A blessed Christmas to all you Brandywinians out there. My own plans are to celebrate Christmas in my usual madcap way — a traditional Scrooge Christmas with a lowered thermostat, dim lights, a cup of gruel by the fire, and a chair set out for any wandering ghosts who might appear to accuse me.
Above, a clip I’ve probably posted before — Sissel with the Pelagian Tabernacle Choir, doing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” my favorite Christmas hymn.
Meet Me in St. Louis is a hit musical that gave us the song “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” performed in the video above. The movie was initially released in St. Louis November 1944 and nationwide January 1945. Judy Garland plays Esther Smith, the eldest of four daughters, who falls for a new boy in town, played by Tom Drake.
The context of the Christmas scene is their father having accepted a job transfer to New York, which would uproot the family right after Christmas. Esther is comforting little Tootie about the move and sings the melancholy song. But the songwriters originally leaned into the sadness more than Garland and the movie executives wanted. Classicfm has the story.
Here are some of the original lyrics:
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
It may be your last.
Next year we may all be living in the past.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Pop that champagne cork.
Next year we may all be living in New York.”
The second version, which Garland sang, were revised again for Frank Sanatra, so you may hear the song conclude with “Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow” or “So hang a shining star upon the highest bough.”
Either way, I hope you have yourself a, uh, you know.
But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began:
The winds with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
...
The Oracles are dumb;
No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance or breathed spell
Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.
Two stanzas from John Milton’s “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity“
Obituary: “And I feel so sorry for him, I feel so sorry for this tender man,” Nabokov writes, “that suddenly the line I am writing seems to slip into mist.”
Easy Photo Fakes: With advancing artificially intelligent image generators, creating convincing pics from a handful of social media posts is fairly easy. The better images AI can create, the more dangerous it is to everyone. Maybe we should take our photos offline.
Artificially Created Videos: In a few years, an Israeli company may be able to produce computer generated video avatars that look as real as actual video.
Why Journalists Fall for Hoaxes: “Every hoax in America the past 200 years originated in the news business, or passed through it. When the world moved much slower, hoaxes were publicity stunts carried out by newspapers.”
Not Allegory: “The Twelve Days of Christmas” celebrates the meaning of Christmas and Christianity
Beethoven and Christmas: “If beauty will save the world it must be qualified that love will save the world. Because in beauty we find love. In finding beauty and the love that governs it, we are always directed to the Christ who came into our lives and taught us how to love. St. Augustine said that we often first come to know God (who is Love) through the love of others and the love that others show us.”
And though this is not Beethoven, it’s a good Christmas share.
Photo by Angela Roma/Pexels
Day was breaking. The dawn Swept the last stars, bits of ashes, from the sky. Of the vast rabble, Mary allowed Only the Magi to enter the cleft in the rock. He slept, all luminous, in the oak manager, Like a moonbeam in the hollow of a tree.
from Boris Pasternak’s “The Christmas Star”
Reading in 2023: Joel Miller plans to read 12 classic novels next year and review one each month. His choice for July is one Lars had talked about here: Sigrid Undset’s The Wreath: Kristin Lavransdatter (Book 1).
Arthur Machen: Dale Nelson reviews a collection of essays and stories by Welsh author Arthur Machen (1863-1947), called, “Mist and Mystery.”
Forgotten Books: Steve Donoghue had this quote nagging him recently: “Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered.”
Books and Meals: “I cannot remember the books I’ve read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me.” Many attribute this to Ralph Waldo Emerson but the best source a version of this statement could also be attributed to another man also named Emerson.
So Christmas is done, and winter, as it always does, snuck in while we were distracted. Winter is no less annoying before Christmas day, but it always seems like part of the festival. As if God is setting up His holiday department store window display. But then the holiday ends (I know it goes on till Epiphany, and I electrify my tree accordingly. But you know what I mean) and winter remains, like Styrofoam peanuts from the box Christmas came in. We didn’t get a white covering until Dec. 26, but the snow is here to stay now (I believe) and I have the snow shoveling muscle aches to prove it.
