GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST ~ 3. Why I now love Christmas Eve.

 

What an odd thing to say? A joyous evening for many, surely? But for a few – and I have been privileged to count myself among them – not so. No longer. I recent years I have rediscovered a love of Christmas Eve that was taken away from me when I was ordained in 1986. Perhaps I should explain.

The calling of a priest at Christmas is to set forth the narratives that announce the birth of Jesus Christ (primarily biblical, but there is much else besides) and to lead the annual celebration in church. In word and song, with layers upon layers of tradition (mostly schmaltzy Victorian.) And to be a conduit of the truth of the incarnation for countless people – many, if not most, of whom had not been in church since the previous Christmas.

To bind together, yet somehow tease apart, the expectations of tradition and soothing carols and music and decorating the church and family and children and nice food and wine and readings from the bible that we’ve all heard before, from the absolutely shattering announcement:

And the Word became flesh.

An extraordinary privilege and vocation, and one in which we as priests are called to be plain and clear. (I will not digress at this point and refer to certain very senior episcopi …) And I hope that I gave it my heart and soul. If not, I am sure that there are people out there who will tell me.

But the reality was (and remains for many) is that my time and energy had to sit alongside the earthly expectations of family and neighbourhood. So, when it came to Christmas Eve and a wonderful feast was placed on the table, I could only pick at it. Stomach was that of an actor (wrong metaphor, I hope) before one of the most important performances (ibid) of the year. Not nerves or butterflies. Just focus. And the unenviable making half a glass of wine last a couple of hours.

Of course, after Midnight Mass all my attentions changed – like weights slipping off my shoulders. I would be home by 12:45am. Mentally exhausted. There would be the remains of a fire glowing in the hearth, and the tree would still be lit. Even the dogs did not stir. I would pour a large glass of Calvados and sit quietly, thankfully beneath that tree and think of all those I loved and missed. That was my one and only Christmas Eve moment. And then to bed. For the parish church beckoned me once more on Christmas morning.

Things are different now. Christmas Eve now is a time of quiet reflection. Good (well, not all) memories. A simple meal. A fine Madeira. Music. Prayer, Delightful words on a page. Thoughts under another tree. Melancholy? Yes, of course. It is that time of year. Happiness and sadness intertwined. Thoughts of fellows who do as I did. Prayers for them. And an expectation of going to another parish church on another wonderful Christmas morning. And remembering myself in another priest.

Gaudete! Christus est natus! Ex Maria virgine. Gaudete!

GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST ~ 2. Himbleton.

 

My memories of Christmases in Himbleton – the bucolic village east of Worcester where I spent my early boyhood years – are a jumble of images of decorating the hallways and living room of the great vicarage, Christmas carols sung in school and village halls, intoxicating smells of rich food flowing out of the kitchen door, and of course, Christmas mornings. And people. People from far and near, of all shapes, sizes, and stations.

Decorations were mostly hand-made. Pinecones sprayed with gold and silver lacquer; branches the same. [1] Cut holly and mistletoe from the orchard; chains of coloured paper loops gummed together and strung around the ceilings. Red candles in brightly polished stands, and balloons. I never liked balloons for some irrational reason, but helped to blow them up - and often pop them, denying everything.

There was an immeasurable amount of food, centred on a large turkey. There were pheasant for later, some years a goose, and a home-cured ham that didn’t make an appearance until Boxing Day. Vegetables galore, and a silver tureen of thick, thick gravy that hopefully was enough for seconds. The pudding was always hailed a triumph, to my mother’s relief, and burned the sprig of holly to a crisp. People came stayed or went; families from South Wales; visitors; the lady of the manor [2] would drop by – and would stay for a little something. And it was all a world of timeless joy and thankfulness.

An enduring memory of Himbleton was the moment before another Christmas when, possibly due to a comment made by someone at school, my belief in Father Christmas was shaken. (I think I was seven years old.) I questioned my father – persistently. It was through a locked door. I demanded an answer. If there was no Father Christmas, I asked, then who? Eventually he admitted that yes, it was he. My life was changed at that point. (I should point out that the locked door in question was that of the upstairs toilet!)

Those pastoral days came to a close in 1965 when we left the village. My father had been offered a living in the parish of St Stephen, Barbourne – the north of Worcester. Everything, but everything changed. Rural simplicity had ended, but future Christmases brought even more happy memories.

