I detest the run up to Christmas. I loathe the rampant consumerism – the tidal wave of glittery plastic trash that invades the shops from November onwards, the schmaltzy Christmas songs playing on an endless loop in supermarkets, the B list celebs appearing on television in silly Santa hats. My “bah humbug!” grouchiness develops apace as Christmas Day approaches.
But then, almost invariably, something happens to transform my mood.
That something is like the silence in the eye of the storm, the stillness and anticipation as we wait for the spine-tingling moment when a single boy chorister’s voice lifts to the first verse of “Once in Royal David’s City” in Kings College Chapel on Christmas Eve. Suddenly the feeling of drowning under a sea of seasonal tat disappears, and a sense of something more joyous and magic takes its place.
I was very young when I first experienced this sudden touch of magic ahead of Christmas Day, and it had nothing to do with Santa Claus or reindeer. It was owing to one of my mother’s periodic fits of enthusiasm for a particular cause or ideology, which at this time had led her to convert to Catholicism. (Later in life she announced out of the blue that she had become a follower of Mao Tse Tsung.)
Midnight Mass in Westminster Cathedral
She insisted on dragging an extremely grumpy and unwilling teenage daughter to midnight mass in Westminster Cathedral, that most extraordinary testament to awe-inspiring glitter and kitsch.
Late night transport in the city was, in those days, virtually non-existent, so we faced a long walk home to north London after the service. The streets were almost entirely deserted, and in a usually noisy and crowded metropolis that sense of an enormous community holding its breath before the advent of Christmas morning was extraordinary.
As we passed Regents Park, the silence was suddenly broken by a single voice joyously belting out “Ding Dong Merrily on High”, and there he was, a slightly drunken figure leaning against the park railings, having the time of his life singing a carol to the night sky.
Ever since then I have loved carols, and in spite of a less-than-tuneful voice, have loved singing them. December in Sussex offers numerous opportunities, both sacred and profane, to indulge my passion. A local pub opens briefly at lunchtime on Christmas Day for a carol singing event where everyone can belt out their favourites at top volume before going home to enjoy a festive feast. Village churches are swathed in holly and greenery, and people who would never usually attend church pack the aisles for Christingle and carol services.
The magic of the Christmas service
I admit to being one of them. The magic of the Christmas service still draws me in, that powerful sense of being surrounded by a community that has come together to celebrate, however briefly, and in their different ways, the birth of a child, the light at end of a long dark season, a belief in something beyond themselves. Singing together in celebration is something that communities have done since the birth of humanity.
This year I went with the family to a candle-lit service in the little historic church of St Mary’s, Barcombe. My two granddaughters, Sylvie, five, and Lauris, eight, have inherited a love of carols, and were excited by the promise of adventure – going to the church in the dark down a long country lane.
They were also, of course, looking forward to the promise of cakes and mince pies at the end of the service.
Christmas started to work its magic at the first sight of the church, standing on its own surrounded by fields, with light streaming through the stained-glass windows – and then, as we entered, the scent of candles and the resin of the pine branches and greenery that swathed the stone columns of the aisles. (And, of course, the delicious smell of hot mince pies.)
Rather than a reverent hush, the crowded church was full of the loud chatter of conversation as people who had probably not spoken to one another all year turned in the pews to talk.
And then the carols began…. lights were dimmed, and only candlelight illuminated the nave and the congregation as we sang “While Shepherds Watched their Flocks By Night”. The girls were entranced.
To my surprise five-year old Sylvie also listened spellbound to the rector’s sermon, which rather surprisingly included a showing of the latest John Lewis Christmas advertisement. Unfortunately, she was focusing so much on the pulpit that she forgot she was holding a lighted candle, which started to lean dangerously close to the woman sitting next to her in the pew. Luckily disaster was averted in time with a very good-natured chuckle from Sylvie’s neighbour.
And nobody “tutted” as a couple of toddlers wandered down the aisle in the middle of the service, nobody turned in their seats to glare disapprovingly at a member of the congregation who was loudly expressing their enjoyment – just for that magic moment, there was a sense of togetherness, peace and happiness as we raised our voices – tuneful and otherwise, but who cares? – in song.
And just for a second in time it seemed possible that singing could change the world.
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