I was able to gather with family (not the whole family, but some, which beats last year), and we had a low-key but pleasant holiday. As part of my duties as Weird Old Uncle at the celebration, I shared a story I’d gotten in a letter from a distant cousin in Norway. He’s been doing some research on family history, and he found a story worthy of Hollywood. I paraphrase it for you below:
On a warm summer day around the year 1800, a young man named Ola was watching his father’s cows on a hillside with a good view of the sea near Ogna, in southern Rogaland. He noticed a square-rigged ship becalmed offshore. On a whim, he left the cows behind, walked to shore, appropriated a boat, and rowed out to the ship. He then signed on to the crew. He left his lunch bag hanging from one of the cows’ horns, so his family would know he’d left voluntarily. (They also noticed a boat was missing.) He later wrote his parents from Amsterdam. As a merchant sailor, he sailed with his ship to the Mediterranean, where they were attacked and captured by Libyan pirates. They were taken to Tripoli as slaves. One dark night, along with a French boy, he escaped. They swam in the sea for a while, then went ashore, walking and running the 2,200 kilometer distance (something under 1,400 miles) to Alexandria, Egypt, eating whatever they could scrounge. They stowed away (I think that’s the meaning) on a ship to Istanbul. From there it was an 1,800 kilometer (a little over a thousand miles) walk back to Amsterdam. Ola went into the shipping transport business. When Napoleon blockaded European ports to British shipping, rates for cross-channel commerce skyrocketed, and Ola made a fortune in that business (smuggling, I guess you’d call it). He married a British woman and settled down in Bergen as the owner of a shipping company once the war was over. Around 1830 he went home to Ogna to visit his family. He gave his siblings, two sisters and a brother, what amounted to a small fortune at the time, enough to build a nice little house.
Some years later, his nephew Helge received a letter from him marked, “Do not open until my death.” After a few more years another letter arrived without any instructions outside. This document itemized his property. Ola had no children of his own, and he was concerned that his wife might conceal some of it when the estate was divided. Finally, in 1843, a letter came announcing Ola’s death. Helge the nephew then opened the first letter. It said that he and his sister had each been left $100,000. But they had to do a sort of treasure hunt to collect the money. The letter said the money was buried in two small pots concealed under flat stones beneath the kitchen floor of Ola’s house in Bergen. Being honest people, they went first to the Bergen police for permission, and then dug the floor up, found the flat stones, and discovered the pots, each with the amount of money promised. Helge also hired a lawyer in Bergen, to look after their interests until Ola’s widow died. In the end they got half the estate, worth about $600,000 in modern money.
I was quite excited to read this story, and wrote back to my cousin to ask if this adventure came from my side of the family. Sadly, no. All he could find about my side was that one of my ancestors was involved with the Moravian religious movement even before the Haugean revivals (which I’ve written about here often ), and that another was the last person to die of leprosy in Randaberg parish (near Stavanger).
My family history, so far as I’ve been able to learn it, has been relentlessly unromantic. But I still reckon I’m descended from Erling Skjalgsson. Prove me wrong.
(I wrote the following meditation for my church body’s magazine this year. I was assigned to write on Luke 1:1-4. I was a little concerned at first — a prologue seems an unpromising subject. However, in meditating on it, I came up with the following, which I think is not bad at all. I share it as my Christmas greeting to you and yours.)
Inasmuch as many have undertaken to compile a narrative of the things that have been accomplished among us, just as those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses and ministers of the word have delivered them to us, it seemed good to me also, having followed all things closely for some time past, to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, that you may have certainty concerning the things you have been taught. (Luke 1:1-4, ESV)
There’s a tradition about how Luke came to write his gospel. I like it, and it seems to me to fit the Bible narrative. The tradition says that Luke did a lot of research while staying in Caesarea, during the two years the apostle Paul was under house arrest there, awaiting trial.
