Nick's Carol verse 2

He looked at the door.  Nothing.  The window, also nothing.  No noise.  For the umpteenth time that night, he started to breathe regularly again, lay back and looked at the ceiling.  Which wasn’t there.  What was there was dawn breaking over a forest of pine trees, gently dusted with frost.  His world shifted ninety degrees, as his prone position became the vertical, and the bedroom wall, with its walk-in cupboard, became now the horizontal axis of the world.  The bed covers were gone, and he found himself stepping out not into the cupboard, but onto frosty ground.  He turned, but was already pretty sure of what was behind him:  more trees, no bed.  He gave a sigh.  It wasn’t as though he were a stranger to strange things – anyone with a dozen reindeer which can hit 25,000mph, without combusting, has seen a thing or two.  But this was magic out of his control and not at his beck and call, which was the way he preferred life.  Plus it was on this most inconvenient of nights.  Most disturbingly, if this followed the traditional route, he was about to be confronted with something from his-

“Past!  Correct!” said an accented and abrupt, though annoyingly cheerful voice.

Twenty paces away at the edge of the nearest rank of pines stood a man swathed in dark robes with a floppy black beret affair on his head.  He was a little on the plump side, with slightly hooded eyes and a...well, a bit of a knobbly face really, if Nick were honest.

“Are you...” Nick began, took a deep breath to cover his increasing unease, and started again. “Are you the, ahem, Ghost of Christmas Past?”

“I don’t do ghosts.” Abrupt and forceful seemed to be his style.  “But this is the past.  Come on.” He turned on his heal and walked into the woods.  His accent was middle Europe somewhere, Nick was sure, and its lilt was familiar.

“Where are we?  When are we?”

“I have no idea what it’s called now.  It was Saxony once. Or later, rather.  Things change.”

They were crunching through the woods at a good pace, over frosted needles, the light staying bright and crisp even through the layers of branches.

“It’s very Chrismassy here,” said Nick, hopefully.

“This is Christmas past.  You’re here to see the True Meaning Of Christmas, what it is when all the fripperies are removed”.

“Oh like I haven’t heard that before.”  Cynicism and the weariness of the season got the better of any fear. “That’s all I ever hear, why bring me here to hear it again?”  Frosty fronds were poking his face and leaving sparkles in his beard, none of which helped his mood.  “Hang on, it’s not one of those confounded nativities, is it?  Done outdoors for realism and atmosphere?” He waved his hands and wriggled his fingers dramatically as he stomped along, warming to his theme. “Same thing every year – half an hour of Christmas-is-nearly-here, dancing snowflakes, crackers singing about presents and damn stupid reindeer falling down chimneys.  Then ‘Ooh, but what’s the T-MOC?’ And wham! Suddenly we’ve time-travelled to Bethlehem via some idiot magic fairy, and “Ooh a kid in a trough, now we know the T-MOC! It’s not about presents after all! Now we can gorge ourselves on cholesterol masquerading as food and empty the industrial output of the Far East into our lounges, all with a clear conscience!” And then back as quick as a flash to the dancing puddings.  Good thing too. Fat lot of use, except to try to make me feel guilty.”

The man stopped, turned and fixed Nick with piercing eyes.  “I like nativities.” This was delivered as a statement of fact universally to be accepted, not a preference. “And no we are not visiting a nativity”.  He turned and continued.  Nick followed slightly more subdued. He knew he could obliterate this man with one well-aimed belly-flop, but instinct warned him this would be a Bad Idea.  

Soon his attention was distracted from his mixed feelings of righteous indignation and impending doom, as through the trees he caught sight of some kind of building.  As they drew nearer it became apparent that a clearing had been formed in the woods, and on a small rise, a wooden structure had been erected.  Rough hewn wood, dark brown, formed a building big enough to provide stabling for maybe six of his own reindeer.  As they neared the fringe of the clearing it became apparent no reindeer were involved, but there were animals.

