Burning the Holly

O You are sad on Twelfth Night,
I notice: sad on Twelfth Night;
You are as sad on Twelfth Night
As any that I know.

"Yes : I am sad on that night,
doubtless I'm sad on that night.
Yes; I am sad on that night
For we all loved her so!"

Why are you sad on Twelfth Night,
Especially on Twelfth Night?

Why are you sad on Twelfth Night,
When wit and laughter flow?

- "She'd been a famous dancer,
Much lured of men; a dancer,
He'd been a famous dancer,
Facile in heel and toe...

"And we were burning the holly
On Twelfth night. the holly,
As people do; the holly,
Ivy and misteltoe.

"And while it popped and crackled,
(She being our lodger), crackled;
And while it popped and crackled,
He face caught by the glow,

"In he walked and said to her,
In a slow voice he said to her;
Yes, walking in he said to her,
'We sail before cock-crow.'

"'Why did you not come on to me,
As promised Yes, come on to me?
Why did you not come on to me,
Since you had sworn to go?'

"His eyes were deep and flashing,
As flashed the holm-flames; flashing
His eyes were deep and flashing,
In their quick, keen upthrow.

"As if she had been ready,
Had furtively been ready;
As if she had been ready
For his insistence - lo! -

"She clasped his arm and went with him
As his entirely; went with him.
She clasped his arm and went with him
Into the sleeping snow.

"We saw the prickly leaves waste
To ashes; saw the leaves waste;
The burnt-up prickly leaves waste....
The pair had gone also.

-"On Twelfth Night, two years after -
Yes, Twelfth Night, two years after;
On Twelfth Night, two years after,
We sat - our spirits low -

"Musing, when  back the door swung
Without a knock. The door swung;
Thought flew to her. The door swung.
And in she came, pale, slow;

"Against her breast a child clasped;
Close to her breast a child clasped;
She stood there, with the child clasped,
Swaying it to and fro.

"Her look alone the tale told;
Quite wordless was the tale told;
Her careworn eyes the tale told
As larger they seemed to grow...

"One day next spring she disappeared,
The second time she disappeared.
And that time, when she'd disappeared
Came back no more. Ah no!

"But we still burn the holly
On Twelfth Night, burn the holly
As people do; the holly,
Ivy, and mistletoe."


Thomas Hardy, From Winter Words, in Various Moods and Metres

A windy night

Ah, the gentle wind! Cooling, stirring up a little, making the occasional leaf to drift around the place. The gentle zephyrs are a reminder of the work of the Spirit in comforting us, breathing gently through the heats of our desires. As the old song has it,

"Spirit of God, unseen as the wind, gentle as is the dove."

And so this morning I've risen to discover that a healing zephyr has dumped the potting shed in the middle of the greenhouse, and the old diseased horse-chestnut, which we kept because a dying tree is such a poignant thing, is laying across the croquet lawn.

Still, when the sun has risen we should have quite a nice view across the valley now. And the firewood will be quite handy. But the Christmas bling is all over the floor and there are doilies floating around the grounds. I could do with some gentler healing zephyrs in future.

Quadrantids

So a disappointing evening.

We've been outside for an hour, taking part in this evening's "Wonders of the Shooting Stars" viewing of the Quadrantids. I was looking forward to the excitement of knowing that these little pieces of rock and dust, shed by an asteroid, are illuminating our lives in a brief moment of brilliance - burning out, rather than burning on, just like what we shouldn't. If you can't rend spiritual truth out of that concept, you've got no soul. And knowing that Venus and Jupiter are also well visible at the moment just added to the excitement of the evening.

I tell you, we've not seen a think with all the cloud. And I've not been this wet since the fight broke out at Filling-Up of Beakers. And cold? I tell you, I'm colder than an impoverished caroller in a Thomas Hardy novel. Same again tomorrow, I guess. Surely we must see some tomorrow.

Death of Topsy the Elephant (1903)

This morning we will be remembering the sad fate of Topsy the Elephant, who was put to death by electrocution for the murder of three.

1903 was a landmark year for the inventive folk of the USA. The Wright brothers achieved their first powered flight, pointing the way to a future of cheap air travel and a shrinking world. And somebody electrocuted an elephant, showing the way for a century of experimenting with modern, efficient ways of putting people to death for crime.

