A LATE CHRISTMAS GIFT

I ought to explain to my six or so faithful readers, that the blogs I write are not like a diary. They are written at various times and not necessarily posted in order. This one is being written January 11, for example, but I know it won't be posted until the end of January. As a result, the subject matter can seem somewhat out of date.

Maybe you can tell from these blogs that I really love Christmas. I usually look forward to taking several days off following the Christmas eve celebration to recover from the preparation and enjoy the season. This year with Christmas falling on Sunday, Advent was shortened by a week, and I couldn't get things ready for the days following. Hence, I only got one day off following Christmas, December 26 St. Stephen's Day, or Boxing Day as it is called in England, which is usually observed as a holiday there.

Deprived of my extra days off, I tried to extend by holiday season a little past Epiphany (January 6) even though I had packed up all the decorations and, worse yet, had again started on the low-fat, low-carb diet my physician insists on for me. I decided I deserved a special treat as compensation, so I ordered two DVDs I have been wanting for several years, "Carols from Kings" and "Anthems for Kings." The "Kings" in both cases refer to King's College, Cambridge. Endowed by King Henry VI there have been boy choristers singing there since the fifteenth century joined by adult male choral scholars. The most famous service of the choir is the service of Nine Lessons and Carols held every Christmas Eve and broadcast throughout the world.

I have listened to recordings of the choir for forty years now and some years catch the BBC broadcast in the U.S. which starts in the morning of Christmas Eve. Although I have attended Carol Services in this country many times, I never had the opportunity to see the televised version from Cambridge. With my new DVD I now have the opportunity to see the 2000 version of the service with the choir under the direction of Stephen Cleobury.

On a cold (for Florida) January evening I settled down to watch sipping a mug of steaming no-fat, no sugar added hot cocoa. It's a magnificent program. This is the first recording in surround sound which gives some impression of wonderful acoustics. It's visually wonderful, also. There are tremendous shots of the fan-vaulted ceiling of the chapel as well as of the choir.

The first Carol is always "Once in Royal David's City" sung unaccompanied by one of the boys. I have learned that it is the practice that four boys are prepared to sing the solo, but only at the last minute the director indicates who will sing. The youngster does a great job on this recording, without flaw. As I watch the video, I wondered why the choir was standing in the front of the chapel, before the altar with it's glorious altar piece, "The Adoration of the Magi" by Rubens. From everything I had read, the choir processed from the ante-chapel behind the organ screen and into the chapel. They were at the wrong end! And then when the first lesson was read, I was even more astounded. It was the wrong lesson. Had some one fooled with tradition and changed things? It was only later listening to an interview of the past three directors of the choir that I learned that in addition to the official service, the choir performs another one with different music for a televised version. My goodness! There are 25 carols in this recording. The boys have to learn a tremendous amount of music in addition to what they sign for the daily services in the chapel and special concerts.

An added feature of this DVD is the inclusion of a film of part of the festival of lessons and carols done in 1954 when Boris Ord was director. It’s black and white, of course, and the sound is below par, but it is a nice bonus. Ord directed the choir from 1928 to 1957 so this was near the end of his tenure. He directed, as was the custom then, with one finger tapping on the choir stall. The performance of “One in David’s Royal City” was almost painful to watch as his directing had almost nothing to do with what the boy was singing and I learned from an interview with David Wilcocks that Ord would hum the pitch for the singer in a rather indefinite tone, so the singer had to pull the pitch out of the air and ignore the directing which would have been no help at all. Well, the real work in a performance in the rehearsing, and Ord must have worked the singers hard to achieve the quality they did produce.

I suppose if I were more “blog literate” I would know how to include some recorded samples of the music, but I haven’t a clue how to do that. The best I can do is the pictures of the chapel, the choir, and the boys in their extraordinary top hats.

