Heavenly host
THE angels are flying down Piccadilly again. And (although I try not to feel competitive in this central London arena), as I look out of my study window each year, and see the angelic bodies illuminated and the wings unfurled, I can’t help thinking that they are better than the more commercial lights of Regent Street or Oxford Circus.
Like some of Antony Gormley’s figures, these messengers look both ethereal and huggable at the same time. And they’re energetic, for sure: these wild and purposeful angels mean business. They’re flying fast, and they’re joyous. They’d find that girl at the well in Nazareth, even if she were hiding away a little, or reticent, or shy. And — together — they’d wake up those shepherds: they’d dazzle them with their songs, and trumpets, and glory. Even if the crowds beneath the angels are thinner this year, as they seem to be.
Inequality and diversity
THE cost-of-living crisis means that, for many, this year’s trip to the West End to fill bags with gifts, and cram home on the bus, will be curtailed, shortened, or cancelled. No bad thing, say those central London Christians who do anything between fulminating and sighing with regret at the decadence with which their churches are surrounded.
And there is clearly a layer of British society occupied by those who breathe the rarefied air above democratic or financial accountability, as they skate from country to country, alighting from time to time in the champagne bars of central London — though not staying too long, in case they have time to to fill in a tax return.
At Christmas, this is especially visible; and churches, in my view, have the chance to play the long game — by welcoming all, without fear or favour, including all the non-doms and the “What time should I ask my car to be here?” brigade, the private jet owners and the “nip over to St Tropez for lunch” crowd; but doing our very best to treat everyone as nearly the same as we can manage. No less eye contact, no less interest or kindness towards the individuals themselves than towards the man of the same age whose worldly goods are contained in the Sainsbury’s bag beside him in the pew.
I might meet a woman whose suit is in much better shape than she is. I might meet another man who has a lot less cash, but is none the less at peace with himself. Christmas church in central London is an expression of a stark, shocking juxtaposing of people who share the same physical space but with very different routes in and potential routes out.
Non-rhetorical question
WHENEVER I read that Britain is a less deferential society, I silently disagree. We are just as deferential. But, while we might be a bit less Downton Abbey than we used to be in being submissive to those who hold positional power or status, as a society we still show great deference — verging sometimes on reverence — to different things: to eye-watering amounts of wealth (especially when it’s self-made), or social media influencers whose short films made in their bedrooms have, over time, now given them enough clout to book private Christmas shopping at exclusive boutiques.
Reflecting on this reality isn’t, as some commentators claim, “the politics of envy”. This is Christianity’s fundamental questioning of the human heart: its desires, blind spots, hubris, and pride. Which leads in turn to the exposing of what, in Advent, the prophets spend a lot of time alerting us to: idolatry.
While churches always have to make ends meet (especially this cold winter), if we want to stay open and warm for anyone who comes, this will necessitate a serious involvement in the economic activity of society, and raising funds in a variety of ways: hiring space, selling tickets, holding raffles, selling cards. So it won’t do, especially at this time of year, for us to suck our teeth and be squeamish about money.
But we are asked, persistently and enduringly, by the Christ-child in the borrowed crib, the question raised by the Advent prophets that repeats like a drumbeat throughout scripture: the challenge of idolatry. At whose feet do we place our ingenuity, our energy, our time, our resources this Christmas? Whose mission are we serving, and can I spot the dead-eyed idols I have made in my own image, rather than the purposes that fall under the gaze of God?
For me, as a priest, leading both carol services and budget meetings as the year draws to a close, this question is particularly acute, rooted as it is in the theological insistence that — while human circumstances vary for all sorts of complex reasons, including the scandal of particularity surrounding Jesus’s birth — everyone, without exception, is equally beloved of God, and our calling is to manifest this in God’s house in any way we can. And — in the spirit of the Magi, perhaps? — do as much redistribution as we can along the way. . .
Inside out
WHICH brings me to presents. Notwithstanding Mariah Carey’s chorus (at this time of year the repetitive soundtrack to London’s rickshaw-filled streets), all I want for Christmas is a renewed sense that Bethlehem is — as well as a real, and troubled, geographical place — a spiritual place inside each of those who, this month, will venture across the threshold for their annual visit to a church.
I hope that each of them will find a way to visit Bethlehem inside: a place of wonder, of first loves, a hidden and holy place where we remember what we wanted when we first began all this. A place to meet with hope, and light; and to honour the glory of God, always — yes, always — with us.
The Revd Lucy Winkett is Rector of St James’s Piccadilly, in the diocese of London.