I find Christmas more enjoyable, whatever its shape, whoever I'm with, however the food turns out, if it's accompanied by Handel's Messiah. It's often sung at this time of year because of its distillation of the Christmas story into quotations from the bible, the first part focusing on Unto us a child is born.
I listened to the first section yesterday as I ran round the Quarry Park in Shrewsbury for my 80th parkrun, sporting my Santa hat. I was somewhere behind Mr Yule Log, and amid 700 or so other Santas, Elves, Christmas Trees and even, I think, a Christmas Pudding.
Here's a photo I snapped at the start. See if you can spot Mr Yule Log - he's well-camouflaged against the tress.
And here's the first photo I've ever taken while running up hill and not wearing glasses. The first few hundred runners are a blur in front of me, cresting the hill underneath St Chad's church.
As I ran, I listened to the words of the Messiah. Comfort ye my people, all flesh shall see it together, yet once a little while, but who may abide the day of his coming, and shall call his name Emmanuel, lift up thy voice with strength, be not afraid ... and later ... why do the nations so furiously rage together?
I love the poetry and cadence. I love the way that human experience is present and ancient in the texts. Yet once, a little while. It's so beautiful: rhythm, harmony, melody.
This work of Handel's has survived its own popularity. This is song that can be sung in any season, even this one with its ugly-beautiful mix of religion, commerce, greed, altruism, cynicism, hope, loneliness and partying. I do not experience this work as a sermon, but as a poem. Similarly, parkrun with its accommodation of logs, fast runners, walkers, dogs, puddings and all - I don't experience it as a race, but as a temporary community with volunteer marshals encouraging us on every step of the way.
Christmas. It's a whole mix of things, and we've not failed if it's not merry, bright, happy or joyful. We can't buy our way out of the human condition, but maybe we can sing it, maybe we can write about it. This is not a message from on high, but one from on low, from our daily experiences which includes grief and loss, hunger and cold, as well as birth and mysterious gifts.
I think that's what I'm trying to say in this poem, which I'm grateful to Ink, Sweat and Tears for publishing today.
28th July, 2021
Mist blankets the beach, blending
the horizon to something of a mystery.
The air whitens to peace,
the sun, our star, glows a yellow lamp-bulb.
Gulls call the sad, glad news,
trace holy ghosts in simple pilgrimages
above the seal-grey sea, calling
holy, holy, holy are the days.
We've brought gifts from the Christmas
none of us could spend together,
sit to open them on sand warm enough
for a camel's footprint.
Later, there'll be room at the inn.
Twelve will sit at the next table, and we'll witness
a father reach to take his silent daughter's hand.
We'll eat together at last, drink water, drink wine.
