It’s not actually Christmas of course (but then not many people outside of church circles look forward to that “Advent feeling” every year). Not that it matters that much: we Christians embrace Advent as the magical period of waiting and watching, with the inevitable conclusion being the commemoration of the birth of the baby we regard as the Messiah.
It may not have been this time of year; it was more likely a cave than a stable; and some believers argue that it was Nazareth rather than Bethlehem. Whatever. I’m convinced that it happened (and yes, I’ve read all of the counter-arguments) and I’ve also become convinced as a priest that the most extraordinary things happen each Christmas season. That might be due to a rare collective goodwill, the product of holiday euphoria, family gatherings, giving and getting, and reruns of It’s A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol. But I feel there’s something more, and I say this not as some naive dreamer but as someone who has covered brutal wars and unforgiving sectarian violence. In other words, I’m not easily duped.
Jackie died in Hamilton on Christmas Eve in 2022. Her death had been expected and I was privileged to take her communion shortly before she passed, the last time she received it. I wasn’t there when she died but arrived shortly afterwards and prayed over her and with her husband, George. But there’s more. Jackie and her husband of 55 years didn’t have any children, there was little immediate family, and their friends had almost all pre-deceased them. This happens a lot with older people and the consequent loneliness is one of society’s unacknowledged terrors. When I left George mid-evening, I promised I’d call him, and gave him my direct number.
I telephoned him the next day, Christmas Day, to see how he was. There was happy noise in the background. The church knew of what had happened and in the space of a few hours had organized a schedule of visits, where groups of people, some of them teenagers, would visit with food and drink and throw miniature parties in honour of Jackie. And in honour of Christmas. All 12 days of Christmas were covered and, as one of the leaders said to me, “by that time we’ll all be good friends and there won’t be any need for a diary.” They took care of the “sadmin” (what we call the endless paperwork after a death) and made sure George was never without someone to speak to. The pain would never pass of course, and loss is a long-term process, but this was priceless.
My dad, Phil Coren, was Jewish and while secular and even cynical, as a working-class Englishman he had respect for the Church of England. I think he saw it as representing the stability and Englishness that had allowed his family to settle in safety after the 1890s pogroms of Ukraine and Russia.
One night shortly before Christmas a local church choir had come to do our house to sing carols. Our front room with the television was close to the front door and we heard them sing, stop, and then discuss the mezuzah on the doorframe. That’s the small, decorative container of Torah verses that many Jewish people — even someone like my father — attach to doorframes. The choir members had noticed and thought it might be rude to continue with Christian songs. They left. Dad ran outside, asked them to continue, and pushed money into their tin. By the time they’d finished everybody, my tough, doubting father included, was in tears.
Ebenezer Scrooge of A Christmas Carol is one of the greatest Christmas characters ever created, yet Charles Dickens was no Christian. Not all of his views were progressive but he did empathize with the poor and destitute and had seen the obscene clash between untold wealth and biting poverty. He also understood how people could change, and in Scroodge we have the apotheosis of transformation. A story, a fantasy?
In 1985 I was at Midnight Mass in a church in east London, England. It wasn’t my regular place of worship so didn’t know anybody. But one man did seem familiar. I approached him as we were leaving, as the first moments of Christmas Day bathed us in a joy that’s almost impossible to describe. I asked if we were at school together. “No”, he said, “but you might recognize me from the newspapers. I have to be honest, I led a fascist gang in the 70s and was sent to prison.” Then it all floated back. Yes, yes, the racist bastard who was notorious for trying to politicize soccer hooligans. Taken aback, even confused, I asked what he was doing at 12:30 a.m. at mass. He told me he did eight months in prison and it was hell. At first, he became angrier and more political than ever. But then, he said, everything changed on Christmas — nothing supernatural, he just knew. He had spent the previous decade trying to make things right.
Then he paused. “I suppose I’m a bit like Scrooge.” Yes, I suppose he was.
Have a merry and and blessed holiday. If it’s religious, do pray for me. If it’s not, do toast me. Whatever it is, love others, be kind, and be safe.
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