Англиканский Сочельник (En)

Anglican Christmas and I

I’ve been writing about my perception of Western Christmas traditions since my arrival to this country: every time I discover more—and adjust this knowledge to what I’ve called “my inner Anglican Christmas” (sounds vaguely ecumenical, but I can’t think of another—more suitable—name at the moment).

Although I am not a very religious person, I was brought up as a member of the Eastern Orthodox Church, and I try to keep up with my denomination as much as I can (there is the St Ephraim Orthodox Parish here, in Cambridge, and also the St. Athanasios Greek Orthodox Church, so, people like me, if they want, can join the congregation).

Like the vast majority* of Orthodox people, I celebrate Christmas on January 7, according to the Julian calendar, which is traditional for us, but every time on Christmas Eve by the Gregorian calendar (i.e. Catholic/Anglican) I feel that unstoppable, child-like impatience, which makes me nervous and joyous at the same time.

It is true, modern England is not a religious country: its churches, opulent and gorgeous, remain mostly empty in daily life, except those crowds of tourists who observe buttresses, turrets and quatrefoil stained glass windows with mild interest. Brits would never talk to you about their religious experiences (on the other hand, who would? but there are people out there who will, I guess), finding the subject too touchy and, overall, too intimate to discuss even with those whom they regard as friends. Brits also provide you with sublime and refined vitriolic dialogues, if they like you, and it is very enjoyable.

But religion is not dead here—at least, not completely: there are places, and people, and a spirit that has never gone away. And Christmas is the time when you can catch it if you are attentive enough.

England has lots of tiny churches in its endless villages—in the North and the South, coastal and inland, they are still open for a small congregation, mostly elderly, who don’t miss Evensong and still know all the psalms.

There are also choirs: professional ones whose singing is absolutely divine (for example, listen to a Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, which is broadcast every Christmas Day** at 3pm, by the Choir of King's College), but also amateur—just people who sing not only within churches, but elsewhere before the holidays, collecting money for charities.

Once I was on my way from Ely to Cambridge, waiting for the evening train. The weather was rainy and ghastly; it was dark and nippy outside. Resistant to cold, I was feeling a bit poorly anyway, as I suddenly heard singing. There was a group of people, old and middle aged, who sang “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen”: their voices weren’t the best, and the red bucket with reindeers was half-empty. Yet they sang, and I listened, and gave them some spare change, and a few more people came and listened, and there was joy, and Christmas was near. It was as visible and miraculous as ever.

Merry Christmas to you all. May it be miracles.

_________

* Not all, though

** On Christmas Eve