A crowd of people were forming – ordinary peasants by the look, but here and there someone grander, that is to say their robes were not so ragged and the glint of gold adornments could be seen.  Nick was unsure on specifics, but he knew this Past was a long way back; he couldn’t remember seeing people quite like this, although his memory did seem to be patchy these days.   None of the people seemed to be able to see Nick or the Guide, but this was hardly unexpected under the circumstances.  A handful of them were bringing animals with them, a few sheep and goats, a pig over there, and maybe that was a donkey coming through the trees.  A wooden building, people gathering with a look of happiness (well some of them), sheep?  Nick knew what this was;  apparently spectral Guides were not committed to the whole truth!

They walked to the front of the crowd forming at the foot of the mound.  Nick relaxed again, and looked up at the entrance of the stable, at the two joyful, grey-haired men in long robes who stood at the doorway.  The people around the mound were murmuring reverently, too quietly to pick up much of what they were saying, but one word he heard several times and he was pretty sure he knew what it was: Yule.  One of the robed men beckoned and, slowly, some of those with animals climbed the gentle rise to the entrance of the building using their staffs for support.  Ha!  Getting the shepherds into position.  Nick elbowed his guide gently in the ribs, which seemed rather physical for a ghost, “You had me going there!  Well I might as well enjoy it, nothing like the T-MOC!”

The first man and his sheep reached the threshold where the robed men stood.  They both looked up and smiled and, as they raised their arms to the sky, the crowd knelt.

“Devout lot,” said Nick, impressed.

“Oh yes,” the Guide replied, though he did not look as pleased about this as Nick had expected.  Nick turned back o the Stable in time to see the festival begin.  What he did not see was from where the priests pulled out their long, jagged knives, which they then used to simultaneously sweep along the sheep’s throat from each side.  Nick took a step back, eyes wide, “Whoa!  What kind of nativity is this?!”  Blood fountained from the struggling sheep, as the men made their best effort to catch the hot redness in a wooden bowl.

“I told you,” said the Guide, “this is not a nativity.”

“But you said this is Christmas past!  I never saw a Christmas like this!” Further comment was cut short as one of the men produced a small bunch of twigs, dipped them in the bowl of blood which was held over the twitching, prone form of the ex-sheep, and sprinkled it over the temple doorway, and then flicked large drops out across the crowd.  Nick was too shocked to react and some landed on him – it barely showed on the red of his suit, but the white fur trimming was dashed now with crimson.  Nick looked down with horror, and started to back through the crowd, to the fringe of the woods.  His Guide followed looking at the ground, his expression unreadable.  Nick turned on him in the safety of the trees.

“You are supposed to be the ghost – OK not-ghost,” he corrected himself as the Guide’s dark eyes were suddenly and fiercely upon him, “of Christmas past.  That’s not Christmas past.  That’s not Christmas ever!  What are you doing?”

“You know, for the man who is supposed to be the epitome of the Season, you seem to know as much about Christmas as a donkey knows about playing the harp.  Do you not remember this time?  How it was?  Have you forgotten, has it faded?  As the new decades slide into your soul, do the old ones gradually fall out the back?” 

The Guide walked into the woods, to a place where the light shone brightly through the branches creating a pool of white on the frosted ground.  It was clean and pure, and the sounds of thrashing animals became more distant

Nick continued, “My memory isn’t what it was, but I know a Christmas tableau when I see one, and that wasn’t it!  Sheep and shepherds, yes;  ‘Away in a Manger’, yes;  but not hey-ho and blood all over the shop!”

The Guide seemed to wince at the mention of ‘Away in a Manger’, but this swiftly passed and he gave Nick the explanation he needed. “This is Christmas past, Christmas before Christmas.  Christmas hasn’t happened yet.  It is yet to come,  But here, in the forests and villages of so called ‘civilisation’, they have their own ideas.  This is Mid-winter, Yule, or whatever you want to call it.  This is how it was in so many places before.”

“Oh, oh..yes.  Well....each to his own.  I mean, they look happy enough...” He was staring at the ground, and was completely unable to square his desperate attempt at spiritual tolerance with the trauma of the bloody-nativity scene.”