[1.] This year I have done the same. Watch out for a post on my Facebook page!

[2] Lady Cynthia Sandys (1898-1990.)

GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST ~ 1

 This was written and published in various places ten years ago to the day. I have not edited it in any way.

A CURATE’S CHRISTMAS IN TAUNTON

December 1987, and it was my first year as a priest in the parish of St Mary Magdalene, Taunton, England. Actually, my second year in that parish, but as my first twelve months was served as a deacon (we didn’t use the term “transitional” in those days as we were all deacons for a year) and therefore non-eucharistic, it doesn’t merit a mention here.

Christmas celebrations had begun somewhere around the second week of Advent when the long list of carol services was drawn up: two primary schools, four residential homes for the elderly and several gatherings where important towns-folk gathered together to sing Silent Night, admire the mayoral chains and after church drink themselves into a civic stupor by mid-evening. Of course, as Curate (or to be pedantic, Assistant Curate) I was expected to either “take” these services or, in the case of the grander occasions, at least be present. Which I unworthily, dutifully, was. And did.

The week before Christmas was the time when the liturgical accelerator was firmly pressed to the floor. As the “mother church” of the town, St Mary’s had accrued pastoral and sacramental responsibilities for people spread out across Taunton Vale. It was now time to administer Christmas Holy Communion to those entrapped at home by illness or disability. Many of these people, generally very advanced in years, were living some distance out of town in rural cottages where the country roads were always rutted and muddy. Yet the welcome I received was always warm and heart-felt.

Others lived in the parish next door. All Saints’ Halcon, (where a colleague of mine from Salisbury Theological College days remains the Rector to this day.) In the mid-1980s the then local cleric (no names, no pack drill) took a somewhat myopic view of sacramental ministry and refused infant baptism to his parish. So, we stepped in, much to his curmudgeonly fury, while the Bishop of Bath & Wells, when he wasn’t accidently shooting swans from his study window, turned a pastoral blind eye. As a result, the elderly and ailing All Saints’ denizens came to request the sacrament of the Eucharist at home. And the Curate was sent!

Now this neighboring parish was no rural idyll but one of the most poor and socially deprived areas in the west of England. Entirely council housing (U.S. public housing) it was said of the place that “If the people don’t get you then the dogs will!” House calls were often challenging to say the least. Floor boards ripped out to burn as firewood, chickens and other livestock kept indoors, and it was unadvisable to ask about where and how the family obtained their new television set, let alone how they connected it and other appliances to the electricity supply in the street. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” was the advice given to me, which, given the countless pit-bull terriers, mastiffs and un-pedigreed attack dogs and owners that I had to navigate clutching the Real Presence to my chest, was apt counsel. That first experience in 1987 was quite formative. But rewarding? Oh yes! The welcome was amazing.

Ah, Christmas Eve at last! Somewhere in all of the ecclesiastical shenanigans I would have found time to do my Christmas shopping. All gifts for family and friends. No food, for I would drive to Worcester for lunch and a couple of days relaxation at my parents’ house. On the Eve there was some form of late afternoon children’s service (which the Rector did) with a blessing of a crib and figures, and then what to this day I still call “The Wait.” That period of time between the end of the afternoon and the “Midnight Mass” (which at St Mary’s was at eleven.) Only a few hours but it has always seemed like an eternity. Appetite for the food that others are tucking into was and is at its lowest during this time, and just how long can a small amount of wine be nursed and still called a glass of cheer?

By 10:15 people had arrived at the church and by the stroke of eleven the place was packed. To the gunwales. When we processed to the quire and altar I recall that sections of the congregation were emitting a strange aroma of alcohol and peppermints, but on that night all were immaculately behaved. I preached that late service, Christmas 1987, but cannot recall the sermon. I wonder if others can.

Home by a quarter to one. Ignatius the cat greeted me haughtily, as if to say, “What time do you call this?” I was hungry, so made toast and warmed a mince pie. And pouring myself a glass of finest Armagnac, brought back from France earlier that year, sat back and enjoyed my small Christmas tree. A time (as it is now) to toast my distant friends.

Up at six and after a hastily gulped cup of coffee, again French, I was back in the church for the seven o’clock Eucharist which was attended solely by a man and his sister who had been coming for years. They thanked me and wished me a Happy Christmas. Then over to the vicarage for coffee and toast with the Vicar and his family.

