Light in the darkness: a woman lights a candle at church in Istanbul, Christmas Eve 2013. Photo: Getty
Show Hide image

Reverend Richard Coles: Despite the relentless consumerism, Christmas still has the power to give us hope

In spite of retail frenzy, the gratuitous use of glitter and our attempts to reconcile irreconcilable family, we perceive in the darkness a light shining, tiny and vulnerable but inextinguishable.

Out and about lately, people have been stopping me and talking about those awful scenes of consumer frenzy on Black Friday, bewailing the lack of Christmas spirit – sad face – and appealing to me for some kind of ecclesiastical endorsement of their seasonal rectitude. But I don’t want to give it. First, it’s not Christmas, it’s Advent, in which anxiety and challenge are principal themes; second, because Christ was born into a world of human reality, of strife and competition and acquisitiveness and the meanness of spirit with which we look down on those whose behaviour we deplore without much effort to understand it, a fact very often overlooked in a secular world that fancies my world offers a cosy mulled-wine-and-candlelight refuge from the harsh realities that the braver and wiser endure.

It is a season of peculiar shifts of mood and tone. Carol services start earlier and earlier – this year I hearkened to the herald angels and looked out on the Feast of St Stephen before World Aids Day (1 December) – and I expect by the time we get to Midnight Mass the evergreen appeal of carols may have wilted a little.

But that’s just the soundtrack. Far more challenging is the sheer arbitrariness of human misadventure, rising and falling without any regard for calendar or occasion. Since I have been ordained, I have never had a Christmas without a bereavement, the onset of winter a time when the incidence of death rises as nights draw in and the temperature drops and Christmas adverts and episode 12 of Strictly finally persuade the dying that perhaps they’ve had enough. I have gone from a church Christingle service, still chewing a Jelly Tot, to a deathbed; from children holding candles in anticipation of the birth of Christ to a husband holding the hand of his wife in anticipation of her imminent death. This is just how it is.

At my first Christmas in my first parish, one of my colleagues took me down to the meanest street on the meanest estate, where life could be very dark sometimes, to see two houses side by side in competition for the most extravagant Christmas display in town. Santas climbed up chimneys, reindeer scampered along rooftops, snowmen waved from frost-fringed windows, the whole street glittering in brilliant hues, all hooked up illegally to the municipal power supply.

“Visible from fookin’ space,” said one of the kids in our Sunday school who joined us there. I knew how tough life on that estate could be, thanks to heroin and poverty and generational unemployment and the way that many were beyond the margins of luckier people’s sympathy and concern. So this irresponsible, illegal and non-risk-assessed display lifted all our hearts.

My favourite festive illumination, however, was not on the estate but on a house on one of the roads leading out of town. At first sight there was nothing very different about it: Rudolph and pals pulled Santa’s sleigh merrily along, streamers of white lights dripped from the eaves and a Christmas tree stood twinkling in the window. But it decorated the gatehouse to the cemetery and every solemn cortège that passed through that Christmas was waved at by a jolly Santa as it slowed down for the crem. I often wondered: what went through the minds of mourners who were greeted by such a festive ensemble as they dabbed at their eyes in grief – or was it hilarity?

There was a funeral in church last week, as the Advent candle burned, of a young woman who was coming here to be married but died a week before the wedding. Her partner and their children, surrounded by wedding presents, had to plan a funeral instead. On the day, her bridesmaids came in their dresses, her groom in his suit, her son in his Sunday best; and her daughter, the flower girl, scattered petals on the way to her grave rather than to the altar.

The funeral service and the marriage service come quite close together in the church manual but finding a way of using the forms of words and ceremony without it jarring so much that it becomes facetious or meaningless is a challenge. There are readings that are suitable for both weddings and funerals, the 13th chapter of Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians among them, so words that would have been heard at the wedding were heard at the funeral: “Faith, hope and love, abide these three: but the greatest of these is love.”

We know them so well, even when chapter and verse are no longer known, that they slip by barely catching our attention, their familiarity robbing them of the distinctive power that made them familiar in the first place. They are powerful not because they capture some whimsical fancy, a Romantic trope that pleases us, but because they capture an irreducibly weird paradox: that at the moment of most devastating loss people may still find a wholly unexpected assurance that what is lost is not lost but preserved in a reality beyond this reality that lies beyond the furthest horizon of human joy and suffering and waits for us like dawn on the edge of a black night.

That is still intimated for many at this time of the year, when, in spite of retail frenzy, the gratuitous use of glitter, our attempts to reconcile irreconcilable family and that pimped-up version of “Jingle Bells” I had to endure at a hotel breakfast the other day, curdling my Christmas spirit so much I nearly pushed the tree over – in spite of all these, we perceive in the darkness a light shining, tiny and vulnerable but inextinguishable, and in its radiance a hope, undiminished by years and experience, is revealed once again. Whoever you are, wherever you are, of whatever faith or of none: may you find joy and peace and enduring love. 

Richard Coles is the author of “Fathomless Riches: or How I Went from Pop to Pulpit” (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, £20)

This article first appeared in the 19 December 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas Issue 2014

Getty
Show Hide image

The decline of the north's sporting powerhouse

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Now, things are different.

