there is no peace; wars rage, destroying the lives of men, women and children, creating refugee masses fleeing the threat of death after losing their homes, lands, towns and even countries. Hate is strong, evidenced in vicious words and wicked acts, both of which are a mockery of decency, love and good will.
The president — because he commands the greatest military force on the globe — is “the most powerful man in the world.” Ultimately, he is the one who approves missile strikes against alleged drug boats, obliterating even survivors clinging to wreckage. He is the one whose loyalty to Vladamir Putin has shaped his proposed solutions to the war in Ukraine, measures that favor the Russian aggressor. He is the one who has made it acceptable to spew hatred from the Resolute Desk — against his political opponents, disloyal Republicans, news agencies and reporters, celebrities who criticize him, and immigrants, especially people of color. Trump’s only connection to this carol is that because of him, millions of people of faith, both here and in nations around the world who once knew a different America, are now praying right finally will prevail.
(Shutterstock)
We Wish You A Merry Christmas
Likely a traditional song heard in 16th-century England, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” was sung by poor and homeless waifs who traveled about the countryside, stopping at houses of the gentry and nobility to beg for scraps of food or cast-off clothing in exchange for Christmas caroling. The second verse about “figgy pudding,” its meaning mysterious to contemporary American ears, recalls a delightful treat commonly served at holiday times during the Renaissance.
The simple carol, published by Arthur Warrell in 1939, begins with the familiar words:
We wish you a merry Christmas.
We wish you a merry Christmas.
We wish you a merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year.
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin,
We wish you a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
After almost five years of observing President Trump in office, it is inconceivable that he might post on Truth Social a pleasant, inclusive, nonpolitical message of good tidings and Christmas joy. In fact, his Thanksgiving message for 2025 was the sort of sentiment many Americans have come to expect from him.
According to one of many reports, the president delivered “a foul-mouthed rant in which he said he will “permanently pause migration from all Third World countries” and ranted about “Sleepy Joe Biden’s autopen” and removing anyone “who is not a net asset to the United States, or is incapable of loving our country.”
He ended his Thanksgiving message with a “HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL, except those that hate, steal, murder and destroy everything that America stands for.”
Sadly, it seems highly likely the president’s Christmas greeting will be similar in nature.
In the days of the Christmas season that remain, I am going to do my best to forget Donald Trump. He doesn’t want me to do that, but I am committed to try. That means when I hear or sing carols, I will be celebrating the real Son on whose shoulders all governments will ultimately rest.
Rob Sellers is professor of theology and missions emeritus at Hardin-Simmons University’s Logsdon Seminary in Abilene, Texas. He is a past chair of the board of the Parliament of the World’s Religions in Chicago. He and his wife, Janie, served a quarter century as missionary teachers in Indonesia. They have two children and five grandchildren.