Dawned the eight o’clock Eucharist with some fifty people. And then the nine-fifteen Parish Communion at which I was, again, preaching. (For the second time I can’t remember the sermon, but I can assure you that it wasn’t a repeat of the night before. Just in case…) The church was half full that mid-morning, perhaps two hundred people. As it was Christmas morning there was no post-eucharistic coffee in the hall, but a quick turn-around of papers and hymn boards for choral Matins at eleven. And for this service I had no duties but was duty bound to attend. That’s what Curates are for, did you not know? (These days they do not. I believe they even have opinions of their own!)

My car, loaded with family presents, was parked close by, and at noon, throwing off my choir dress, I was in it and driving out of town towards the motorway. It was about two hours' drive to Worcester, and my small Citroen 2CV rushed every mile. I arrived to the smell of roasting turkey and a warm greeting. A gigantic glass of gin and tonic followed. Maybe more. Then lunch. Delicious lunch with my father carving a giant turkey. And the present opening, slowly, one by one. (We cleared the table and kitchen in time for the Queen’s Speech on television.)

Come the evening I could feel my eyelids drooping, but there were cold cuts, chutneys and warm bread rolls served at seven. A little something more, a good film on television, and I was asleep by nine thinking, “A Curate’s lot is quite a pleasant one!”

 

A Growing Group (once again.)

 

HIGH NOTES & LOW NOTES

 

Unless one lives on a remote Hebridean island – and there is no guarantee even there – we cannot avoid certain music at this time of the year. Whether one listens to King’s College, Cambridge on the radio, or simply pops down to the stores for a bit of shopping, Christmas music is wall-to-wall, aisle-to-aisle everywhere. From the obscure medieval French carols, through the popular ones we all know, to the American croons of the mid-20^th century – to the unforgivable pop tunes that blast out a commercial message as autumn cools into winter.

 

Please, I am not channeling Ebeneezer Scrooge. I enjoy good music, and I know the power of music to lift heart and soul with the announcement of Christmas, which, by the way, is “Incarnatus Est” – and not, “All I Want For Christmas Is You.”

 

Yet even the classical carol or chorus, the middle or even highbrow music, often makes me smile. We know the tunes. We remember (most of) the words perhaps because we sang them in school. And at a time of the year when emotions run deep for many of us, we lean on them to find a source of traditional and comfort. There is nothing wrong with that. But do we actually listen to the words, understand the story behind them – or even know where they came from? Please indulge me in a very lighthearted tour of a mere handful of these refrains and rhapsodies, and accept my notes and footnotes, without disrespect to composers or authors, known or unknown. Music, maestro, please!

We three kings of orient are
Bearing gifts we traverse afar
Field and fountain
Moor and mountain
Following yonder star

 

This wonderful American carol – which, by right, belongs to the Epiphany and not Christmas – was written by the Episcopal priest John Henry Hopkin Jr. in 1857. It is jolly, it is singable – especially the ribald chorus after wine – and it attempts to lyricize the events described in Matthew’s gospel. The problem is: These mysterious visitors from the East were not kings. In the Greek text of that gospel, they are described as “magi.” Seers, astrologers, even Zoroastrian priests. But you see, all that does not make for a good seasonal jingle.

I saw three ships come sailing in
⁠On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
I saw three ships come sailing in
⁠On Christmas day in the morning.

 

I love this old English carol. It was first recorded by the publisher William Sandys in 1833, but the words probably go back a century or two before. It sings of ships sailing into Bethlehem. Now for all I know, and I did not see one when I was there, Bethlehem does not have a deep-water harbour. So, what on earth is this carol all about? (Clue. It is not about camels, those “ships of the desert.” That is a recent suggestion.) The truth is it is enigmatic. We do not know. There is a suggestion that it refers to a 12^th century legend of the remains of the Magi (see above carol) being taken by ship to Cologne cathedral. But that fact we don’t know shouldn’t spoil our sing.

The Carol of the Bells. Beautiful tune. Popularised by its endless playing by the new UK radio station Classic FM in the 1980s. It’s based on an Ukrainian New Year folk legend. The composer was the Ukrainian Mykola Leontovych, and the English word written by the American composer Peter Wilhousky. Haunting, if repetitive. And, if one is honest, devoid of meaning.