How wonderful it is to hear youngsters doing such professional work. Today fewer and fewer people are actually learning to perform music. Schools cut the music programs as economy measures depriving the students of the opportunity for learning about music and performing. And churches are no better. The day when a large church had three or four children’s choirs is gone. Even a small church like the one I grew up in had a choir for children and another one for teens. I loved singing and still consider my short time directing both an adult and a children’s choir one of the high points in my life. I’ll never forget the Christmas I had the children playing assorted instruments–piano, chimes, triangle, finger cymbals, and tambourine–to accompany the adults. The congregation had never heard anything like it. Someone even started to applaud. What joy there is in making music. I can't imagine being without it.

"Be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, giving thanks to God the Father at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ" (Ephesians 5:18-20).

May you travel your journey with music in your ears and on your lips and in your heart.
And may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

NOVEL EXPERINCE

Just in time for Christmas, I self-published my novel, Not All is as You See. Actually it wasn't quite ready as I discovered since there were about a dozen errors in it that have been corrected for any future copies. But I wanted to give a few copies as gifts this year so I rushed a bit. Well, I've been working on it for three-and-a-half years. When I started, I thought I'd be done in six months. Ha! I barely got the basic story down in that time.

It's a fantasy novel with witches and wizards. Obviously it was inspired by J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter books, so of course the hero is a twelve-year-old boy, but it really is a quite different setting. I wanted a world where the magical reality and ordinary reality were much more intertwined, where witches and wizards had to have ordinary jobs to make a living. I also wanted suggestions that one could be part of this world and still be a religious person. I suppose that is pretty heavy-handed on my part, but my own ordinary world had religious activities as integral to my life, so why shouldn't it be part of a fictional character's life? Read the Parable of the Talents, Matthew 25:14-27, for an underlying theme in my story.

The hero, Alan, is clearly myself. He has my interests and foibles. Many of the other characters have roots in people I knew, but none of them are exact representations of anyone. Some of the characters are pure imagination. I'm not quite sure where they came from. It was an odd facet of writing that some of the characters had a life of their own and even I, their creator, was not always sure what they were going to say or do. Is that weird?

The idea to self-publish came from my cousin D. Now, she never read the manuscript of anything so her suggestion come because she's my cousin and not because of the quality of my writing. Actually she is a much better writer than I am. I think, however, O wouldn't have gotten around to finishing the book without the possibility of publishing it.

A rather sophisticated young friend upon whom I inflicted a copy of my magnum opus asked if I felt accomplished. A very perceptive question. Yes, in the sense that I did produce a extended work of fiction, which is what I intended to do. Yes, in the sense that there was a real satisfaction in seeing the improvements in each of the 39 rewrites of the story. The early rewrites were to fix the plot. The later one to fix the writing, especially to take out some of the verbal garbage. Yes, also in the sense of coming up with some clever ideas in the course of writing. Yes, also in the sense that I had to do the layout of the pages and deign the covers myself--something I've never done. And yes, yes in actually holding the book in my hands. The only other time I did something like that was when I held my bound doctoral dissertation, but it looked like what it was, photo copies of typed pages. This looked and felt like a real book.

In another sense, I am disappointed. I didn't have the heart to tear the book apart to fix the major problems that I saw quite early. The book is far too long at 496 pages. There are actually two plots running. The first one is pretty boring. It takes too much time to get anywhere. It uses a literary device of stories within a story that really bogs everything down. There's too much stuff that interests me, but won't interest most readers. There isn't a sophisticated enough plot to hide what's going on. It's too easy to guess things too soon. There are some minor things that I think come as a surprise, but the major ones are too obvious. The hero isn't very heroic, but then neither am I. That's the limitation of autobiographical writing when you're not all that interesting in the first place. (I hope this novel is a little more interesting than my very ordinary real life.)

If I started over again, I do a lot more plotting before writing. I did make pages and pages of notes before I wrote the book, but it wasn't systematic enough. In particular I needed to work out the characters better, to get their "back story" down and clearly identify their personalities. I think I succeeded with some of the characters in giving them a "voice." They don't all sound alike. I tried to match the way they talked and acted with who they were, but that needed more work.

