To Church of St James’s of the Knights Hospitaller of Jerusalem, as is my custom, to celebrate the habits of my tribe, as they have done since 1211. In King John’s time, Walter de Turberville gave the manor to the Knights, who formed a small Commandery and with local helpers built the church. Thomas Hardy was said to have used Turberville as an inspiration for the opening pages of “Tess of the D’Urbervilles�.

It was a mild night, and we came in time to get a good pew at the front, up against heating pipe. The church filled quickly, most places taken, perhaps 65 in all: adult villagers, several impeccably behaved young girls and two real, bouncing babies, the one nearest us in a pure white baby suit and a pair of reindeer antlers. There even were five of those odd things: teenagers. This infusion of new births knocked the mean age down by two decades, and made the congregation buzz. The majority occupation was “formerly something in London� now augmented by “currently something in London and cyberspace� with only one farmer, but a good showing from the few remaining old-established country families.

The Christmas carol selection on a specially printed sheet gave the bare minimum guidance to the carol numbers in a separate booklet. The verses not to be sung were indicated by by a sign, but when singing it is not always apparent whether you have reached verse four or five, so there were hesitant pauses. Once again our kindly priest wanted boys to be able to sing with their fathers, and girls with their mothers, so he specified that particular verses were to be sung by male voices, others by female voices. Good idea, but a further burden on memory.

The Carols themselves presented the usual problem. Congregants wanted to sing familiar songs, the whole purpose of their rare attendance. The observant good Christians wanted to hear new music, or thought they should be open to it. Some of those new tunes deserve to be forgotten. The older, better-known Carols were belted out with gusto, the new ones muttered hesitantly. Why not stick to those, and raise the roofbeams, carpenters?

And now to the old problem. In Christmases gone by the organist sometimes stopped prematurely, thus editing out the last verse, denying the congregation their last proper orgasmic shout. That happened in 2015, and nobody wanted to break it to the good lady that she had denied us a treat, so we lapsed into frustrated silence. Last year it happened again, and there was a pause, as angels gathered in the firmament. The organist must have noticed the congregants in the front pews looking startled, because she chirped up: “Was there another verse?� and quickly rattled into it. Order restored.
History did not repeat itself this year, or perhaps it did. There were no cruel terminations, but in a new twist the introductory bars of one carol were so agonisingly out of key that only the truly devout had sufficient faith to venture singing it. In a mysterious way the correct notes arose out of the congregational memory, and the sin was forgiven, and the true way regained. Perhaps Hegel was right that history always repeats itself, not as farce, as Marx tartly observed, but in a change of key. I like that one.

The readings were of good standard, the teenagers giving sound service, but none thundered. After all, it was a familiar tale, and hard to cast as news. The candles flickered round this frail coincidence of Christian observation, taking us to other places, in contemplation and perhaps completion, the year ending as others always had, in the celebration of a new birth. In the end, we remembered those on a further shore, this year a full five of our parishioners, the heaviest toll in many years, several of them short of their three score years and ten.

In a departure from normal procedures, at the end of the service we were reminded that our Reverend Graham had come to the end of his service with us, and was to leave for another parish. A kind man, who gave up a career in biology for his calling, and whom I will miss. He gave us our last blessing.
Then, with abruptly brighter lights, mulled wine, mince pies, and conversation.

My older friend who said he was “91, and a half� last year now admitted to a full 92. We agreed that this was a better-rounded figure. He was in good spirits, though he kept sitting in his pew as we chatted. Then we gazed at the charming baby girl, and on the other side an alert and composed baby boy. Two new sets of young parents comparing notes. Children born into the village. Our Christmas family.
Then into the dark night, past chest tombs and yew trees, past Commandery and pond, past distant long barrows and Iron age forts, past houses with lit windows and fields with gloomy trees, past the ghosts of villagers who worshipped here, and farmed, tilled strip lynchets and kept sheep, past the Maypole and the battened hedges, past ponds and streams, stone walls and gates, all these spread out beneath the silent discant of the twinkling stars.

Merry Christmas to you all.