The True Meaning of Christmas

As a former retailer, I long grieved the loss of Christmas! I have always been a Christian, but retailing in England is not always a positive experience. Yes, we hear much about how retailers fail their customers, but I can also add much in the way of balance when I recall some of the abuses I suffered at the 'hands' of those who considered that spending sixty quid in my flooring emporium earned them the right to be abusive! Christmas was something of a bottle-neck in this trend, with those busy in their preparations lost in an internal mire of stress and pressure! We need only look at the faces of shoppers in the run up to the Big Day (from about August onwards), and you will not see much joy, I can tell you. In my former life, the big issue was 'I need to have that carpet in the spare room before Christmas, or life as we know it will surely end'. Why, because the third-cousin-twice-removed was going to stay over, unwillingly, for the night. Please believe me, lovely Christmas reader, that if that carpet did not (or could not) get stapled to the floor boards in time for grumpy-drawers, my life would be rendered invalid. Oh, the names I have been called, all in the name of pre-Christmas preparation ...

Is my point made: do you get the idea?

I have just spent (most of) my first Christmas Eve as a Priest, and have had the pleasure of a number of chance encounters, and also the annual Crib Service. Inclement weather prevented Dandy the Donkey making his now regular appearance, which was a worry to me, given my daughters would surely have sobbed their hearts out once they were told!

Not a bit of it. We had a whole cohort of kids, all tea-towelled up for the Nativity Scene (for those of you resident in England who are unfamiliar with a Nativity Scene, ask me afterwards, as there are sure to be many of you in enlightened 21st Century Buckinghamshire). We had Angels, we had animals (two of which were ably acted out by my own little cherubs). We had Dolly Jesus, a bale of hay and carols. Perfect.

This is where the meaning of Christmas truly lays. The faces on the kids, the eagerness and pure innocent joy in their hearts, the rabble born of such joyous energy - all these things are signs of what a Christmas is all about. Christmas is a celebration of childhood, and a celebration of family. It is a new begininnig, a fulfilling of a promise long made. It is about the purest emotions that humans can experience, and they remain unfettered and undiluted in children. I wish with utter passion that I could have just a little of that unbridled joy back in my heart, but I rejoice that I am blessed sufficiently that I can see Christmas through the eyes of my daughters. Jessica sang 'Twinkle Twinkle little Star' all by herself in front of 200 strangers in the vast county church, and did it like it was a routine matter. She could barely lay her head on her pillow earlier tonight, not because of Santa (though he is eagerly expected), but because she had been a donkey for baby Jesus.

My daughter, two years old, has worked out the importance of Incarnation - and that makes her among one of the keenest pure theologians ever - if only she knew it.

Happy Christmas, and God Bless

Christmas Irony

I found myself with a BLT in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, watching Loose Women on the television. Savour that image, if you really want to ... [for those who may read this in another and distant land, I was not engaged in witnessing the pornographic arts; there is a daytime telly programme that really is called that. The wife watches it, not me]

Then an advert emerged, about fifth bite, which offered the hapless viewer the opportunity to sell their unwanted gold, mismatched or broken jewellery, for CASH, CASH CASH (kerching). These are surely the baubles that people have recieved as gifts from loved ones, items of finery bought for pleasure and with the anticipation of adornment. How quickly some pleasure fade, how easily some memories are eclipsed. Yes, there will be those in our community who will only eat when they had sold on their family heirlooms, and for them I pray earnestly in this present financial climate.

Let us not forget that we are about to celebrate the gift of Gold as given to our Lord as he lay in his manger. With his homeless refugee parents, unmarried and socially outcast by a birth out of wedlock, why do I think that the Blessed Virgin Mary would have sooner have cut off her own nose before selling the Wise Man's gift for CASH CASH CASH.

...just a thought.

Gustav Klimt

I was sitting in a hospital waiting room for much of the morning. It wasn't an especially nice waiting room, and I had sat and listened to at least two barnies as the disgruntled of North London bemoaned the extent of their wait in that rather dull room. But fear ye not, kind reader, because the NHS Trust concerned has spared almost no expense and furnished this place with soothing art.

This image is by some Bavarian bearded dauber by the name of Gustav Klimt. I attach this image to demonstrate in full terms what the version that I saw today didn't look like.

Surely, you have seen these nasty paper prints of pieces of art that adorn the walls of public spaces. They are normally old advertising posters for former exhibitions, and you would see the name of the painter (in this case 'GUSTAV KLIMT' [captalised, centralised, of course] with the locations of the exhibition in far smaller letters nestling beneath (New York ~ London ~ Shoeburyness). This print was in a frame that would have made the Mona Lisa seem dowdy, but here is the best bit. It has hung on that spot for longer than that wall had in fact been there; so long that the only colour that could be percieved was turquoise. The reds were darker turquoise and the golds and yellows lighter turquoise. Sunbleached almost nearly to death, this image was a mere shadow (albeit a turquoise shadow) of its former self. That it was arbitarily hung at an angle about eleven feet off the ground didnt help.

I pondered this image for some time. It was created, in its orginal form, with love and passion. It was meant to add to the world, and once it surely did. Good old Gus (with Bavarian beard) likely spent years perfecting this painting, and I was left with one rather alarming thought ...

...is this how the world sees the Church these days?

The first step

I am writing this, not because I particularly want to, but because I have a niggling sense that I ought to. I am not sure that I have anything to say, not of any value at any rate, and I am also not entirely confident that the bilge from my ruminations is worth paddling in.

If you are reading this, and you are not me, then you might be a little curious as to who I am. Well, I am David Cloake, resident of Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire (in England [optimistic hope of international readers]). I am an ordained priest in the Church of England, having been so for a few months now. I am married to a wonderful woman called Jo, known to me simply as 'Jo', and we have twin daughters, Jessica and Rebekah. I am sure that I will talk about them later, so will not test your patience here.

I refer to myself as the Vernacular Curate for the simple reason that I am a normal 'bloke'. When not affecting a Vicar Voice, I can have a mouth like a sewer, exuding the considered opinions from my overly cynical mind. I get annoyed more than I ought (and you will discover this soon enough), rant at a whim and I like a pint of Beer (beer, mind - not chemical yellow stuff in green bottles from a fridge, that is not beer).

Hobbies ... nah, no time, what with the kids and 'The Ministry' - (apply your own orchestral embellishment whenever I say 'The Ministry', then feel daft for doing so, as you will be the only one so doing). I used to Paraglide, play squash, sleep, have time for me, have time for prayer; all in the past and I will re-acquaint myself with them all in retirement.

So, I am religious. I will talk a lot about religious things. Why? Not sure really. I don't know who I am writing to, but the link will land on the Parish website, so the Curate ought to say some things that sound moderately religious. I believe in the God of the Trinity and am a follower of Jesus Christ. My leanings in terms of practice could be best described as catholic, ritualisitic, Sacramental, but with less fussiness of late (I think that I need more sleep to appreciate fussiness; now I just get moody about it). I have ceremonial OCD, so please put that chair back, and I like my music pre-Neanderthal (I do not own a Matt Redman album, but I can tell that you are impressed that I know the name).

Those of you who have never written a blog, and until ten minutes ago that included me, you might wonder why this feels decidedly odd. I am writing to a void at the moment. If you have got this far, then you might be willing to carry on with this with me. I will appreciate your company as we come to the Christmas of 2009 and the anticipation of a new calendar year. I will write periodically, not daily, as I have a life that needs me in it, but maybe I will work out a routine and something worthwhile in the meantime.

Peace and Blessings to you