The True Christmas

by Henry Vaughan

So, stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing;
And mortifies the earth, and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show,
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,
But to the manger's mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man's greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.

Then leave your open house and noise,
to welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherds' watchfulness,
Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless,
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.

Getting over the death of children...

I am not sure how many days it has been since the senseless tragedy of the shootings at Sandy Hook, USA. The last of the victims were buried today at any rate and though I knew not one of the victims personally I cried. Again. Twenty children under the age of seven. Twenty seven people in total.

I have ALWAYS been anti-guns and will continue to be. I have lived 30 years of my life in one of the most violent countries in the world and I believe that putting instruments whose sole purpose is to take life into the hands of people and not expecting innocent lives to be lost is just ludicrous. Beyond ludicrous, far beyond. Death wins again and again, that is for sure.

It is in moments like this that I always hope there is a poem which says what I cannot, and I found one which was written for the death of children (plural). The funerals are just the start and my prayer is the Comforter is with all those families who are facing probably the worst Christmas ever. A horrible irony as we celebrate the birth of the Child who is, in my personal opinion, the only hope of mankind. So starts the process of living without their loved ones, children whose lives were brutally robbed of their lives and yet who I believe are safe in the arms of the Hope of mankind.

Congregation of the story tellers at a funeral of Soweto children
Mazisi Kunene

We have entered the night to tell our tale,
To listen to those who have not spoken.
We, who have seen our children die in the morning,
Deserve to be listened to.
We have looked on blankly as they opened their wounds.
Nothing really matters except the grief of our children.
Their tears must be revered,
Their inner silence speaks louder than the spoken word;
And all being and all life shouts out in outrage.
We must not be rushed to our truths.
Whatever we failed to say is stored secretly in our minds;
And all those processions of embittered crowds
Have seen us lead them a thousand times.

"Cry, the beloved country"

"Cry, the beloved country" is the title of a recent Economist article about the challenges South Africa is facing at this point of its history. Also the title of a 1948 book by Alan Paton. This book was prescribed reading for schoolgoers during apartheid. Even then I suspected it was more of an "alibi" as school authorities attempted to prove their "non-racist" credentials. Perhaps a useful litmus test for many as to how aware they truly are of the subtext of what we were taught at white schools at that time.

That is what the title of that article evokes for very many - and content of the article aside - may explain some of the sceptism to the article!

All that aside, I want to share a passage from that book which I have always loved and somehow still resonates with something in me when it comes to South Africa, though I would use the word "injustice" instead of "fear".

Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, not stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, not give too much of his heart to a mountain or valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.

Alan Paton
Cry, the beloved country
1948

How a funeral could inspire a life

It feels kind of odd that it is halloween and yesterday was our Prime Minister's mother's funeral. Today a colleague buried her father, and tomorrow another colleague buries her mother.

Just too much death out and about at the moment!

But death is something that simply cannot be avoided, it is the one truly inevitable thing in life.

I went to the funeral today, and really there are two things that have given me food for thought.

The first was it turns out I work in a place where it is not practice to go to the funerals of colleagues family. This is nothing I have given a great deal of thought to, but it seems to me quite natural. Specially when it comes to colleagues one works closely with. Anyway, I went, and have apologised to the colleague whose mother is being buried tomorrow, as two in a row is just too much.

The other was that although I never met my colleague's father, I had heard a bit about him, as he was a pioneer in the field of social anthropology/ethnography here in Norway. It was a lovely service, what we would call a "dignified send off". One thing which was said about him, which I would love to be said about me too when the time comes: everyone is important.

When it comes to what others may say about you at your funeral, I can think of nothing I would like more than that something like that be said about me.

It helps not to be afraid of death, but the challenge is how the inevitability of dying inspires one's living, wouldn't you say?