That must have been a frustrating period for the missionaries. They found work to do while they waited, but they must have thought again and again, “This wasn’t what I was called to do!”
But Luke (according to this tradition) made the most of it. One thing he seems to have done then was to write the book of Acts, which can be seen as a kind of “legal deposition” for Paul’s trial in Rome (the account starts in Acts 23).
But there were also many people available in that area who’d been eyewitnesses to the life and work of our Lord Jesus. Chief among them was Mary, the Lord’s mother. That would explain the details of the Savior’s birth, seen from Mary’s point of view, that we find only in Luke’s gospel. How eager she must have been to share her stories, and how eagerly Luke must have written them down!
It’s been called – with good reason – the greatest story ever told. But Luke, a physician, a man of science in his time, knew the principle that “if it sounds too good to be true, it’s probably not.”
So he adds this preface to his book. Essentially, he’s saying, “Look, Theophilus (the name means ‘Beloved of God’). You’re about to read about some amazing things. Wonderful things. Things so astounding you’ll find them hard to believe.
“But I fact-checked it. This isn’t some myth about the gods on Olympus. It’s not an ancient tale about a legendary golden age. This is an account of things that happened in our lifetimes, and there are multiple witnesses still around to testify to them. I talked to those people.
“The world isn’t what you think it is. Life isn’t what you think it is. Something amazing is happening all around us, and you can be part of it. I’m going to tell you about these astounding things. Angels. Miracles. Sicknesses healed. The dead raised. Hope for everyone who’s abused or oppressed or suffering.
“I’m going to start with the stories of a couple of babies…”
I’m sure there are wonderful customs among the many cultures who celebrate Christmas in warm southern climates (Christ wasn’t exactly born in Norway, after all). But I’ve always been grateful personally to know Christmas as a time of light in darkness, a celebration carried on bravely just at that time of year when the darkness seems most powerful. Christmas is, and always should be, a kind of surprise.
G. K. Chesterton wrote it this way in his poem, “The House of Christmas:”
This world is wild as an old wives’ tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.
“Gospel,” as I’m sure you know, means “good news.” Like so many things about our faith, we need to look at it a second time. This isn’t just any good news – it’s the best news. The best news possible. We are not alone. We are not forgotten. We are loved in a greater and stranger way than we ever imagined. Death has been conquered. The future will be incredible. Everything you’ve suffered will be worth it. Whatever you’ve dreamed of, whatever you’ve fantasized about – it will be better than that.
Luke 1:1-4 is like a gift tag on a Christmas present. On the tag is written, “You’re about to open a gift so wonderful you’ll have a hard time believing it’s for you. Trust me, it is. Open it now. Merry Christmas, Beloved of God.”
Not a bad lillejulaften (little Christmas Eve, as they call it in Norway). No great accomplishments chalked up, but I got a couple things done that I’d been putting off. Faced a minor appliance crisis – I learned it was a false alarm, though the diagnosis cost me a little. Still, I was expecting much worse. And I got paid for some translation, which always brightens a day.
“In the Bleak Midwinter” came to mind for a song tonight. Sissel sings, of course. Based on a poem by Christina Rossetti, it’s bald-faced anglicization of the Christmas story. Whether Jesus was born on December 25 or not (I like to think He was, just to annoy people) it certainly wasn’t in a snow-covered landscape. But our Christmas celebration isn’t only about the first Christmas (though it must be about that primarily). It’s also about the long tradition of commemoration we enjoy in the Christian tradition. Legends included. And in a tertiary way, about the traditions of our own tribes, whatever they may be. My tribe is Scandinavian, and we make kind of a big thing out of Christmas (for reasons I discuss in my novel Troll Valley).
Tomorrow I’ll bake pumpkin pies. No holiday is guaranteed, but this Christmas looks to beat last year’s all hollow, at least for this jolly old elf.
Hope it’s the same for you.
“Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.”
This marvelous arrangement is not for congregational singing like I’ve been posting on Sundays. This composition comes from English composer Richard Allain, recorded by conductor Dominic Ellis-Peckham with the London Oriana Choir.