“You have forgotten, “ the Guide was nodding with certainty. “Oh, they looked cheerful.  Around the edges, if you didn’t look at their eyes.  This isn’t your twenty-first century cleaned-up paganism.  They looked like that because they are desperate – for victory, for good harvests, for the evil that lurks to be held back, for many things which in your Present are all assumed. So they bring what little they have and give it to the gods (and you should see what they bring in some places when they run out of sheep). Oh they may have a drink and a feast today.  But when the sun sinks, and the great darkness descends, and they remember winter has yet three months to blow, they will hope that the voices and the eyes in the darkness will leave them be.”

“Well, that’s not nice.  But why show me this?  This is millennia ago – Christmas has come!  This...fear of the darkness, this...running about trying to keep out the emptiness, it’s gone!  Christmas has come, I’ve come,” he said proudly, patting his belly, and giving a little extra jiggle bonus. 

“Oh yes, you’ve come.  But what have you done?  Even in my time, there was fear – fear of the dark, fear of the goblins and elves in the woods – “

“Hey, some of my best friends are elves!”

“Not your green confections.  These were the shadows that waited in the woods.  And Christmas came.  And we didn’t need to throw things at the darkness to keep it at bay, because it was defeated.  We didn’t hide in our man-made light to make us think there was hope, or a point, or to keep the fear at bay, because the Light had come.  We did not immerse ourselves in created things at all,” he gestured to the hubbub of ongoing bloodletting in the distance, “to give us strength, to distract us from the emptiness – because the emptiness was gone.  The Light had come and filled everything.”

“Oh I see!  I see where this is going,” Nick’s ire was rising at this snub, “You had to pull Back-to-the-Future to get in the usual cheap shot?  There are people all over the world who will wake on Christmas morning with joy, because it’s the best day of the year, because everything is light and warmth, because for twelve hours it will be OK.  Is that so bad?  Do you really begrudge them that?”

“No.  No, I don’t.”  He took a step nearer and looked him squarely in the eyes, “But is that all? Was it really the lights and the red clothes and the pretty parcels that stopped all that?” He pointed again to the wooden building in the distance.  “Is that all you can do?  Is that really all you’re for?”

“All? All?!  I bust my gut travelling the entire world in twenty four hours, and you ask is that all?!”

Nick turned in order to march off in righteous indignation.  Sadly he had not noticed how he had backed up close to the tree.  There was an almighty thwack and he reeled backwards and hit the ground hard and sat up in bed.

He was panting.  He was sweating.

It was his room and it had a ceiling across which reflections chased.  He lay back down, watching his huge belly push the blankets up and down with each heavy breath.  Gradually it slowed, which is more than could be said for his tumbling thoughts.   The time before.  That was something he had not thought much about in a long time.  In fact he did not think about it at all, not consciously.  Sometimes it was there, at the edge of his mind – but he pushed it away before it could take hold.  After all, what did it have to do with the way things are now?  As he thought this, he felt its presence far too close, like a howling dark vacuum before time began.  He was vaguely aware that in his mind he had reset the Beginning to much later than it really had been.  That was also a disturbing thought, and he pushed it away quickly, gratified to see the mound before him rising and falling more gently, more slowly, as his vital signs returned to normal.  Just in time for the clock to start striking twelve again...

Nick's Carol verse 1

To thee dear readers

(yes, to both of you)

This apology is sent,

For despite the haste in writing

This tale is carefully meant.

It must be done by Christmas

So was written at some speed

And so please forgive the edits

It desperately will need.

The Masked Badger aka Bernard Dweeb 

 

Nick sat on the edge of the bed, in the semi-darkness of his own special room.  The cushioning movement of the mattress was inviting but the creaking and sagging under his considerable weight was alarming, so he sat very still for a moment and just sighed.  This time of year he slept alone, and in all honesty on this particular night he was quite relieved at not having to talk.  He just wanted sleep, now and badly, and he could only afford a few hours before starting work again. 

