Thought for the Day

Good morning. ‘Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her best companions.’ So says Jane Austen of Fanny Price in Mansfield Park. But she could equally have said it of herself. Jane Austen’s 250th birthday this week is being widely celebrated on this network. She was swathed in the practice of faith: her father and two of her brothers were ordained, and two visits to church on Sunday were her lifelong pattern. She certainly knew the shortcomings of religion: parodying the servility and self-importance of the parson Mr Collins, she says he ‘was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society.’ Her gift is to turn the interactions of family and community, and especially the elaborate dance and fragility of finding a marriage partner, into a whole moral universe. Her characters transcend their surroundings. One, Mr Bennet, says laconically, ‘For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?’ Another, Mr Knightley, says poignantly to Emma Woodhouse, ‘If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.’ It's a truth universally acknowledged that it’s never been clear what it actually means to be a Christian. Some insist on adherence to specific doctrines. Others on obedience to identifiable moral codes. Others point to formation in a traditional culture. A woman of her time, Jane Austen’s participation in worship and devotion was socially conventional. But she has her own answers to this perennial question. If she were to identify a favourite parable, my guess is she’d choose the story of the two sons, one of whom refused his father’s request to go into the vineyard, but did; while his brother said, ‘I will,’ but didn’t. For Austen, Christianity’s about actions not words. ‘Christian’ is more of a verb than a noun. The many suitors are sifted out not by their protestations of love, but by their true character. Of Fanny Price, we’re told, ‘She made herself indispensable to those she loved.’ Which connects Jane Austen in a significant way to Christmas. For the Christmas story’s not about what God says. It’s about what God does. In Northanger Abbey, Isabella Thorpe exclaims, ‘There’s nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves. It’s not my nature.’ Coming in person as a vulnerable baby is communicating by action rather than by word. Maybe Jane Austen knew exactly what she thought being a Christian meant. It meant not loving by halves. Perhaps she’s more of a theologian than she’s usually given credit for.

Good Morning, ‘Hark!’ ‘Do you hear what I hear?’ ‘They said there’d be snow this Christmas; they said there’d be peace on earth’ ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ ‘I pray God it’s our last!’ Throughout the land the lyrics of Christmas songs are being piped in shopping centres and pubs and, loved or loathed, we sing along. This year’s official Christmas No1 will be decided on Friday. Current favourite is Kylie, with oldies from George Michael and Slade chasing hard. As Slade’s Noddy Holder sings; ‘Does your granny always tell ya that the old songs are the best.’ Then, in a tradition begun by Lennon and taken up by Rage Against The Machine, there are the Christmas protest songs. This year’s from Brian Eno and Peter Gabriel with ‘Lullaby’, a song for Gaza, and Billy Bragg’s ‘Put Christ Back Into Christmas’, with Bragg asking us ‘to stand with those who need the most’ and reminding us that Christmas celebrates the birth of a refugee. It seems very British to me that we are free to mix protest in with sentimentality and silliness. The Christmas story is spacious enough to contain all our hopes and fears, our joy and praise, our rage and indifference. Even our scrooge-iest revulsion. For I contend that the birth of Christ is itself a kind of cosmic protest song. The original Christmas No.1 was after all sung by angels to people at the margins of society: the young Mary and Shepherds, those far from the corridors of power and status; a startling song that announces a change to the status quo, a tune sweeter and louder than the prevailing mood music of despair, the monotonous dirge of violence and oppressive power, of one bad thing after another: ‘Do not be afraid’ it declares. ‘There will be peace on earth.’ It’s arguable that we might never have heard this story had the message not been sung to people who were immediately in tune with it, and able to sing back in words of astonished wonder and praise: ‘he has scattered the proud, put down the mighty, exalted those of lowly degree.’ Or ‘My eyes have seen your salvation.’ Once you’ve ‘hailed the incarnate deity’; or seen the Godhead veiled in flesh, the chances are you’re going to sing about it. Christmas invites the world to sing a different tune. I’d even suggest that part of the reason we still sing about it – even if we stray into sentiment - is that its core melody is like a pop tune or great carol you can’t help but sing along with. ‘No. I can’t get you out of my head; because God and sinners are reconciled; because mild he lays his glory by; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee; And so this is Christmas.’

Good morning. This year, for the first time, I've bought a real, 6-foot Christmas tree - and I hit the shops in search of baubles and tinsel.The only problem? Fashions have changed. I want the kind of tree I remember from the 80s: a multicoloured glitter bomb that looks like a dozen boxes of quality street.Alas, things have gone posh. It's all pink and white now, or cold blue; coordinated and minimalist. As if decorating a hotel foyer. I stared for days at my naked tree, preferring that to the retail option, and wondering why I was so bothered.Well, trees clearly do still matter because people are furious that a public tree was cut down at Shotton Colliery in County Durham, a green spruce the village planted over a decade ago in remembrance of the dead from two world wars. . It reminded me of the grief that was felt when the Sycamore Gap tree was butchered in 2023.Christmas trees are far more than decoration. One legend has it, that they were introduced by Martin Luther, when he was out walking one winter night and saw the stars twinkling around the top of a fir. He put a tree hung with candles in his home, to remind onlookers that Jesus came from Heaven. This German tradition was imported to Britain by Queen Charlotte, who, in 1800, decorated the first known royal tree at Windsor - with fruits, toys, raisins and candles.It was already custom here to hang greenery indoors, probably to cheer us up while, in a colder age, the view outside the window was barren and white. To this pagan-ish spirit was added a Christian spin, the sparkling Christmas tree, like Christ, suggests light in the darkness and the promise of new life. For nature this comes with spring. For human beings, with resurrection.Faith, far from being at odds with the tangible world of nature, sacramentalises it. In psalm 96, "the trees of the forest" are ordered to "sing for joy" in praise of God. The author of the Old English poem The Dream of the Rood encounters a talking tree that provided the wood for Christ's cross, bedecked with gold and gems. This fits with my instinct that Christmas trees should be sparkly and bright, so bright that when the lights are switched on they’re visible from space.A wise friend pointed out that most Christmas decorations are not bought in one go, but accumulated over a lifetime. When they’re taken out of the attic and hung from the tree, the odds and ends are a trip down memory lane. Christmas trees invite wonder. Adults, I suspect, think of childhoods past. The tree connects us to mysteries of time and nature and promise.

15 DEC 25

13 DEC 25