God on a Summer Evening
As a child I would walk up the street in the snow at half-past eleven at night scouring the rooves for evidence of Santa Claus and his sleigh. This was on the way to Midnight Mass; a massively exciting event for a Catholic child allowed to stay up late on Christmas Eve. As the years went on I passed through the choir, became and grew out of being an altar boy and, as an adult, become God’s Bouncer. As Midnight Mass started with a carol concert at 11.30 pm, the Sacred Heart church in Tunstall often attracted drunks recently ejected from the pubs. My job was to distinguish genuine religious desire from maudling boozy tosh. Many a time, may God forgive me, I sent drunks down the road to the Methodists – who, I hasten to add, had no Midnight Mass.
After my father died Christmas became an intensely sad time and now, frankly, I dislike it. As a step-father I get to see it through children’s eyes and it does make sense. But it isn’t (what is?) what it was.
All our normal aesthetic sensibilities are put on hold at Christmas. Red and green (which should never be seen together) are forced together like reluctant admin staff under the office mistletoe. The music is ghastly. Bells should be rung on a sunny afternoon not jingled in the dark and anyone who has lived in England would take issue with ‘Let it snow/let it snow/Let it snow’. The Greedfest depresses the poor and just encourages the rich. There is often less Christ at Christmas.
I know I sound like Scrooge but I feel closer to God on a summer evening or on a spring hike. Even between the leaves of a book of poems next to a pint of Guinness. I find Christmas something to be endured. It’s cold.