The other question my friend posed to me was "are you going to put it out there for the world to see?" Yes, sort of. I'm putting it out there for the very, very limited world that stumbles into the Lulu site to see. As of my writing this, 50 people have actually looked at the description of the book (woo-hoo), but no one has invested $1.36 to download it in PDF format let alone $15.95 plus shipping for a paperback copy. (Just in case, this is where it's available: Kofink's Stuff) The first two chapters are available for a free preview. There's no magic, however until chapter 2.) I didn't spend the money to buy an ISBN number and distribution plan, so the book won't be available in stores. At $1.09 profit per book, I'd have to sell way too many copies just to break even. I never figured on making money or having much of a readership. It will be a surprise if anyone actually reads through the book even when they got it as a gift.

I do have a report from one astute reader who managed to get through the whole thing. He rightly observed that the magical elements, which are rather limited in the beginning of the book, increase dramatically by the end. In part that was intentional. I wanted the reader to be uncertain about the reality of the magical world. In part, however, the shift is the result of the two stories that are squished together in this book and of my anxiety that something exciting had better happen before the end or the reader will have the same reaction as Alan does at one point, "What a stupid book!"

Is there another book in me? I have long planned a small book of prayers or devotions, but haven't gotten around to doing anything about it. I also made a few notes for a sequel to my novel, but there isn't nearly enough of a plot yet even to sketch it out. I do have an idea for two minor characters, witches named Angela and Agatha. They would be rather elderly twin sisters, physically identical, but with very different personalities. They'd both be good witches, mind you, but one would be rather angelic and the other something of an agony. I already have some short skits of a rather whimsical nature that are available free. Maybe some more ideas will come from that. In the meantime, there is this aimless blogging.

Whether my writing was a detour, a dead end, or a scenic path on my life's journey, I don't know. That's often the way on a pilgrimage. You often don't know where you were until you're somewhere else. In any case, in these ordinary times,

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

CHRISTMAS SERMONS

The old yeare now away is fled,
The new year it is entered.

--Traditional English carol

The old year is over. Christmas is over, also. We're in what the new church calendar calls "ordinary time." Still, my mind is on Christmas, in particular my Christmas sermon. I don't know how many of my dozen or so faithful readers are members of our church, so I should explain a little. Each Christmas Eve I deliver a sermon in the form of some character. This year is was a shepherd. I use minimal props (a staff and my toy lamb Baa-Baa) and costume (a headdress) to just suggest the character, then tell the Christmas story and comment on it from the perspective of that character. I usually know what I am going to do by mid-November, but this year it was couple of weeks before Christmas and I still hadn't got a picture in mind of what to do. (I have been having some trouble with depression lately which makes my creative juices dry up.) Fortunately, an idea came to me. Miss A (God bless) her agreed to portray the old shepherd's granddaughter which set up a scene for an old man remembering what happened many years before when he was a boy in Bethlehem.

I suspect there are people who think I have taken leave of my senses (if I ever had any) to do something like this. It is probably not what visitors expect when they come to a church for Christmas services. I know a colleague years ago who once explained to a person at another church that he was going to tell the Christmas story from the point of view of an alien from another world. He was met with the comment, "We have religious services at our church for Christmas." I suppose some wonder about my approach as well. My choice to do this kind of a sermon once (and only once) a year lies in some things from early in my years of ministry.

I started off doing very normal sermons in my early years. Then one year, I did a little bit of characterization in the first part of the sermon, and then switch to something more appropriately sermonic. After the service Matt said that he liked the first part of the sermon, but didn't follow the second part. Now Matt was not a member of the congregation. His wife and children were members, but he was Jewish. I pondered Matt's comment and when he said something similar the next Christmas, I began to realize the power of storytelling to communicate the message. I never preached a "normal" sermon on Christmas Ever after that.

Storytelling is an amazing way to communicate. Where purely didactic or exhortatory preaching tends to go in one ear and out the other, stories grab people's attention. I think people are able to find themselves in a good story. They can imagine themselves in the situation described. I know that when I drop into a sermon a short story about something that happened to me growing up, people will often say that it was just like something that happened to them. Each time I have done a version of the shepherd, someone has commented on how the presentation helped them understand the story better. My favorite comment was that little Baa-Baa and I made the story come alive.

