An edited version of a piece first published 12 years ago in our (then) parish magazine, where I reflect upon Christmas, here and in Strasbourg where we previously lived.
“Saint Nicolas, patron des ecoliers,
Apportez-moi des bonbons
pour mes petits souliers.”
(St. Nicolas, the children’s saint,
Fill my little shoes with sweets.)
So goes the old song, sung by children throughout France, but what has this to do with St Nic’s? Well, on 6th December, when you are celebrating our church’s patronal festival, one family will be missing. We will be spending a long weekend in Strasbourg, visiting the city’s famous Christkindelsmarik, (Christmas Market). The Fete de Saint-Nicolas looms large in the calendar of most Alsaciens, as it marks the beginning of over six weeks of junketing and celebration leading up to Christmas and continuing beyond.
“What a coincidence," I thought; and decided to write a short article telling you just a little about some of the customs and traditions that we have come to know and love over our seven years living in France. How could we possibly cope without them? Since then, several things have happened to make me think again.
Firstly, the piece just would not sparkle. Alsace is absolutely steeped in tradition (dictionary definition – unwritten body of beliefs, facts, etc, handed down from generation to generation, practice, custom of long standing). I had not enjoyed Christmas in the UK; it was too commercialised, and so was overjoyed to encounter the many customs, both religious and secular that mark the festive season in Alsace. Fete de St Nicolas, Christmas Market, Advent Crown, vin chaud, pain d’epices, the creche beneath the tree…wonderful, 'tradition,’ warmth, cosiness, safety. A veritable winter wonderland, in fact. Except that when I put it on paper it sounded more like the worst kind of travelogue.
Had I really only imagined it? Out came my books on Alsacien folklore, cookery, and history. And I sat down to watch two souvenirs – Christmas videos – one made by our local Alsacien television station, the other by the Strasbourg tourist office.
The first included interviews with a number of people; the plantation worker busy cultivating Christmas trees for sale at the market, the man working in the family business carving traditional wooden toys, the country priest who works eight parishes, grabs a simple dinner of potato and eggs, and finally gets to sleep at 5 am on Christmas morning.
The next took me on a tour of the city, led by a be-furred Christkindel and backed by a heavenly choir. This was the Strasbourg that I remembered so well, except that something was missing. Where were the familiar faces that we had grown to recognise over many years? The unphotogenic, the unmentionable, those figures hunched in shop doorways; the drunk, drugged and merely dirty. There was no film footage of the beggars and down-and-outs, genuine and otherwise. No mention of the bus that nightly distributes clean syringes to drug addicts, the man who froze to death in the street last winter, the refugee clutching a drugged, comatose toddler, or the prostitutes that M and I glimpsed as we drive out of the city for the last time.
Today, I opened the post to find a copy of something I had written a year ago in response to an increasing feeling of frustration at the sheer daftness and Political Correctness of the British at Christmas. Walking along the street and seeing the shops decorated (on November 5th!) confirmed my opinions.
Suddenly, I remembered a conversation we’d had that morning about how so many people today were unable to grasp even the slightest significance of the Easter Story, if indeed they had ever been exposed to it in the first place.
I thought of the St Nicolas song that began this piece with its subtext of “gimme, gimme, gimme!” I thought of the tourist video with its seductive message of sugary goodwill, the Christmas message hijacked by secular forces. And another piece of the jigsaw fell into place.
Traditions are good, but if they become fossilised they may as easily hide the true meaning. Struggling through the Christmas crowds in the Christkindelsmarik to the accompaniment of
‘Petit Papa Noel,
quand tu descendras du Ciel’
(Dear Father Christmas, when you come down from the sky/Heaven!).
is no better than battling through Sainsburys to the dulcet tones of Slade, John Lennon, Wham! et al. If we do not keep God’s real gift central to the forthcoming celebrations, how can we ever help others or even ourselves to reach Easter Day?
Scheeni Wihnacht!
Joyeux Noel!
Merry Christmas!
