Occasional Scribbles

Two years ago.

Beckoning Softly

By

Scribble

Christmas Carol Service.

Arrived at church after hearing the bells & suddenly realising it was the Carol service!  The church looked gorgeous across the garden, a bright light in the darkness on a crunchy, frozen night. The beam from the torch shone down onto a million little diamonds in the glittering hard frost.

As we opened the heavy door, C, the Church Warden, met us warmly and offered a rather large mug of mulled wine and a mince pie, confessing ruefully, neither were home made!  After introducing us to the vicar taking the service, she suddenly asked, would I do a reading!? Surprised, I said I didn’t think so, not me! But I asked her which it was?  She handed me a sheet of verse from St Luke. “All that”! I exclaimed”!

Leaving it there, we took our seats on the very back pew which the vicar joked were for people that liked hiding at the back and we shuffled along guiltily. As the service got under way, I read through the reading wondering if I could screw up my courage? I’d never done *any* public speaking, ever. I peered at the ‘congregation’, all of about twenty people. I didn’t know any, other than C and I don’t know her very well.

The Service began and I realised I was going to have to do this. It would be shameful not to. I began to worry about where I had to stand, the walk up the aisle seemed a long way and I hoped I wouldn’t trip over myself. The service was alternately carols and lessons until all too soon, the carol was ending and I felt D nudge me in my ribs as if I might miss my place! I was up for the fourth reading. I’d listened as the three others had read their parts. C first, confidently, then a young man, a little hurriedly and then a mother who came with her young family of three, quite nonchalantly, it seemed to me.

I thought as I’d sung through the carols; I’d been taken by surprise, hadn’t even planned to attend the service. Perhaps no warning was better than agreeing to it weeks before and having time to fret! I’d not even really agreed to read. But having the sheet in my hand appeared to be taken as a given.

“You’ve got such a lovely voice..” C had said. Charmer!

And so there I was, singing the last few lines of ‘Away in a manger’ about to have to walk past all the 20 something people. Hoping my voice held up after singing with joy the carols so familiar to me from past Christmas services, the only services, I’d willingly attended down the years.

The form was to walk up to the end of the pews, then turn around and face the congregation. No hiding behind a lectern protected by a huge ancient Bible. I was anxious my hands would shake, thus revealing my nerves. In fact, it was my trousers shaking against my legs that I couldn’t control, and was briefly aware that the vicar, right behind me must notice. I’d gone a bit far trying to get away from the expectant people and was now pretty nearly in the choir stalls!

And then I began.  I told the story of the shepherds minding their flocks and being told that a baby, the Messiah, the Lord, had been born. I read of the fear of this news and then the reassurance that He was the Saviour, the shepherds must go to Bethlehem to see this miracle of birth. See the baby, where there was no room at the Inn and hear the words that our Lord was born of Mary and lay in swaddling clothes, in a manger. And I told that the shepherds must go forth & tell everyone that the Lord our Saviour, the Messiah was born.

And as my trousers shook against my legs, I read the powerful words. The last few lines came and suddenly I was back in my pew, hiding at the very back of the church, finished.  I’d done it.

We sang ‘while shepherds washed their socks by night’ as we neared the end of the service.

Then afterwards, the vicar said there would be no sermon at the carol service but…And he went on to deliver an extraordinary one. He talked of the “unbelievable story of a baby born to a virgin”, of the Christian message and its “obvious untruths” but that despite this, still we had come that night and he asked, what brought us here? Was it the carols we all enjoy, the convivial feeling of joining with each other at Christmas. The mulled wine even! Why were we there?

And I thought, if you ask me, I know exactly why I came. It was the light in the darkness that drew me to the little ancient church at the edge of my garden. Much loved by us and a place to go all year round, little used, my own sanctuary. The familiar ever present damp smell, even in summer. And when the sun shines through the old windows, dust motes land on it’s ancient pews of skilful medieval carving, so worn by those that have come before me, that much of the pew ends have worn away. Carved figures with no heads, those from another ancient time, and the curved half moon dip on the ledge as so many boots & shoes have passed over into the pews. How long it’s taken to wear so.

It’s not a fancy church but it has the charm as so many tiny parish churches do, all across the English countryside.There are but eight houses in the vicinity and three such churches all within walking distance of each other across the huge fields. This then, like the other two, serves a tiny irregular congregation, the smallest by far of the three. And it has six bells that are rung by a crew of bell ringers drawn to this, and as time immemorial, it was this ancient English scene that had called to me, this very evening.  The beckoning red lights of heaters strung all along the vaulted roof like bright Christmas baubles, trying in vain to get the cavernous place warm for this special service on this freezing night drew us in. 

But perhaps too, it was the story I’d heard about our little English churches being desecrated by thugs, cutting off the heads of the Nativity figures and leaving mayhem behind. And that, for the first time ever, the census reveals numbers of those citing any religious belief has fallen to 48%. And who knows how many are Christians? It is the fear that as we now believe there is no greater power over us, that Man, is now above all, so too has our behaviour spiralled downwards, getting closer to the depths of Hell whether we realise it or not. 

And above all, it was the feint mournful call of an ancient power who’s light still glows but far less brightly in all its 2000 years.

That’s why I came. 

And I’m glad I did. The vicar thanked the volunteers for reading and those “bamboozled into reading”, and even kindly praised me for reading so well and as I handed back the lesson sheet, C took it and looking hopefully at me said, “and again next year!?” 

But who knows what next year may bring?

End.