I'm so glad Christmas is nearly here.
I'm not that keen on it anymore, really, but at least it means that
the Run-Up To Christmas is nearly over.
I'm not sure when I first became the
bah-humbuggy sort of person that I am now. I'm also not sure whether
my dislike of the season has grown as I've changed, or as the world
has changed.
Was this season always this frantic,
this febrile? I don't think so.
I need to make something clear: I've
got no problem with December being party-time. It's dark and
miserable this time of year, and people need perking up. But it's the
paradoxical deification of Christmas that I can't stand. The eager
count-downs (“it's only 10 more sleeps till Christmas!”
proclaims the DJ), the ludicrously po-faced perfume adverts, the
incessant sleigh-bell backing added to anything that moves, the fake
snow, the canned carols. From the juggernaut-like build-up an alien
might presume it was God's bodily return we were expecting on the
25th. The Advent irony of this doesn't really need
spelling out.
It all seems rather like a sort of
giant opposite-of-a-pearl: layer upon layer of irritants accreting
around an infinitesimal scrap of beauty.
Ah, the carols. Maybe that's where this
all gets personal for me.
When I was a boy I sang in a church
choir. Once, I was the lone voice
singing the first verse of 'Once in Royal' into a dark, waiting,
silence. After my voice broke I learned the tenor parts, and sung all
the favourites so many times that I still know most of these off by
heart.
So perhaps it's familiarity breeding
contempt. That's certainly part of it. It doesn't help that some of
the most popular carols are stuffed full of sentimental imagery and
annoying moralising directed at hapless Victorian children.
But that's not all of it.
I enjoyed singing those carols in the
church choir too. To feel – to be – part of something that had
being going on long before I came along; calm, secure, enveloping,
and full of story. Suggesting beauty, order, hope.
I mustn't sugar-coat the past. My
childhood, like all childhoods, had its share of anxiety and pain.
And my adolescence was messed up by stress and ill-health. But there
was definitely hope. Hope that was never defined, articulated,
questioned, or even acknowledged. Hope that underlying everything
there was a Reason.
And now, here I am, forty-odd years
later. Our society seems frantic in its attempts to conjure, ex
nihilo, a sentimental spirit of Christmas past, decked in carols
from a religion almost nobody believes, set in a landscape of snow
and sleigh-rides that we seem unlikely to see again (unless the gulf
stream switches off, in which case we may end up with more snow than
we'd like). While I look on, feeling superior in my cynicism.
It strikes me that sentimentalism and
cynicism are opposing but equal errors: they are both things that
happen to hope when it decays.
(Fruit left too long can sometimes go
soft: the delicious sweetness can turn into collapsing mush. Or
sometimes fruit can go hard, especially if it stays on the tree: its
living flesh turns to withered, shrunken, woodenness.)
So we're all in the same boat really: I
certainly have no reason to feel superior.
This is where I have to make a choice.
A blind step in the darkness, one way or another
This is what I chose. I know the
unbelievers among you will easily be able to knock logical holes in
it – so can I. But I choose it nonetheless...
The funny thing is that, when I think
of the hope I had, it feels so real. Real enough to touch, to smell,
to embrace. More real, I think, than when (I believe) I was 'in' it
at the time. And I realise that grief for hope lost is a sign that
not all is shrunken hardness, but that there is still life, hidden
inside.
Or as Rumi, the Sufi mystic, puts it:
"Why did you stop praising?"
"Because I've never heard
anything back."
"This longing
you express is
the return message"
The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.
[1]
What about the world around me – this
ceaseless slush of sentimentalism? It's no answer to blame it all on
commercial interests: they just reflect back, amplified, what people
want. If no-one wanted endless sleigh-bells (including on Tesco
self-service checkouts – quelle horreur! ) we wouldn't get
them. But why does the Run-Up seem to be growing in intensity as the
years pass? I suggest a parallel: the increasing doses a heroin
addict needs to try to achieve the feeling of the first hit; as CS
Lewis puts it, 'an ever-increasing craving for an ever diminishing
pleasure'[2].
But the memory of that original
pleasure – that scrap of beauty at the middle of the anti-pearl –
must still be there at the middle. If it wasn't, all the flim-flam
wouldn't have anything to work on.
As Matt Haig says in an excellent
Guardian article [3]
'Christmas can get to us, sure. But
it can also help us. If we edit out all the noise, we can close our
eyes and remember a time when we believed in magic and miracles...
...I realise now that, growing
older, we can uncover magic as often as we leave it behind.'
I think, too, of people who decorate
their houses and gardens with lights for Christmas. Strings of LEDs
everywhere, inflatable santas, twinkling electric icicles, glowing
reindeer on the lawn. Time, effort, and money spent on something that
I, snobbishly, think is tacky. But I choose to see every sparkly,
lit-up home as a creative act, not made for profit, nor for climbing
up a greasy pole of ambition, but out of enthusiasm, a sense of fun,
and love.
Happy Christmas!