By Britta Joseph

One hundred fifty-two. That’s how many carefully-cut construction paper strips I’d taped and stapled together into a winding, garishly festive chain. At eight years old, I had determined that it was necessary to start a Christmas countdown in the middle of July. My love of the holiday rivaled only my love for my birthday, which conveniently fell a month before Christmas Eve. I considered this the official kickoff to the holiday season, and insisted my family do the same. Once this time of the year rolled around, I savored the solemn Dickensian carols, baked dozens of gingerbread and spritz cookies, and rearranged our well-loved Nativity scene until I was satisfied that the correct amount of drama had been achieved. Each morning, I tore a link off the paper python taped to my walls, and as the days shortened through the seasons, so did my chain.

I was never one for the Christmas music on the radio — as I mentioned earlier, I preferred the gravitas of old carols and hymns. Even at my tender age, I held a disdain for “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Songs like “What Child Is This?” and “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” sounded sweeter to my ears. The subdued exuberance and harmonic gravitas of these carols spoke to my young heart, stirring in me a deep reverence for the holy events of Christmas. My family observed Advent and celebrated the birth of Jesus as part of our Christmas traditions, and my curious mind reveled in the mystery of those sacred events.

The first time I experienced “Ah Holy Jesus” was while at a piano, carefully sight-reading it from my grandparents’ tattered leather-bound Lutheran hymnal. The doleful chord progression immediately pleased my discerning ears, and I proceeded to play it several more times, brow furrowed as my little fingers navigated the ancient melody known as “Herzliebster Jesu.” Composed by Johann Crüger and published in 1640, Herzliebster Jesu has been paired with more than just the lyrics for “Ah Holy Jesus.” J. S. Bach famously used the melody in two major compositions (St. Matthew Passion and St. John Passion), and Johannes Brahms borrowed it in his Eleven Chorale Preludes, Op. 122: No. 2. The emotionally-wrought harmonies and delicate movement within them make Herzliebster Jesu a beautiful and moving backdrop for the lyrics of “Ah Holy Jesus,” which chronicle the suffering of Christ on the cross. At the time, this hymn did not strike me as a Christmas song, but rather as something better suited for the Holy Week leading up to Easter.

It wasn’t until much later in my life that I heard Sufjan Stevens’ setting of “Ah Holy Jesus (with reed organ).” I was taken aback by its inclusion on one of his Christmas albums, seeing as the lyrics don’t seem particularly festive at first glance. However, as I sat with the song and contemplated it in light of my faith and Sufjan’s, I understood his decision to add it. Jesus was born to die: His incarnation culminated in His crucifixion and resurrection. The Christmas celebration is a paradox as joy leans against sorrow and birth is intertwined with death.

Ah, holy Jesus, how hast thou offended,
that we to judge thee have in hate pretended?
By foes derided, by thine own rejected,
O most afflicted!

The text of this hymn was written by Johann Heermann in 1630 and is considered heavily inspired by Isaiah 53. Verses three and four of this chapter state, “He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted” (Isaiah 53:3-4, ESV). The bittersweet melody of Herzliebster Jesu is the perfect foil to Heermann’s reflective, mournful lyricism.

Sufjan Stevens takes the already beautiful setting of “Ah Holy Jesus” and makes it even more impactful with a delicate, haunting arrangement. There are just two instruments in Sufjan’s version: a choir and a reed organ. The music feels exposed in its simplicity as the slightly warbling vocals and warm hum of the organ meander through the carol. Sufjan chose only two of the five existing stanzas for his arrangement: the first and the fourth, which offer powerful contrast together. The first verse describes the rejection of Christ by man, and the fourth celebrates His offer of redemption and salvation.

For me, kind Jesus, was thy incarnation,
thy mortal sorrow, and thy life's oblation;
thy death of anguish and thy bitter passion,
for my salvation.

Sufjan’s decision to pair these two verses together is intentional and fitting for the paradox of Christmas. Like the winding paper chains of my youth, each experience is linked inextricably to another, represented by Christ’s incarnation and path to the cross. Rejection begets redemption, birth begets death, sorrow begets joy. The end of Isaiah 53 mirrors this sentiment as well, stating, “After he has suffered, he will see the light of life and be satisfied; by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many, and he will bear their iniquities” (Isaiah 53:11, ESV). The beauty and deep joy of Christmas are heightened by the contrast of the pain and grief that go hand in hand with them.

It was Christmas Day, 2005. The last link of the seemingly endless paper chain was all that remained on the wall of my bedroom. I was beaming as I reached up to remove it — my tradition was complete and the day I had been anticipating for months could finally begin. Though I didn’t notice it then, I now smile at the paradox I created for myself, perfectly harmonious with the mystery of the season. Ah, holy Jesus, I will cherish every paper chain and every beautiful contradiction of this Christmas.

Britta Joseph is a musician and artist who, when she isn’t listening to records or deep-diving emo archives on the internet, enjoys writing poetry, reading existential literature, and a good iced matcha. You can find her on Instagram @brittajoes.