On a drive between Sheffield and Barnsley, I spotted a striking painting of the Kes poster. Billy Casper’s two-fingered salute covered the wall of a once-popular pub that is now boarded up.

It is almost 50 years since the late Barry Hines wrote A Kestrel for a Knave, the novel that inspired Ken Loach’s 1969 film, and it seems that the defiant, us-against-the-world, stick-it-to-the-man Yorkshireness he commemorated still resonates here. Almost two-thirds of the people of south Yorkshire voted to leave the EU, flicking two fingers up at what they saw as a London-based establishment, detached from life beyond the capital.

But whatever happened to Billy the unlikely lad, and the myriad other northern characters who were once the stars of stage and screen? Like the pitheads that dominated Casper’s tightly knit neighbourhood, they have disappeared from the landscape. The rot set in during the 1980s, when industries were destroyed and communities collapsed, a point eloquently made in Melvyn Bragg’s excellent radio series The Matter of the North.

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Yet today, we rarely get to hear the voices of Barnsley, Sheffield, Doncaster and Rotherham. And the Yorkshire sporting powerhouse is no more – at least, not as we once knew it.

This should be a matter of national concern. The White Rose county is, after all, the home of the world’s oldest registered football club – Sheffield FC, formed in 1857 – and the first English team to win three successive League titles, Huddersfield Town, in the mid-1920s. Hull City are now Yorkshire’s lone representative in the Premier League.

Howard Wilkinson, the manager of Leeds United when they were crowned champions in 1992, the season before the Premier League was founded, lamented the passing of a less money-obsessed era. “My dad worked at Orgreave,” he said, “the scene of Mrs Thatcher’s greatest hour, bless her. You paid for putting an axe through what is a very strong culture of community and joint responsibility.”

The best-known scene in Loach’s film shows a football match in which Mr Sugden, the PE teacher, played by Brian Glover, comically assumes the role of Bobby Charlton. It was played out on the muddy school fields of Barnsley’s run-down Athersley estate. On a visit to his alma mater a few years ago, David Bradley, who played the scrawny 15-year-old Billy, showed me the goalposts that he had swung from as a reluctant goalkeeper. “You can still see the dint in the crossbar,” he said. When I spoke to him recently, Bradley enthused about his lifelong support for Barnsley FC. “But I’ve not been to the ground over the last season and a half,” he said. “I can’t afford it.”

Bradley is not alone. Many long-standing fans have been priced out. Barnsley is only a Championship side, but for their home encounter with Newcastle last October, their fans had to pay £30 for a ticket.

The English game is rooted in the northern, working-class communities that have borne the brunt of austerity over the past six years. The top leagues – like the EU – are perceived to be out of touch and skewed in favour of the moneyed elites.

Bradley, an ardent Remainer, despaired after the Brexit vote. “They did not know what they were doing. But I can understand why. There’s still a lot of neglect, a lot of deprivation in parts of Barnsley. They feel left behind because they have been left behind.”

It is true that there has been a feel-good factor in Yorkshire following the Rio Olympics; if the county were a country, it would have finished 17th in the international medals table. Yet while millions have been invested in “podium-level athletes”, in the team games that are most relevant to the lives of most Yorkshire folk – football, cricket and rugby league – there is a clear division between sport’s elites and its grass roots. While lucrative TV deals have enriched ruling bodies and top clubs, there has been a large decrease in the number of adults playing any sport in the four years since London staged the Games.

According to figures from Sport England, there are now 67,000 fewer people in Yorkshire involved in sport than there were in 2012. In Doncaster, to take a typical post-industrial White Rose town, there has been a 13 per cent drop in participation – compared with a 0.4 per cent decline nationally.

Attendances at rugby league, the region’s “national sport”, are falling. But cricket, in theory, is thriving, with Yorkshire winning the County Championship in 2014 and 2015. Yet Joe Root, the batsman and poster boy for this renaissance, plays far more games for his country than for his county and was rested from Yorkshire’s 2016 title decider against Middlesex.

“Root’s almost not a Yorkshire player nowadays,” said Stuart Rayner, whose book The War of the White Roses chronicles the club’s fortunes between 1968 and 1986. As a fan back then, I frequently watched Geoffrey Boycott and other local stars at Headingley. My favourite was the England bowler Chris Old, a gritty, defiant, unsung anti-hero in the Billy Casper mould.

When Old made his debut, 13 of the 17-strong Yorkshire squad were registered as working-class professionals. Half a century later, three of the five Yorkshiremen selec­ted for the last Ashes series – Root, Jonny Bairstow and Gary Ballance – were privately educated. “The game of cricket now is played in public schools,” Old told me. “Top players are getting huge amounts of money, but the grass-roots game doesn’t seem to have benefited in any way.”

“In ten years’ time you won’t get a Joe Root,” Rayner said. “If you haven’t seen these top Yorkshire cricketers playing in your backyard and you haven’t got Sky, it will be difficult to get the whole cricket bug. So where is the next generation of Roots going to come from?” Or the next generation of Jessica Ennis-Hills? Three years ago, the Sheffield stadium where she trained and first discovered athletics was closed after cuts to local services.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era