In this poem published in 1927, author A. A. Milne’s words create that special feeling of a child’s trust.
Furry Bear
If I were a bear, And a big bear too, I shouldn’t much care If it froze or snew; I shouldn’t much mind If it snowed or friz— I’d be all fur-lined With a coat like his!
For I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap, And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap. I’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws, And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws. With a big brown furry-down up to my head, I’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed.
I heard the bells on Christmas day Their old familiar carols play And mild and sweet their songs repeat Of peace on Earth, good will to men. . .
And in despair I bowed my head “There is no peace on Earth, ” I said For hate is strong and mocks the song Of peace on Earth, good will to men. . .
Ukrainian Christmas Scenes
This year Ukraine moved the celebration of Orthodox Christmas to December 25.
“The trident, or “tryzub,” remains one of Ukraine’s most iconic symbols. Shaped like a spear with three prongs, its history goes back centuries. Volodymyr the Great included the symbol on coins when he ruled Kyiv from 980 to 1015.” (wikipedia)
McDonald’s deliveries.
A tree of shell canisters.
A video report from the Kiev Independent that captures the spirit of hope.
Then rang the bells more loud and deep God is not dead, nor doth He sleep (Peace on Earth) (Peace on Earth) The wrong shall fail, the right prevail With peace on Earth, good will to men
Then ringing, singing on its way The world revolved from night to day A voice, a chime, a chant sublime Of peace on Earth, good will to men
A rose has thorns as well as honey, I’ll not have her for love or money; An iris grows so straight and fine, That she shall be no friend of mine; Snowdrops like the snow would chill me; Nightshade would caress and kill me; Crocus like a spear would fright me; Dragon’s-mouth might bark or bite me; Convolvulus but blooms to die; A wind-flower suggests a sigh; Love-lies-bleeding makes me sad; And poppy-juice would drive me mad:— But give me holly, bold and jolly, Honest, prickly, shining holly; Pluck me holly leaf and berry For the day when I make merry.
The Rose’s Honey: The most recorded Christmas carol, a moment where all is calm and bright.
Love’s Thorns-Making Merry
A different way to celebrate the season’s complex reality: Fairytale of New York, by Shane MacGowan.
An Irish Christmas story performed two weeks ago at the composer’s funeral. (from wikipedia) “Shane Patrick MacGowan (25 December 1957 – 30 November 2023) was a British-born Irish[a] singer-songwriter and musician best known as the lead vocalist and primary lyricist of Celtic punk band the Pogues.”
My colleagues Ed Callahan and Bucky Sebastian always told me Irish funerals were to be joyous events. At this service two weeks ago the congregation sings and dances to this ballad of an all too human realty this time of year.
Please share your joy with all you meet today by giving each a Christmas Hug.
A thought for the season by English poet John Betjeman: Advent 1955
The Advent wind begins to stir With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir, It’s dark at breakfast, dark at tea, And in between we only see Clouds hurrying across the sky And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry And branches bending to the gale Against great skies all silver pale The world seems travelling into space, And travelling at a faster pace Than in the leisured summer weather When we and it sit out together, For now we feel the world spin round On some momentous journey bound – Journey to what? to whom? to where? The Advent bells call out ‘Prepare, Your world is journeying to the birth Of God made Man for us on earth.’
And how, in fact, do we prepare The great day that waits us there – For the twenty-fifth day of December, The birth of Christ? For some it means An interchange of hunting scenes On coloured cards, And I remember Last year I sent out twenty yards, Laid end to end, of Christmas cards To people that I scarcely know – They’d sent a card to me, and so I had to send one back. Oh dear! Is this a form of Christmas cheer? Or is it, which is less surprising, My pride gone in for advertising? The only cards that really count Are that extremely small amount From real friends who keep in touch And are not rich but love us much Some ways indeed are very odd By which we hail the birth of God.
