ˈsteɪb(ə)l

stable: a building in which horses are kept; formerly used in a wider sense for other large domesticated animals

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.) And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David) to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child. And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

Luke 2:1-7 (King James Version)

Luke is the only one of the Evangelists who tells the story of Jesus’ birth in this way—a journey to Bethlehem, a problem with accommodation, and a makeshift cot. Nowhere is the location of this manger actually mentioned—but the idea that Jesus was born in a stable is deeply embedded in Western Christian tradition.*

Nor is it clear that Mary and Joseph were forced to this improvisation because there was “no room in the inn”, as the King James translation has it. The word here translated as “inn” is katalyma in the original Greek text. When katalyma is used later (Luke 22:11) to designate the location of the Last Supper, the King James Version translates it as “guest chamber”. And when Luke mentions an inn in the Parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:34), he uses the Greek word pandocheion.

The pandocheion to which the Samaritan took the injured man was probably what we’d call a caravanserai—accommodation in remote regions at which travellers could rest and resupply. The katalyma, in contrast, is interpreted as being the “upper room” of a two-storey dwelling, where guests could be accommodated (or Last Suppers arranged). So one interpretation of Luke’s account is that Mary and Joseph went to stay with Joseph’s family in Bethlehem, but found that the upper room of the family home was already packed with others who had also been forced to come to Bethlehem for the taxation census. There was no room in the guest chamber.

But the ground floor of such houses contained the family living area, and a place where domestic animals could be housed for safety or shelter. So in this interpretation of Luke’s story, Mary didn’t deliver her baby in desperate circumstances in some remote stable, but in the family home, with a manger readily available next door. It puts a whole new complexion on the story, but I doubt if the Western Nativity narrative is going to abandon its stable any time soon.

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You may have noticed that I omitted a second definition of stable at the head of this post. The noun also gives rise to the verb to stable, which is, of course, the act of putting an animal in a stable. But there’s also an adjective, stable, “unlikely to fall over”. The noun and adjective seem to have unrelated meanings, but actually share a common etymology in Latin.

The noun stable comes to us from Latin stabulum, which the OED links to the sta- root of the verb stāre, “to stand”—it’s a place where animals stand, in other words. And the adjective comes from Latin stabilis, “standing firm”, from that sta- root again, combined with the ‑bilis suffix used to form adjectives from verbs.

Stāre has generated a large number of words in English. From Latin restāre, “to remain” (literally, “to stand behind”), we get an almost obsolete usage of the word rest, meaning “to remain”, now mainly familiar from the phrase rest assured. (The senses involving lying down and avoiding activity come from the Germanic language family.) Add another Latin prefix, ad-, and we have adrestāre, “to cause to remain”, from which we get arrest. Latin contrāstāre, “to stand against”, gives us contrast; constāre, “to stand with”, gives us cost—the thing you have to offer in order to get the thing you want. And Latin had a word superstāre, “to stand over”, from which they derived the noun superstitiō—which meant superstition, and is the origin of our word. Quite what “standing over” has to do with superstition is obscure. The OED offers several possibilities, but plumps for “standing over a thing in amazement or awe”.

There’s a bone in your ear called the stapes, Latin for “stirrup”, because of its shape. Which is odd, given that stirrups were unknown to the Romans. It seems to be a mediaeval coining, from stāre combine with pēs, “foot”. It’s a tiny bone, but the resemblance to a stirrup is striking. (For reference, the 10-cent Euro coin is only slightly smaller than a US nickel or a UK 20-pence piece.)

The third-person singular present active subjunctive of stāre is stet, “let it stand”, still used as a proof-reading mark to indicate that the highlighted text should not be altered.

Statio is a noun of action derived from stāre. It’s a “standing place”, and it gives us English station, and Spanish estancia, a cattle station. The related staticum, “a place to stand” or “a soujourn”, produced Old French estage, Modern French étage, and our word stage, both in the sense of a theatrical stage, and of a step in a process or journey—the sort of journey that might be undertaken by a stage-coach.

Status is “manner of standing”, from which we derive status, state, statue, stature and statute. It also gives us statant, a heraldic term, meaning “standing”. A lion statant is a heraldic depiction of a lion standing on all four feet and gazing off into the distance—a figure so boring that it rarely features in coats of arms. Here it is in the arms of the Lordship of Mindelheim, which existed between 1467 and 1559:

Stāre probably had an unattested causal derivative, stanāre, meaning “to make stand”, from which Latin destināre was derived—the origin of our word destine and destiny.

The present participle of stāre is stāns, “standing”, which has a plural stantia. From that we get English stance, circumstance (“standing around”) and substance, meaning “standing under”, in the sense “fundamental nature”. Italian derives stanza, “stopping place”, which was adopted into English to designate a group of poetic lines that stand together. With prefixes, stāns is the origin of extant (“standing out”), instant (“to be present”) and obstant, an old adjective meaning “standing against”, in the sense of “resisting”.

Phew. That’s a lot of words. But I have one final one, relevant to Mary and Joseph and their “stable”. The obsistere that gave us obstant, “to position oneself against” is the origin of Latin obstetrīx, “midwife”, and of our words obstetric and obstetrician. Mary was perhaps more likely to have the services of an obstetrīx while in the bosom of Joseph’s family, rather than while lying in the hay of a remote stable.

If you’re disposed to celebrate Christmas, have a happy one. Rest assured, I’ll try to come up with another Christmas-related word next year.

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* In Orthodox tradition, Jesus is said to have been born in a cave, another place where animals might be sheltered.