It was tricky pushing off first one boot and then the other using only his feet, but there was no way he was going to risk bending down, for both his sake and the bed’s.  He had hung his coat on the bedpost, but was there any point in taking anything else off?  Not really: he would hardly be asleep long enough, and he’d be wearing these trousers for the next forty eight hours anyway, so a few hours in bed would make little difference.  They’d be fine, he thought, as he pivoted round, raised his legs onto the bed and flopped backwards.  The bed made a sound suggesting that, although it had been holding its breath at the sight of the approaching mass, it was now wheezing its last, accompanied by a sound similar to someone cutting a taut piano wire.  Nick lay still for a moment, but the bed, the floor, gravity and Newton, all seemed to be holding a truce, and he relaxed, staring dreamily at the shifting shadows on the ceiling.  Outside, the moonlight was sparkling on the ice, and inside the ceiling looked like a monochrome reflection of a babbling stream.  He watched the shimmering light, moving his eyes across the ceiling and down the wall, until the strobing disappeared behind the dark hillock of his own belly.  He gave it a quick jiggle, just to make sure he could, and shut his eyes.  A thrity-six hour shift in the workshop had taken its toll and although his eyes ached with the strain, and the noise of the nightshift just reached the edges of his perception, he was soon asleep.

And then he was awake. Suddenly, and he didn’t know why.  A noise, somewhere, or a song or maybe a word.  Something...

There it was again!  But no song; instead a shuffling, a dragging, and with it a tinkling, a clanking.  It was drawing closer, along the corridor towards his door.  No one should be out there at this time of night, not on this night!  Nick’s sleepy mind was suddenly back online.  The proximity of the bizarre sounds suggested that whatever was making it was now merely a few steps from his room. Where was security?  The Gate-Elves knew no one was allowed anywhere near this corridor, let alone his door.  But it transpired that the door was irrelevant, as first a hand, followed by its arm, a torso, and then the whole figure of a man passed through as though nothing physical stood in its way.  Given the relative transparency of the man stood before him, eyes shining in the night, it was the man and not the door that had loosened its relationship with physicality.  Nick’s hand, which had been on its way towards the panic-button under his pillow (there had been time when ‘fans’ had come a little too close for comfort with regards to infiltrating the secret base) slipped away as, at a subconscious level, he realised two things:

First, it was probably pointless in dealing with a man that can walk through walls.

Second, he recognised the figure before him.

By now, Nick was upright on the edge of the bed staring at the unnerving form before him – through whom he could still just make out the panelling of the door.  Although the details were necessarily hazy, he registered the long brown, worn, robe; the sandals protruding from its ragged hem; the balding dome, with incongruously well-kempt hair over the ears, flowing seamlessly into a long, grey, beard.  Well, incongruous for a ghost, but to be fair he had always looked smart in his actual allotted lifetime.  Hanging low on his chest was a simple cross of grey metal, and in his left hand a small, bulging hessian sack, the source of the tinkling and clanking.

“Oh, really?”, said Nick, fear momentarily suppressed by recognition and the long-entrenched need to keep the upper hand when dealing with trouble.  “The bag and everything?”

The spectre remained impassive, but his mouth opened and instead of the dry, dusty and distant voice Nick had been expecting (he’d read plenty of books, he knew how this ought to go) came the same deep voice, which had always seemed so comforting.  Tonight, not so much.

“Are you really in any position to criticise the exploitation of  the symbolism of legend?”

Uh oh, he could see which way this was going.

“Don’t start on me. We went through this over 1500 years ago.  It’s not going to change anything tonight.”

“It doesn’t trouble you, that I have returned from Beyond to visit you tonight, of all nights?”

“I live at the North Pole without freezing, in a citadel shrouded by invisibility, surrounded by magical elves and singing penguins.  Exactly how disoriented were you expecting me to be?”  This was all true, but was also masking a deep inner sense of unease that threatened to spill over into an anxiety that something fundamental to his life was coming under threat.  “And it’s hardly original, is it Nicholas?  And where’s your bit of cloth to keep your jaw shut?  You missed it.”

“The trappings of death are unnecessary where I have come from.”  For a moment the gauzy shape took on a rich glow, which then faded.  All of this troubled Nick more than the previous few minutes.

Nicholas continued, “I know that the way things have developed were often beyond your control. But you have such resources, such power – and what do you do with it?  You’ve lost your way. You have forgotten...”

“Oh I see, we’re going to have some lessons in the TMOC, like I haven’t heard them a thousand times before.”

“I’m not sure you would recognise the TMOC anymore, not if it bit you.  You will be visited tonight by three Guides...”