“Of the Father’s Love Begotten,” was originally a Latin poem by Aurelius Clemens Prudentius (AD 348-410), titled “Corde natus ex parentis.” It was translated by in the 1850-60s by J. M. Neale and H. W. Baker and paired with the Latin plainsong melody of “Divinum mysterium.”
Verse three of the lyric copied here is omitted in the video above.
1 Of the Father’s love begotten
ere the worlds began to be,
he is Alpha and Omega,
he the source, the ending he,
of the things that are, that have been,
and that future years shall see
evermore and evermore.
2 Oh, that birth forever blessed
when the virgin, full of grace,
by the Holy Ghost conceiving,
bore the Savior of our race,
and the babe, the world’s Redeemer,
first revealed his sacred face
evermore and evermore.
But he was wrong, you know. Eddie-My-boyfriend got it wrong altogether, evil little troll that he was. That wasn’t what the look on my face was expressing, not at all. I wasn’t feeling shock and horror at the hypocrisy and phoniness and decadence of modern life. In fact, in that moment, it didn’t seem hypocritical or phony or decadent to me at all…. The one solid reality I could cling to… was, again, our Christmases, our past together, my love.
It was a strenuous weekend, by my declining standards. We got a heavy snow Friday night – I’m not sure exactly how much, but I think I read it was about 7 inches. Heavy stuff, too. And my kindly neighbors, who always move the snow for me (we share the driveway) suffered a failure of their snowblower. So they hired some neighbor kids, whose snowblower broke down too. Thus, there I was, with the neighbor lady, shoveling in front of my garage for about a half hour. Somewhat to my own surprise, I didn’t collapse of a heart attack.
Then I had to go and buy a new inkjet printer. Because for the life of me I couldn’t make the old one work with the new wifi. Also the tray has been broken for some time. That meant a trip to my favorite computer store and a long wait in line. And then the inevitable siege, trying to make it talk to the wireless network. I succeeded at last (this always feels like sorcery, employing incantations I don’t understand at all). Which made it possible, at last, to print my Christmas newsletters.
Moving on to books, you may recall how intensely I disliked Trevanian’s The Loo Sanction, which I reviewed on Friday. Fortunately, I had the perfect antidote at hand. Andrew Klavan’s new book When Christmas Comes, which I adore and was planning to re-read anyway.
When Christmas Comes could almost have been written as a counter to The Loo Sanction (I’m not saying it was. I’m just saying they both deal with the same questions in drastically different ways.)
Both the heroes, Trevanian’s Jonathan Hemlock and Klavan’s Cameron Winter, are American academics who formerly worked in covert espionage operations. Dangerous men, skilled at killing.
And both of them walk into situations where hypocrisy is (or is apparently) rife. Hemlock into the world of cutthroat international politics. Winter into a seemingly idyllic American town where a clean-cut, decorated veteran is on trial for murdering his sweet wife. With the Christmas season as a backdrop, offering lots of opportunities for comment on commercialization and the emptiness of tradition.
But unlike Hemlock, who smashes fetishes and is himself smashed in return, Winter never closes his heart. Much of the book is taken up with his narrative – to a psychologist – of the story of his love for a girl named Charlotte, whom he spent time with every Christmas as he was growing up. And how the magic of those early Christmases was undermined and overwhelmed by old secrets of horrific ugliness.
And yet Winter has the wisdom to discern the truth, even in the midst of lies and hypocrisy. “The great good thing,” as Klavan describes it in his autobiography. As long as he still believes in the great good thing, he remains open to salvation.
A repeated theme in When Christmas Comes is “psychomachia,” the literary device where the characters in a story represent aspects of the storyteller’s own soul.
If that’s so, then in giving life to others, as Winter does at the end of the story, he may also be given life himself.
I don’t know whether it would be better for Andrew Klavan to write a sequel, or just leave us with that hope.
Personally, I vote for the sequel.