I hope everybody had a good Christmas. I sure did. England seems to have invented much of what we think of as Christmas tradition (apart from all the religious stuff-- the year one and all that) and they tend to do it extremely well. A lifetime's viewing of Masterpiece Theatre adaptations of Dickens still doesn't prepare you for seeing it all unfold before your eyes. In a way, it just makes it weirder. (This is true even in non-Christmas contexts, e.g., the toothless drunken slattern sitting in the alley cackling madly and calling you "luv" is one hallmark of TV period drama that is still very present in the streets of modern London.)
The village church is situated next to my girlfriends' parents house. This is not quite as unusual as it sounds. In fact, it would not be much of an exaggeration to say that most people in Norfolk have a medieval church next door. Outside of Norwich itself (which famously has a church for every day of the year-- each with a corresponding pub, as the saying goes) there are nearly seven hundred in the Norfolk countryside. Nonetheless, I'm particularly fond of "our" St. Andrew's Church, with its round Saxon tower and the jagged, pebbly silhouette which looks spectacular from any distance against the enormous Norfolk sky.
I've been spending Christmas here for the last five years or so, but this is the first time since I started invading their space that the family has managed to rouse itself in time to stumble through the unkempt graveyard and attend the morning Christmas service. I'm Catholic, so the Church of England ceremony was itself a novelty. The similarities to the American Catholic mass I'm used to were, as it happened, far more striking than the differences. The liturgy was almost identical, with slightly different translations from the Latin, and the (to me) whimsical difference that the priest is referred to as "the president." Memories of countless childhood Sundays were also evoked by the organist's hit-or-miss technique, in which haphazard stray notes created inadvertently "modern"-sounding chords, bringing new life to old hymns.
Yet in spite of the familiarity, I have to say that it was the least "religious" religious ceremony I've ever attended. There was tremendous warmth and goodwill in the congregation, and everyone seemed to enjoy the singing, diminished 6ths and all. But the atmosphere of the brightly-lit church and the prosaic tone of the proceedings seemed designed to de-emphasize the drama, the dark and solemn mystery, the Romanticism, if you like, of Christianity, in favor of bland, good-natured, cheer. Even the sermon, notwithstanding a superficial tie-in to the Gospel story of the nativity, was primarily about the Queen and her new, controversial portrait. The "president" even went so far as to hold up a copy of the Times which depicted this portrait in order to illustrate the fact that some have said it made Her Majesty look as though she had a beard. Yes, it is mysterious in a way, but that's not the sort of mystery I mean.
I suppose the English are as "reserved" about their faith as they are about everything else. And as with everything else, perhaps, it's necessary to read "between the lines" a bit. Entire conversations and even bitter arguments between Englishmen can sometimes consist entirely of a provocative raised eyebrow (thesis); a defensive furrowed brow (anti-thesis); and finally a fatalistic resolution, wherein both parties sigh and say "oh, right." Americans are used to verbalizing everything that pops into our heads (which is unfortunate in a sense, since as well as being the among the most demonstrative of all nations we're also the least articulate); we find it easier to read an authentic, emotive grunt cum confessional than to discern the subtle, abstruse meaning behind a well-timed ironic cough. In other words, an American in England usually has no earthly idea what's going on. It's okay. You just have to get used to it.
I was thinking about this as I listened to the organist-lector (I'm not sure if he's the 'vice-president") calling with bland solicitude on the congregation to pray for the Queen ("our gracious Monarch") and for the army in Afghanistan. Similar, if not identical, prayers were called for, and answered, a little more than a century ago, I'm sure. And similar, if less identical, calls and responses had echoed through this little stone building for close to a thousand years. Even if this century is not a great age of faith for Britons, the very fact of standing in reverence amid the ruins of an earlier age of faith has its measure of spiritual weight. "Stone has a turn for speech," as the poet F.A. Fanshaw observed. As with so many things British, you can miss the meaning if you don't know how to listen for it.
But if religiosity was a bit thin on the ground on Christmas, 2001, there was no shortage of quaint custom and tradition, ancient and modern: flaming Christmas pudding, funny hats, boughs-of-holly-decked halls evoking yesteryear, along with the Trivial Pursuit and television togetherness of the modern age. (The new Only Fools and Horses reunion had everybody in stitches.) Lots of food, unapologetic drinking (one of Britain's great humanistic traditions), presents, and a good deal of humor. Another good one.
Posted by Dr. Frank at December 27, 2001 12:19 AM | TrackBack