Benevolence and kindness in churches grand and humble

A couple of weeks ago, I flew to London to spend a little time there before Christmas. Foreign travel is a luxury, and I appreciate my good fortune. The travel part of it causes a great Grinchiness in me, but upon arrival at a hotel, it all subsides, and I must tell you, London is a wonderful, beautiful place during the holidays.

One of the seasonal highlights for me on any trip is attending a church service, and this time it was “Weekday Choral Evensong, according to the Book of Common Prayer,” at the magnificent St. Paul’s Cathedral. Designed by Sir Christopher Wren and completed in 1710, it is an extraordinary piece of architecture, with a dome reminiscent of our own U.S. Capitol. Those of you who are Anglican, or even Episcopalian, would be familiar with the service. I was not, but found it to be absorbingly moving, particularly when the voices of the choir filled the cathedral. One needn’t experience church on such a grand scale to experience a sense of benevolence and kindness from a congregation seated nearby. I still tear up at the thought of the love and warmth of Christmas in the small-town Lutheran church of my growing.

Quoting from the Magnificat in the biblical book of Luke, one that dates back some 1,800 years, the minister was letting us know that God still sees us, and wishes us to understand the order of his justice, saying “He hath put down the mighty from their seat: and hath exalted the humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things: and the rich he hath sent empty away.” Reading today’s headlines, it could have been written last week.

After traveling, it’s always good to get home. Awaiting me in the mail was a handful of Christmas cards, including one addressed to “Kurt, Luna, and Pippa.” As I’m writing this, Luna and Pippa are curled up in front of a fire in the living room. We’re all listening to jazz music from a Cedar Rapids jazz station, and my Christmas tree is up and decorated. Sort of. My wife and I always enjoyed a ‘real’ Christmas tree, but after her passing on Christmas Eve five years ago, I’ve not felt enough joy to bother with any kind of tree, until this year. My sister sent a gumdrop tree, like my mother’s, one I decorated with my favorite holiday spice drops. It’s a tree that feels just about right to me. Luna, active and a little demented, enjoys the tree as well, pulling drops from the tree and pushing them onto the dining room floor.

It’s dark now, but in the morning I’ll look out the window, look out at some of the last of my years. At the moment, the ground is covered with snow, only some of which was here when I went away. While absent from this place, more blanketed the countryside, as described by the English poet Christina Rossetti, written for a familiar hymn, “Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow.” It’s a hymn I first learned in that small church a long time ago, a church where, if not singing in the choir, I’d sit next to my mother in the congregation, our alto and tenor voices singing of our love for this time we call Christmas. She is gone these 35 quiet years.

At my age, the past is rapidly fading. Friends and family come, and they go, and the ones who were close no longer turn to us when we speak their name. We make a concerted, conscious effort to move forward, but it’s not always easy, especially this time of year. The writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, in “The Great Gatsby,” a novel he wrote 100 years ago, may have said it best when he wrote, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” Happy holidays, my friends. Tell someone you love them.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County and hosts the “Rural America” podcast. It can be found at https://www.ullrichruralamerica.com