When Joseph was an old man, an old man was he
He married virgin Mary, the queen of Galilee
He married virgin Mary, the queen of Galilee.

 

Enchanting. Old. Very old. Could be in the 1400s. A legend of Joseph and Mary stopping off in a cherry orchard on their way down from Nazareth to Bethlehem, and they had a bit of a tiff that the unborn Jesus sorted out. And why not?  But, hang on! What’s this? Why is there an assumption that Joseph was old? Older than Mary, yes. By the practice of the day Mary would have been in her mid-teens when betrothed (and, please, let us not project our 21^st century norms onto that,) but that’s all we can assume.

Did you realise that the Hallelujah Chorus, so beloved of American choir performances at Christmastide, is the climax to the work celebrating Christ’s Passion, death, and resurrection. That is why its unofficial title is the Easter Oratorio?

Last, but never least, Jingle Bells (which, in my shopping meanderings this week I must have hear more than a dozen time,) was not originally a Christmas song. Written for a Thanksgiving celebration in 1857, and entitled “One Horse Open Sleigh,” by the Massachusetts musician James Lord Pierpont – now there’s a WASP name – it was first rehearsed by a Sunday School group abed then became locally popular as a tavern drinking song. To think the Southern Baptists still sing it!

Let us now stand to sing…

“In that day the branch… will be beautiful and glorious.” (Isaiah 4:2)

 

In all literal and exegetical honesty, the colourful 8^th century BC Jewish prophet, political commentator and interpreter of times did not have my improvised Christmas decoration in mind when he envisaged the messianic age that was to come, and so I apologise to his memory, heritage, and soul for misquoting his ancient words from Tanakh or Old Testament. Yet a simple inglorious earthly branch of a tree has become important to me at Advent and Christmas for a few years.

This began in December 2016. It was the year when the family home in Wainscott, New York, had been sold. Things were breaking up and effects great and small were going into storage. and elsewhere. I had moved into the apartment on the church campus. My eventually to be former wife had returned to her home town in Florida, and my daughter was in university. The “church flat” (as I lovingly call it to this day) was quite adorable, but it was temporary as there were expensive plans to refurbish the whole building as a permanent rectory. A strategic and financial mistake in my opinion, given knowledge hidden from the church Vestry, but that discussion, dear reader, is for another day.

The builders were poised to move in, and in September 2016 I moved out to a delightful house in Sagaponack – just a few miles east. The property of the generous and supportive Topping family - friends above all else - who were umpteen generations horse farmers in the area. (RIP Patsy Topping, a legend in the horse eventing world, 1946-2022. I miss her dearly.) A temporary situation. Me, Moose the labrador and my closest friend ever (also RIP,) and Harry and Lily the cats. Over Christmas. Camping.

As the feast approached, I was not really in a festive spirit. I could not replicate the decorations of decades that my family had insisted upon, but I wanted to do something. And so, I cut a light branch from a bush in the garden, sprayed it, and hung some colour, placing wrapped gifts around it. And it made me happy. In fact, after the second – or was it third - glass of Bordeaux it pleased me even more. And it became my “Christmas Branch.” Tradition was established.

Since those simple days I have, most years, yet not all for reasons known to some but not all, taken a sprig and made a decoration. With varying degrees of attractiveness. The final product is less to do with aesthetics than the simple pleasure of making something. And brightening a home. So perhaps it is beautiful in its own way. And given the world-changing announcement of Christmas – it suggests humble glory on a most unisaianic way.

What's in a word?

 

A Christmas (lack of) Air

 

If I have a pet Christmas peeve (actually I have a few) it is the popularity of those inflatable figures that appear on people's front lawns in December. Often before. I'll get onto their irrelevance in a moment, but begin by expressing dislike at how they appear during the day. Deflated, disconnected from their powered air fans, they sprawl across the ground like indecorous disneyfied drunks awaiting their handlers to return and throw a switch. And so, for the many hours of daylight, they inject a colourful ugliness into the streets and (even) fields at this beautiful time of the year. Surely there are better ways to adorn any holy day or season one chooses to celebrate?

And ugliness begets irrevelance. If only there was some approximation to the Christmas story. But no. Instead we have air-filled waving gingerbread men (persons - they are androgenous.) Grinches in Santa Claus costumes - the 1957 creation of one Dr Seuss. A gin officianado - nothing wrong with that - who incidently supported the internment of Japanese Americans during WW2. Snowmen (again, gender-free.) In southern climes? Really?  And nutcracker soldiers. In 1892 did Tchaikovsky realise what he was doing? It is a remarkable ballet and score but just because it was set on Christmas Eve is no excuse for future Chinese-manufactured lawn blimps. 

