Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, but I wish we celebrated it in October, like the Canadians. For one thing, winter weather would be much less likely to interfere with "over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go." Okay, in this case, it's Grandmother who does the travelling, but you get the point. October is a better time to have a harvest festival, anyway. And since the commercial interests have already declared that the entire last quarter of the year is the Christmas shopping season, they could kick it off with Thanksgiving the way they used to.
It's almost impossible to celebrate the succession of Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany in modern America. Another benefit of moving Thanksgiving to October would be that it it would no longer step on Advent. We almost always miss the solemn and lovely First Sunday in Advent because of our Thanksgiving travels. Worse, it's difficult to concentrate on reflection, self-examination, repentence, and anticipation of Christ's return when everything around you—including most churches—is shouting, "Christmas!" It's also unneighborly to be fasting when others invite you to a feast.
Then, when the anticipation has reached its height, and Christmas has been welcomed with bells on the midnight between December 24 and 25, and you are ready for a twelve-day-long celebration, the rest of the country stops caring. Abruptly. Around noon of the 25th. The atmosphere becomes positively Grinchy. Christmas trees, many having been decorated since before December began, are back in the attic, if not the trash, before Epiphany. Epiphany? What's that? Perhaps one benefit of our growing Hispanic population will be a rebirth of the Three Kings holiday.
So, we compromise. I'm thankful to be in a church that celebrates Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany. But I do try not to be Grinchy myself, and to go along with this peculiar admixture of Advent and Christmas. Unless we live in a cloistered community, it's unfriendly, not to mention quite against the spirit of the season—especially Epiphany—to shut ourselves off from our neighbors' joy. Besides, we'd miss some of the best music of the year!
Christmas in the Park. Every year on the first Thursday of December, the Morse Museum brings some of its beautiful Tiffany stained glass windows, along with the Bach Festival Choir, to nearby Central Park to celebrate Christmas. For Morse members, this was preceded by a reception at the museum. The food was good, but we recognized no one, not even the musicians. Nonetheless, a woman came up to me and asked, "Do I know you?" I couldn't place her at all, not that that means much, given my memory for names and faces. But it was my brown and white sweatshirt she knew. "Did you go to Westtown? I graduated from Westtown, and so did my husband." I explained that it was my nephews that went there, and I got the sweatshirt. Amazing, I said, that we were talking about the same Westtown. Drawing herself up, she replied, "There is only one Westtown." Then she laughed, and added, "Only one brown-and-white, Quaker Westtown, anyway!"
After the reception we walked to the park, and met up with some friends we hadn't seen in a while. It's a good thing we had cell phones, because the park was so packed with people we couldn't even get a good look at the famous windows, let alone find someone in the crowd. The window depicted to the left is Christmas Eve, ca. 1902. If God the Father looks a bit like Santa Claus, that's no coincidence: the window was designed by the son of Thomas Nast. There's some debate over who that figure is meant to be—it may be St. Nicholas—but I'm siding with those who call it a depiction of the Father, to complete the Trinity; it's hard to tell in this small view, but the Christ Child is holding a dove.)
It was a great concert, as outdoor performances go, beginning with standard carols and then branching into more interesting and lesser-known songs. The audience was invited to sing along, and the four of us had a blast singing all the verses of our favorites. We even did pretty well with the Hallelujah Chorus, although it's hard to keep track of the parts without music. (We made a quartet: soprano, alto, tenor, bass.)
Winter Park is as close to a European city as you can find around here. Walking along, we were reminded of last year's Christmas adventure in Strasbourg, France—only more crowded and without the chance of slipping on the ice and sliding into a frigid river.
Advent Lessons and Carols. Three days later, we were back in Advent, at the Cathedral Church of St. Luke. Sadly, there are reasons we can't make that our home church, but it has the best music in town. We sang not one contemporary "praise song," but instead: Come, Thou Redeemer of the Earth; Creator of the Stars of Night; Hark! A Thrilling Voice Is Sounding; On Jordan's Bank the Baptist's Cry (second time that day); Sleepers Wake! and O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. All verses, even of the last. Interspersed with these were Scripture lessons and offerings from the choir that included works by Bach (Lord Christ, the Only Son of God), Palestrina (Advent Matins Responsory), Heinrich Biber (thee of his Rosary Sonatas), John Rutter (Nativity Carol), Javier Busto (Ave Maria), Peter Mathews (Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem), and Benjamin Lane (Advent Vespers Responsory), plus a spiritual (My Lord, What a Mornin'), a Medieval English Carol (There is No Rose), and more!
As an unplanned bonus, we met and sat with our favorite elementary school music teacher. It was good to catch up with her.
Speaking of elementary school music, here's a version of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus from some fifth graders in Quinhagak, Alaska. Since it was a computer project done by students, I can forgive the misplaced apostrophes, usually a pet peeve of mine. (The teacher commented, "I now have a very teachable moment once we start school again.") I wonder, however, what was the source of their text. Can you spot the two interesting errors I found?
UPDATE 8/15/19: At some point over time, the end of #6 and the beginning of #7 went missing. I have no idea why.
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