We raise the price of things in shops, We give plain boxes fancy tops And lines which traders cannot sell Thus parcell’d go extremely well We dole out bribes we call a present To those to whom we must be pleasant For business reasons. Our defence is These bribes are charged against expenses And bring relief in Income Tax Enough of these unworthy cracks! ‘The time draws near the birth of Christ’. A present that cannot be priced Given two thousand years ago Yet if God had not given so He still would be a distant stranger And not the Baby in the manger.
Sir John Betjeman, CBE, was an English poet, writer, and broadcaster. He was Poet Laureate from 1972 until his death in 1984. He was a founding member of The Victorian Society and a passionate defender of Victorian architecture. He began his career as a journalist and ended it as one of the most popular British Poets Laureate and a much-loved figure on British television.
Love’s Multiple Meanings
Craig Hella Johnson is an American choral conductor, composer, and arranger. He was born on June 15, 1962, in Crow Wing County, Minnesota
One unique aspect of Johnson’s programming is his signature “collage” style, or composed programs that marry music and poetry to seamlessly blend the sacred and secular as well as the classical and contemporary.
In an interview he notes: Music is a spiritual language of the freest kind. It doesn’t matter what your denomination or nonbelief or tradition is, because it’s about connecting with something larger than ourselves.
This work combines the well known Christmas carol Lo, How a Rose E’re Blooming, with a poem, The Rose.
This was the final song of our Christmas concert yesterday. As you listen, it may bring a tear or two.
Come, my friends.
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are-
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
A teenager’s college essay on the value and difficulty of alternative ways of seeing the world from the Free Press:
“In another scene from The History Boys, one English schoolboy preparing for Oxbridge entrance exams, Timms, asks Hector why they are reading the poetry of A. E. Housman instead of doing something “practical.”
Timms: I don’t always understand poetry!
Hector: You don’t always understand it? Timms, I never understand it. But learn it now, know it now, and you will understand it. . . whenever.
Timms: I don’t see how we can understand it. Most of the stuff poetry’s about hasn’t happened to us yet.
Hector: But it will, Timms. It will. And then you will have the antidote ready!
Like Timms, I sometimes don’t understand what I’m learning or memorizing when I study poetry, but I believe Hector when he says it prepares us for the very real events of the world—going to war, falling in love, falling out of love, making a friend, losing a friend, having a child, losing a child.
Understanding ancient authors as they understood themselves is the surest means of finding alternatives to our current way of seeing the world.”
“Contemporary America simply isn’t set up to promote mutuality, care, or common life. Rather, it is designed to maximize individual accomplishment as defined by professional and financial success.
Such a system leaves precious little time or energy for forms of community that don’t contribute to one’s own professional life or, as one ages, the professional prospects of one’s children. Workism reigns in America, and because of it, community in America, religious community included, is a math problem that doesn’t add up.”
Words matter. It is how we connect with each other.
Whether by blog post or biblical story, words are how we navigate every aspect of life.
They can get stale, “decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,/Will not stay still,” as T.S. Eliot writes.
They get worn from overuse until reality brings us back to their core meaning.
Poetic usage has the potential to change how we understand meaning, transience versus transformative experience. Here is English writer Joesph Pearce describing poetry’s potential:
Poetry is the still, small voice of calm in a world gone mad with distraction. It finds us space to breathe. It allows us time to think. It takes us out of time and space into the realm of metaphysics. It takes us from the transient things to the permanent things, from the things of time to the things of eternity. It takes us to goodness, truth and beauty. Poetry takes us from the five physical senses to the five metaphysical senses: humility, gratitude, wonder, contemplation and dilation.
The Power of Voice
When I saw this poetry video “musical” the power of poetry became even more dramatic.
’Tis the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain, “You have wak’d me too soon, I must slumber again;” As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
“A little more sleep, a little more slumber,” Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without number; And when he gets up he sits folding his hands, Or walks about saunt’ring, or trifling he stands.
I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and the thistle, grow broader and higher. The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags: And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit still hoping to find He had took better care for improving his mind: He told me his dreams, talk’d of eating and drinking; But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, “Here’s lesson for me; That man’s but a picture of what I might be: But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.
