My Advent vinousness

Some simpering bishops are urging their clergy to make sure that carol services do not interfere with the ship of football. That leads to an obvious conclusion: Christmas is too important to be left to the Church of England.

The vulgarities of commercialisation are distressing, but survivable. Last year, one friend became fed up with his brats’ lust for presents and upbraided them: ‘If this goes on, you’ll be given nothing but bibles and prayer books.’ He remembered his father saying the same to him. No doubt his grandparents delivered similar thunderbolts in their day.

Thus life rolls on. Even amid the transfiguring and transcending grandeur of the Christmas message, when a manger in Bethlehem becomes the still point in the turning world for all eternity, there is an enchantment in the littlies’ delight in their stockings. It is possible to move onwards and upwards, from Christmas cake and a glass of port for Santa Claus, to the wafer and the wine of redemption.

Those of us who revere the spectacle yet cannot succumb to its truth – let alone to the bland wokeish banalities offered by half the C of E’s hierarchy – find ourselves on the outside. The most powerful meaning which the human condition can offer remains ultimately meaningless to us. We reread Eliot’s ‘Journey of the Magi’ and come close to sharing the bleakness of the cold coming: thus a stoic could be consoled when deprived of faith. But no: this is a season of joy. Even if we cannot accept the Gospel, we ought to respect its glories. Although we may not believe that the fire is divine, we can still warm ourselves at its flames. Even I have been known to take part in an open-to-all Messiah, expressing my reverence by contributing a very low volume.

Down in Dorset, where the Garden of Eden planted new roots after the expulsion of Adam and Eve, they are not bothered about volume.