Today's peeve declared. I trust your Advents and preparations are going beautifully.

A Commonplace Second Sunday.

My blogging in the past has been, wherever possible, quite focused. Personal memories (Above the Bow Brook 2014-18,) historical church visits (Church Tramp 2014-17,) and, most importantly, food (Notes from the Rectory Kitchen 2016-19.)  As I sit here, glass of sherry to hand, and copious scribbled notes on lined yellow pages, I think: This relaunched blog - a "combo" to use that ghastly American term - is quite disjointed. And I think, from now on, it will be delibrrately so. After all - isn't that the definition of s "Commonplace Column?" Time and readership will tell.

So, on this, the Second Sunday on my favourite season of Advent, I offer a few disconnected thoughts and observations.

In church this morning, during a sermon that really ought not to have been preached, I found myself counting the people who were not there. A residual hangover from my parish ministry when, usually during the first and second lessons, I would do just that. 

A bottle of fine port wine was left on my doorstep. As one was this time last year and the one before that. A simple unsigned tag. "To Tm." A gratefully received mystery. Who on earth...?

I spend time this afternoon "retiring" those annual potted plants that were ready for the compost. I had four pots containing short, stubby hydrangea cuttings that I had diped in rooting compound. Surely it wouldn't work. But it did. All four were growing roots. Wherever I move next (let the reader understand) may have hydrangeas!

And this, dear reader, is what is meant by a commmonplace blog.And meanwhile the lamb shanks are nearly ready.

Above the Bow Brook enters the Kitchen

 

“Two into one won’t go.” And whoever coined that phrase (wasn’t it a song?) may have been right. The new title of this commonplace column is an attempt to say otherwise, but it may require a bit of explanation for those who don’t recall a ling lost blog of mine. “Notes from the Rectory Kitchen” which roasted, grilled, sauteed and burped along for a few years in the late teens of this century but fell into the kitchen sink somewhere between the pantry and the ridiculous spice rack.

 

It was a fun project to begin with. I was a parish priest in a delightful episcopal church (a rector, to use the imperious title) on the East End of Long Island, New York (“The Hamptons”) with a passion for cooking and all subjects associated with food and where it came from. What better and more entertaining way to share my enthusiasm than a blog. (I’d thought about a column in the parish newsletter, but my meagre common sense told me not to.)

 

I began on Facebook but expanded into a WordPress blog as I learned more and more about editing that sort of thing. Recipes, experiences, ideas, successes, failures (quite a few,) and even an occasional history of dishes. (I never wrote restaurant reviews. Trying that in the Hamptons is to invite death threats.) A few hours here, a few hours there, and it was a rather enjoyable diversion from the weightier things of parish life.

 

Then it accelerated. It may have been something to do with a local radio interview, or a column in a local rag (that’s a British term for local newspaper, by the way,) but in the summer of 2018 things started getting a bit silly. Daily emails, texts, even written notes sent, started to get just a bit overwhelming. All were positive. Well, nearly all. The debate over the best way to roast fresh corn did get slightly ugly at one point, and I was most upset by remarks about my grandmother’s fruit loaf recipe,) but it was all generally supportive and interesting. The problem was that it had all become too much. One Monday morning – my day off, whatever that meant – it dawned on me that I was spending much more time answering cooking correspondence than parish emails and letters. And so that very day I pulled the plug. The blog, not the kitchen sink. No more.

 

There was a gentle sense of hrumph (how is that spelt?) in various circles, but my personal health challenges and my departure from that wonderful parish and community poured water on it.  And like the thing that sits at the back of the fridge forever and a day, it quietly moulded away.

 

Now, years later and in a different place, I will bring it back. Gently. Occasionally. Let’s see. As part of my blog “Above the Bow Brook,” a commonplace column that has waned and waxed for years. I beg your indulgence – for my writing, my ideas, my food, my life. And yes, please respond. Write by whatever means you choose. Emails are welcomed. Texts are wonderful. Letters are gratefully received. Carrier pigeons are marinaded in garlic and gentle sauteed. But one word against my grandmother’s fruit cake and …