“You have got to be joking – “

“Three visitors, and they will deal with you.  Watch for the first at midnight.”

Nick opened his eyes.  He was lying in bed.  The ceiling was flickering as usual.  He looked at the door – no one there.   He realised he’d been holding his breath for some time, exhaled quietly, and started breathing regularly.   Why tonight of all nights, on Eve’s Eve, would he dream of someone he hadn’t seen in centuries,  dead and buried a hundred generations ago?  He was part of the past, not the present, in more ways than one.  He had no right turning up in his dreams that way, not tonight.  Him, with his dogmatic commitment to ethereal hopes, to living forever, now fifteen hundred years six-feet in the ground, dead, dead as a doorna-  no, don’t say that.  And the bag of gold, what was that about?   No one believed the chucking coins in chimneys stuff. 

Overwork and too much adrenalin.  Penguin coffee.  That was the problem.

A bell began to strike midnight.  Nick went rigid, eyes staring at the ceiling.  It wasn’t just the dream that gave the bell an ominous sound - he didn’t own a clock.  Clocks were a pretty vague concept in a place where the only regular event was annual;  the nearest was a quarter of a mile away, and it didn’t have a bell. It had a big flower in the centre of the dial, which unfolded, and a clockwork fairy popped out and said “PoopPoop!”  There was no clock.

But the bell of the clock that wasn’t there continued to toll.  Nine...ten...eleven...twelve...

Copyright The Masked Badger 2010

No rant without input

Nathan Foster describes how his cynicism about church changed direction:

Somewhere amid the wind and snow of the Continental Divide, I decided that if I'm not willing to be an agent of change [in the church], my critique is a waste … . Regardless of how it is defined, I was learning that the church was simply a collection of broken people recklessly loved by God … . Jesus said he came for the sick, not the healthy, and certainly our churches reflect that.

Luther: the first commandment

We ought to mark with what great diligence and ability Moses handles the first commandment, and explains it.  He was doubtless, an excellent doctor.  David afterwards was a gate or a door out of Moses.  For he had well studied in Moses, and so he became a fine poet and orator;  the Psalms are altogether syllogisms or concluding sentences out of the first commandment. Major, the first, is God's word itself; Minor, the second, faith.  The conclusion is the act, work and execution, so that it is done, as we believe.

When we believe the first commandment, and so please God, then all our actions are pleasing unto Him.

Tabletalk 270

Bad habits

Indeed, a bad habit is the last thing that most of us are afraid of. We think that we are acting always from our own choice, that it is no matter what we do now, because another time, whenever we wish, we can do differently. But all the while a certain habit is forming and hardening, until at last we find ourselves almost helpless. Thus, even our tastes, our amusements, our selection of books, the tendency even of our most secret thoughts, are becoming fixed, and we are becoming permanently the persons we meant to be only for the moment.

Charles Carroll Everett
From here.

Wright: priests and ministers

[Romans 15:6] ...is a remarkable statement since it is the only place in the NT where anyone speaks of their own ministry in priestly terms.  Priesthood is either affirmed of Jesus, our great High Priest, or of the whole Christian community collectively (1PT 2:9).  Priestly imagery is  never used of ministry within the church, but Paul here uses it of his evangelistic ministry to the nations.

The Mission of God, p525

Maybe...

Maybe the true of attraction of secularism for some is that it provides a convenient cover when one does not want to be seen as unfair or intolerant.  I mean, for those who actually fear Christianity or are disgusted by it, a cloak of secularist philosophy projects the illusion of wisdom and neutrality whilst suggesting no one of any other persuasion possesses those virtues.

Vindication

Another thing that distracts us is the lust of vindication. St. Augustine prayed - "O Lord, deliver me from this lust of always vindicating myself." That temper of mind destroys the soul's faith in God. "I must explain myself; I must get people to understand." 

Utmost 23rd November

#1.....

To be fair, if I could only take one album to a desert island it would be one with words to keep me encouraged - but that aside, assuming I was perpetually in good spirits then I think there is one album which has, for me, remained a constant companion for over 20years and just reaches those parts other albums can't reach.