It's notable, I think, that like many of those who would follow her in this new and improved execution method (so much more scientific than strangling people with a rope) Topsy couldn't really have understood the moral significance of her "crimes". And, as if to reflect the disproportionate way American justice would be meted out in the century or more to come, she wasn't white.

Back to Work Tuesday

"By the sweat of your brow will you have food to eat until you return to the ground from which you were made." (Gen 3:19)

And so as the Christmas break ground to a halt, and in obedience to the Biblical command, many returned to work. Except those who were working last week, like bin-people and shopworkers and warehouse people and firefighters, the police and ambulance - and the Scottish, of course, who get the extra day. And vicars and the like who, after days of sleep deprivation through Midnight Communions, Masses of the Dawn, Watchnights and what have you, need a few days off to get some sleep.

We've packed all the Beaker People with standard office jobs back off today with a sprinkling of water from the Pouring Beaker, and the ironic strains of "I wish it could be Christmas every day".

And yes, as I said in my short address, it's tempting to think wouldn't it be great if there were no work - just sitting round eating Turkey and listening to the Wombles.  Always Christmas but never getting to Easter. But life's not like that. And for all the back-break or mind-ache of the jobs some do, those with no jobs aren't always so happy. Some are blessed with the health and imagination to lead fulfilling lives; and some are blessed with the cash to make idleness happy if they don't have the imagination. But for most of us, worklessness is as bad as drudgery and work part of the rhythm of lives - a place to meet others, a change of scene, and sometimes a place to enjoy.

So I sent them off with those cheering words, then put my feet off and spent the rest of the day dining off crumpets and black coffee and reading "The Return of the Native". I like to think it's not slacking - it's exercising a prophetic ministry.

Waxing Gibbons

It was a lovely moon this evening. It's when the moon is just on the gibbous side of the first quarter that you can almost sense its spherical rather than circular nature - it feels 3D. And Jupiter's nearby presence is quite striking.

But it's also a reminder of why we have  a small sect amongst us, the Moon Gibbon folk. It was a mis-hearing about a "Gibbous moon" many years ago that made them think the moon was populated by a divine gibbon - a malevolent being who slays Wombles at the time of lunar eclipses and eats the moon every month.

They're an odd bunch, but on the bright side their theology is almost completely taken-up with trying to understand the origin, dietary habits and size of the Moon Gibbon. This stops them being the kind of unutterable busybodies they might be if they thought the Moon Gibbon cared about their earthly lives. Instead they just muddle along like the rest of us, with the slight difference that they get hysterical at the the time of the new moon.

Mistletoe and Whines

Phil Ritchie comes over all Beaker on the subject of dying Christmas trees, and this seems as good a time as any to remind Beaker People about our Twelfth Night tradition.

Due to our constant confusion over which night is the Twelfth Night when all the decorations should come down, we always leave them up on 5 January, and take them down first thing on the sixth. Then in keeping with tradition (not ours, someone else's) we burn them in the evening on the Twelfth Night fire. Or sometimes not. Sometimes we take them down and burn them at midnight on the fifth, on the assumption that it's safest.

But this year can we please just stick to the evergreens. I really don't want the fairy lights going on the fire this year.

Eternal Optimism

You never see the moment the first daffodil shoot appears above ground level. They sneak on you while you're not looking.

And I find the same with first snowdrop or early crocus. They're just suddenly there while you're thinking of something else.

Astronomically we've just passed the point of deepest winter. From now on the only way is up. Whereas from the weather point of view, chances are we've barely started. I've seen no ice on the pond this year - barely the occasional frost. But it doesn't mean that's not all to come. Frost, snow, ice - three months are yet available for all that.

For now, last season's more durable plants are still hanging in there - the hazel, brambles, roses and such-like that hang on to their leaves when the vines and cherries have long lost theirs, and and sleeping and dreaming of sunnier times.

But the daffs and crocuses and snowdrops - they're in action already. No wishful-thinkers, they. They know the next months can be hard but still they push their noses out. Spring's a long way off, but it is coming. The sun rises higher every day. And, tough but lovely, when Spring finally gets here, the flowers will be waiting for it.

