VICAR'S LETTER
17
Sundon Road
Streatley
January, 2008
Dear
All
A little reflection - a parable, a prayer. - inspired by the recent celebrations.
This year, over 700 people have attended the five main Christmas services held in this church. It is a statistic that prompts the question: Why does Christmas still retain such a hold on us? A clue to at least part of the answer may lie in a story I read earlier this year. It comes from Ficciones: Four Stories and a Play, by the resoundingly named Basque author Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo. All I want to do by way of reflection is first to tell the story and then, in prayer, to think about what it might have to say.
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a little village. It lay in a remote valley of the Pyrenees. For centuries the way of life continued virtually unchanged. But then, far from the village, in the big city, somebody made a decision. The valley would be dammed for a hydro-electric project. The little village would be drowned. When the villagers heard of it, they were furious. They tried to protest. But no-one listened. The contractors moved in. Work on the dam began. The villagers were moved to a new village high up on the valley side.
Two years later, the dam was finished. The villagers gathered on the terrace below their new village and watched as the water of the lake slowly rose, covering the place that had once been their home. But while they were sad, they were no longer angry. They had come to like their new village. Their streets were brightly lit. Their homes had every modem convenience. And, best of all, thanks to the building of the dam, they had a wonderful new road connecting them to the outside world. Already the village was becoming a thriving winter sports centre while the new lake opened up possibilities for summer trade.
The new dam brought prosperity, opportunity, convenience, and choice. But in their quieter moments the villagers reflected that these gains had come at a price. Their centuries-old communion with their land, with each other, and with God had been broken. Their homes, once made of local stone, were now prefabricated concrete. The fields they had once so lovingly cared for were now scarred by ski-runs. The animals they had once so watchfully tended, were gone. They were no longer at one with each other. Co-operation had given way to competition. Instead of helping each other to gather in the hay or to move the animals to summer pastures, they now vied with each other for the tourists' euros. And they no longer felt so close to God. Once the church's feasts and festivals had been the highlights of village life. Now they went largely unheeded.
It is, perhaps, this desire to recapture what had been lost that explains the curious events that takes place in this village every Christmas Eve, events that set it apart from every other village in the Pyrenees. As midnight approaches, the villagers leave their homes and quietly make their way down the steep lane that leads to the lake. They do so because they know that on the stroke of midnight they will hear again the bells of the village church pealing out from beneath the still waters of the lake. They listen, they hear, and for a few minutes at least, they are, once more, at peace.
Let us pray:
We recall, Lord, the story of the little village and its people. We reflect on how closely their story mirrors our own.
The villagers watched their old village drown and with it the ending of a centuries-old way of life. We too have watched the final drowning of a centuries-old way of life. The world of the village, with its life centred on its local fields and its local church, is no more.
But the villagers came to like their new way of life. They loved the prosperity, the opportunities, the convenience, and the choice that it brought. And we, too, have come to love our new way of life with all the good things that it offers. We would much rather live in the world as it is now than go back to the world as it used to be.
Yet the villagers, for all that they loved this new village and this new life, also knew that something had been lost. The old communion with their land, with each other, and with you had been broken. We share that same sense of loss. We are frightened by what we are doing to the world and its creatures. We recognise that neighbourliness, community spirit, and even family life are not what they were. We acknowledge that we, like them, no longer feel so close to you.
The desire of the villagers to recapture what had been lost drew them each Christmas Eve to the lakeside to hear again the bells of the old village church pealing out beneath the waters. They listened and found peace. That same desire, Lord, draws us here each Christmas, not to hear the old bells, but to look again at that simple scene in the stable and to see there a picture of a communion restored - people - Mary, Joseph, the shepherd; creation - the ox, the ass, the sheep; and you, Lord, once more at one.
Almighty God, you made us for yourself and our hearts are restless till they rest in you. May the scene in the stable of communion restored fill us with peace and inspire us to work to restore that communion in all the world. Amen.
All best wishes,
Roger