Now, I know (as my wife tells me) the appeal for this kind of thing is idiosyncratic to me and the synesthesia, but this is it (cover by David Bailey):

After Tubular Bells, Oldfield was crushed by the tidal wave of global attention foisted on his already fragile psyche.  Retreating to the wilds of Herefordshire (oh my missed chance to climb it -) he produced Hergest Ridge, because he was contractually obliged to create a sequel.  His heart wasn't in it, and although many of us devotees feel it is a much neglected gem, it really wasn't a labour of love.  He chucked it at Virgin and retreated...only to be stung by the critical response: dubbed son of Tubular Bells (its structure whilst more minimalist is pretty much the same) it was an opportunity for the press to put down the new 'maestro'.

On the whole, for us muso's, this was a good thing - he knew he had much more to give and he set out to prove it to them.  And prove it he did (IMHO) - for many fans this is the ultimate Oldfield work:  a fully developed set of themes, beautifully played, incorporating what would become common fare 15 years later in 'world music' (African musicians, uillean pipes, his discovery of Lesley Penning and his recorders & whistles, with whom he had a hit in Indulce Jubilo) and a blistering guitar solo with what would become his trademark 'doublespeed' sound.  His mad overdubbing was taken to an extreme on side 2 (that's not an organ, that's thousands of guitars), plus his first song, On Horseback.  His creativity was back - including learning the harp to get the haunting sound to open.

It's pastoral, evocative, multilayered, rock, sound-painting at its best.  It's just too short.

The downside is good old Spotify have had to remove it for some reason, so below are the only online editions:  youtube videos, which sadly will produce 2 gaps where there shouldn't be any.  BUT just to let you know that Amazon have the original 1975 edition (not the new 2010 remix) at the ridiculous price (I hope this is true and not a misprint) of £1.99!

Hope I've got these right....
Part 1.1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJw_pu5_DbQ
Part 1.2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDal2p_zxIE&feature=fvst
Part 2.1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zol09q-AGMg&feature=related
Part 2.2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2UflUdryY8&feature=related

Stark: collapse of clergy

Constantine did not make Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire, nor did he ban paganism.  That came later.  Constantine's "favour" was his decision to divert to Christians the massive state funding on which the pagan temples had always depended. Overnight, Christianity became "the most favoured recipient of the near limitless resources of imperial power" [consequently] the "privileges and exemptions granted  the Christian clergy precipitated a stampede into the priesthood" [quoting Richard Fletcher].

Stark p62

Stark: Constantine and volunteers

...just as the wave of Christianity was reaching tidal proportions, along cam Constantine.  Very soon thereafter the Christian mission subsided...

...in doing his best to preserve Christianity, Constantine destroyed its most vital aspect:  its dependence on mass volunteerism.

One True God, p.60-61

Gospel and productivity

It does come back to the tie between sound doctrine and right living. The point of William Wilberforce's book was not exhort people to change their behavior but to lay out what the gospel really is, the primary doctrines of Christianity. Sound doctrine causes joy, which is the fuel for obedience and love. I would say, that's the connection between the young restless reformed, who are loving these great doctrines, that creates joy which wants to have an outlet for doing good for our neighbor. Productivity practices are helpful tools to make us more effective in that. 

Matt Perman, CT Interview.

Authenticity & self-deception

In his invaluable book I Told Me So, Gregg Ten Elshof indicates that studies demonstrate that people over the age of 50 list competency as their most desirable trait in a leader, while college students list "authenticity." The difficulty, suggests Ten Elshof, is that when authenticity is the chief virtue, self-deception becomes the most egregious vice. But rather than eliminating self-deception, that ordering actually breeds it. As he argues, the cultural recognition and ascension of racism as a sin made it harder to admit to ourselves that we are racists. Similarly, when inauthenticity becomes the chief sin, it becomes that much harder to see it in ourselves.

Christianity Today

Woohoo! 500!

500!

From July 13th 2006 to November 1st 2010 = 500posts!  Gosh, and they said it would never last....with a generally steady upward curve in frequency of posting, but without getting carried away.  And I haven't once lost it behind the filing cabinet, as happened to  my old quote-book.

As usual on these occasions, thanks to Dickie Mint for getting me to do it;  it's been useful, harmless and fun.