Drayton Parslow's New Year Sermon

My fellow Funambulist Baptists, it is good to greet you on this first day of the year 2012.

And in keeping with the bright hope of this morning's theme, we turn to my text - "The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and the sun was allowed to scorch people with fire. They were seared by the intense heat and they cursed the name of God, who had control over these plagues, but they refused to repent and glorify him."

For what more do I need to say than that every one one of us stands at a fork in the path. And there are two paths - one leading to perdition, and the other - if the Merciful One is truly merciful, and treats us with  leniency instead of with the whips and scorpions that we deserve - to salvation. Maybe this year will be the year we see him approaching on the clouds - Lo! Every tongue will confess him Lord and every knee will bow! Maybe this year!

And I know what ye are thinking, my brethren - you remember that the last year was full of apocalypses, none of which ever happened. That the Reverend brother whom we called a sage reader of the times in May - and with slightly more suspicion in October - turned out to be less of a prophet and reckoner of God's times and seasons than we thought. And I say to you - yes, the last few apocalypses have turned out to be false dawns. But there's always the next one. To misquote a line Eileen occasionally uses, I should know all about apocalypses - I've forecast a few of them myself.

But if this year is the Year of Judgement, then in what state shall we be found when the Weigher of our Souls puts us into the Eternal Soul Weigh Station? Let me give you an illustration. The benighted Beaker Folk across the grounds spent three days clearing their garage. And when they had finished, their garage was completely clear and Lo, Eileen was pleased when her eyes beholdeth the empty garage. But is it not like a soul that has an unclean spirit cast out? For no sooner had she pronounced the garage good in her eyes, than it was filled once again with rubbish and the cast-off debris of their sybaritic lifestyles. Indeed, they sleep the sleep of the unrighteous now, having consumed too much of the juice of the apple, grape, grain and whatever you make Pernod out of last night. And while we who are righteous are awake - for those who sleep, sleep at night - the Beaker People are asleep even in the daylight.

And I lost many hours of the sleep of the righteous last night thanks to their loud music, and the enormous firework they let off at midnight. Indeed, the burning iron filings that struck my window in the night actually melted aspects of the glass into what looked - when I woke, sleep-deprived, at 5am this morning - from a certain angle to be a representation of Mary. And in my confused state, to Marjory's alarm, I started to recite the Hail Mary, until she threw a cup of iced water over me and brought me to my senses.

But I know - for I remember this day last year - that when the Beaker Folk emerge, blinking and retching, as if to judgement, into the daylight later - I will hear the clinking of empties as they dump all the bottles into boxes in the garage. And those bottles will there remain until the Day of Judgement, or the recycling collection - whichever is sooner.

Friends, you can walk round to my garage and you will see that it is perfectly clear. No boxes of empty Famous Grouse, no bundles of wrapping paper and old newspaper, no old microwaves - for I keep my garage empty. You can park a car in my garage at any time you need. For indeed, our car will not fit in the garage. But when the Great Day comes, the Recording Angel will behold, in at least one house in Husborne Crawley, an empty garage.

Finally, this is the time of the year that I often like to quote the old poem - I said to the man who stood on the threshold of the year, and he said "Run! Run for your life! Hide amidst the rocks and repent and maybe you will be overlooked." These are wise words, words that we can reflect on. For when the heavens open and the earth is split asunder, when the record of rights and wrongs is reckoned off - we, alone in the sinful world, will be able to say "I have a clean and tidy garage."

Later Liturgy

This is a scheduled post. Pouring-out of Beakers has been rescheduled to 1 pm.

Starting the year with a Bang

As I expected, Young Keith's firework totally failed to live up to its design.

It was supposed to glide gracefully into the air, scattering doves' feathers and confetti which were then illuminated by the iron filings and traffic lights. Instead of which, it drove a three-feet crater into the ground, then spewed out burning iron filings, confetti and feathers, sending screaming Beaker Folk in all directions. Everyone's accounted for but it's a reminder that you should never do this kind of thing at home. Although Young Keith's going to try again next year.

In the mean time we're going to be spending the first hours of the New Year cleaning out of the Moot House. I hope you, at least, have had a good time. Happy New Year.