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!”