Over the years, I have done several different characters besides a shepherd: an inn keeper, an angel, a wiseman, a jewel merchant, a tax collector. The most emotional characterization has been a Roman soldier participating in the census who later turns out to be the centurion at the crucifixion of Jesus. The one that has been the most fun for me is telling the Christmas story from the Devil's point of view. I have also done a children's Christmas sermon in which I pretended to translate a mouse's story about the nativity, and I also wrote a short skit where I had a non-speaking role as a waiter and the story was told by two ladies in a café (teenagers in my church) about what had been going on in Bethlehem the last few days. I also have a skit about two angels, but I will never be able to do it because I don't have the ability to remember lines, even when I write them myself.

Although I work myself into a frenzy at Christmas time, I enjoy doing the Christmas sermon–once it is done. Maybe that's what's adding to my depression this year because I realize I have perhaps six more such sermons before I retire. It's a strange feeling. I certainly won't miss the hassle of church life: the long hours and complaints from people who don't get their way about everything, but there are things I'll miss: the young people starting out in life, presiding at the Eucharist, preaching the sermon. Ah, but that is some time in the future, some time when I am farther along in my pilgrimage. No sense thinking about that now. After all, it is the journey that counts, and I'm still on my way.

A blessed New Year to everyone.
May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.
Wayne

GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST, PART 5

Late at night, or, more correctly, early in the morning we'd come home from church. We'd make sure our special Christmas stockings were properly hung in their place in the kitchen (we had chimneys but not fire places, and we didn't buy this modern, revisionist nonsense about Santa coming down the T.V. antenna). We'd tumble into bed and sleep ‘till we awoke. We knew better than to look for presents under the tree. Almost always they would be hauled out later in the morning. No, my sister and I made straight for the stockings. These we were allowed to open without an audience. We dumped out the contents to see what there was. Small things, of course, maybe toy soldiers or a windup toy. These we could play with until a decent hour when our parents got up. We would check out the window to see if it had snowed. Kids relished the thought of a White Christmas. It meant maybe getting to play with the sleds or something. Adults hated the thought of a White Christmas. It meant snow boots and galoshes and wet shoes. Most years it did not snow. The best of the snowy weather always waited until January when you were back in school.

At long last the presents appeared. As was the rule, they were to be passed out one at a time and opened the same way so everyone could see. Most of us would just rip open the packages. Mom would usually carefully remove the wrapping paper in case it could be used again some year. She had a drawer full of used wrapping paper, another one of our family's early gestures at recycling.

Christmas morning was the great toy giving occasion. I can remember getting a big red fire engine that you could actually sit in and ride around in. It had a bell in front and removable ladders on the sides–a fantastic present. I remember riding it in the house on Christmas day. This was also the year I realized the price of having a little sister. Everyone was fussing about her and taking pictures of her. I tried to ride my fire engine into the scene, but someone stopped me. It didn't make sense to me. Little sisters were O.K., but they didn't compare to red fire engines.

I don't know if memory plays tricks on me as I get older, but I don't remember ever being disappointed at what I got for Christmas. We sometimes made lists of the things we wanted, but didn't really expect to get everything. From an early age we had been taught that you can't get everything you want in this life. My parents had a pretty good idea what I would enjoy. I got lots of building toys–blocks, tinker toys, Lincoln logs, and a bunch of things to build skyscrapers. I really liked those. One year I got a crystal radio. I spent hours tuning in to far off places like Terre Haute, Indiana. There was an electrical kit one year with switches and wires and lights and buzzers and batteries. I learned all the essentials of electricity from that wonderful gift. There were games, of course. There always had to be a game for Christmas. Monopoly and Rich Uncle were favorites of mine. I loved any game with money in it. I'm not sure what my sister got except dolls, big dolls, little dolls, and of course the doll to end all dolls, the Barbie. As far as I can tell Barbie dolling was a way of life–sort of like Amway. There were clothes to buy for every occasion. There were accessories. There was Barbie's boy friend Ken and his wardrobe. There was Barbie's sister Skipper. On and on itwent;

