On the theological aspects of the Return to Work

Now many in this fair realm have been to work already since Christmas Day.  Indeed, some noble, unselfish and/or compelled souls were forced even to work on Christmas Day itself - I refer, of course, to ministers of the Christian religion, and Father Christmas.  And those who labour in the emporia of Messrs Waite and Rose, or of Messrs TE Stockwell and Cohen, have no doubt been at work on and off ever since the Great Day.

But tomorrow is the day for the great mass of the proletariat to return to their regular labours.  Barring snow, icy roads, or last-minute hangovers, tomorrow the Invoice Passing Clerks, PC Support desk operatives, and even teachers - incredible as it may sound - return to work.
And most will be grumpy.  But a few will be glad.  They will see in their roles, whether it be the instilling of wisdom into young minds, the emptying of wheelie bins into rubbish vans, the tilling of the soil or the time-honoured craft of the Passing of the Invoice, an echo of the creative work of the Creator in... well, in creating.  What JRR Tolkien referred to as sub-creation.  And for some, debugging a tricky line of code or rejecting a consignment of Norwegian Pine because it is insufficiently traceable will be a blessing and entering into the Divine Plan.  They are the blessed ones - the ones that can see that all days are indeed truly special, that the sun rises every day, and that there is a glimpse of the sublime even in the toasting of a burger bun.

But for others - the day rises as a day of drudgery.  They will cling on until 5 o'clock, or whenever their time of indenture ends, and then go home figuring that at least there are only four days left till the weekend, or - according to their philosophy - only 8 months until the Summer Holiday, or 11 and a half until next Christmas.  Or - if you are a sitting New Labour MP - only five months till you can have a nice long rest, for at least 10 years or until someone considers that they have other uses, unlikely as that seems.  These are the ones for whom we should feel something - not the MPs, the others. The ones who know all about the curse of the Fall, as they wrestle with the nettles of pushy salesmen and the thorns of dim-witted suppliers.  The ones for whom the night gives no rest and the day gives no fulfilment.  The ones that - whether in their quick tyre replacement garage, or their forecourt, or their grimy mezzanine office in a warehouse in Corby - just want to get home to Eastenders, so they can share in the misery of others.

I'd like at this point to point the way forward for these people, for whom only the promise of Celebrity Big Brother gives any kind of meaning and hope for the future.  I'd like to, but I can't.  That's the problem with the Beaker Faith.  It's all about feeling and emoting and rather depends on you being in a good state of mind in the first place.  We're dead good at accepting, and listening, and sharing your pain.  Actually, sharing it is maybe a bit strong.  Hearing about it - for a reasonable but not excessive period of time - that's what we're really good at.  Frankly, suggesting you light a tea light is about as helpful as we get.

So - the good news is, with Hnaef out at his archery school, Young Keith back at the office and Burton doing an audit on a tractor company in Leighton Buzzard, it's all going to be pretty quiet around the Great House for the next week or so.  I hereby announce that the Sunrise Service will be held at lunchtime. No point in pushing it.

And if you're really worried about work tomorrow, can't stand the thought of it, and are just hoping that the earth will open up, or 10 feet of snow fall in the night - can I suggest lighting a tea light?  It works wonders.