I also got a lot of joy out of giving presents. People–particularly kids–who think life is all about getting are missing out on the pleasure of giving. It's funny how the simplest gift sometimes turned out to be the best. One year I bought Dad a shoe horn with a long handle. I think I bought it because it had a sailing ship on the top of the handle and I thought Dad, as an old Navy man, would get a kick out it. Dad used that shoe horn frequently, especially as his arthritis made it hard for him to reach down to put his shoes on with a regular shoe horn. One of the last presents I sent to him after I moved away was a little electronic game. I was visiting friends that Christmas, and when I returned home there was a message on my answering machine. It was from Dad complaining that my sister was playing with his game and wouldn't let him play with it. Shades of the electric train set.

Dad's brother's family came for Christmas dinner. They would walk over from their home late in the afternoon. Their arrival was something I looked forward to. There would be hearty cheers of "Merry Christmas" and much laughing and, if it had snowed, four people almost falling over themselves as they struggled with boots as well as hats, gloves, scarfs, coats, and packages. It was an atmosphere that Mr. Pickwick would have found agreeable. Boots were left in the kitchen, coats were sent off to lie on the bed. No one in our family ever had a closet to hang guests' coats in, and no one expected one. There would be a controlled, orderly exchange of gifts–more clothes and perhaps a religious item or two, a new apron for Grandma (which she stored in the cedar chest with the ones she had received the previous year), a bottle of Old Spice for Grandpa. These were more tokens than big time gift giving. The gifts were never the main focus of this gathering. It was the people that mattered.

Then it was time for dinner. When I was little, Grandma prepared dinner, the traditional turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and homemade jellied cranberries. When we exchanged apartments, Mom inherited Christmas dinner with the larger space. After a few years, the dinner itself changed. Mom found out that every Christmas our relatives ate an entire turkey dinner at noon with my aunt's mother. It seemed silly to Mom that they should have to eat the same meal again in the evening. (It seemed silly that this had been going on for years without anyone saying anything, but that's the way things worked on Dad's side of the family. One never asked for any special favors, like having something different for dinner). Anyway, Mom changed the menu to roast beef. Vegetables were usually peas and onions. And for her contribution, Grandma Kofink continued to make cranberries. I know there are many families that make Yorkshire pudding with roast beef. I suspect we were the only family in the nation that ate cranberries with roast beef. Even after Grandma passed away, Mom would make cranberries for the occasion and serve them in the same dish that Grandma had.

When dinner was done, we went off to the living room to sing Christmas songs around the piano. We were a pretty musical bunch (Dad and Uncle Herb excepted), and the grandparents enjoyed listening and occasionally joining in on some old German carol. It started out with Christmas carols, but over the years expanded to included show tunes. Not many people have this sorts of musicales anymore. If people want music, they pop a CD in the player and that's it. They don't know what they are missing.

The singing didn't end until it was time to eat again. Once again the parade of dishes came from the kitchen to the dining room, cake plates, forks, cups, saucers, creamer and sugar bowl, glasses for milk. There always had to be cookies and coffee. A few times there was a fruit cake, probably received as the result a grab bag. (See how dangerous those grab bags are.) And there were pies. Aunt Martha and Uncle Herb always brought pies from Heck's Bakery–apple pies with hard apples and glorious pumpkin pies with a thick, thick layer of whipped cream on top. More eating to finish off the night. Some joke telling, maybe, and finally one of the guests would decide it had been a day and announce, "Well, we'd better get going." Everyone would agree. The coats would be brought in from the bed room. People would struggle to get their boots back on, and with several more "Merry Christmases" people would disappear into the night.We kids were sent off to bed. In the early years Mom and Dad tackled the dishes, but as they got older everything was left for the next day. Somewhere near midnight the marathon ended. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

On this twelfth and last day of Christmas, may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne