There are no Words.

The situation in Syria is no topic for Christmas eve. It's too easy to shelve, in their range and vastness, with the uncomfortable issues that might plague us any other day of the year. Christmas, for all it's supposed to be about sharing, giving and love, is also incredibly selfish. It's about what I want – the gifts, the traditions, the family time (lucky bonus if the rest of the family agrees to these principles) – and what I do not want is cold images of mass beheadings, reports of troops kicking down doors and murdering screaming families, or the ancient fear of a dark and powerful evil raising its ugly head again, sinking bloody teeth into the pages of history to ruin my feelings of warmth, and joy's security. Despite a pricking conscience, I must confess, I found the reminder to be unwelcome – which is selfish when you consider those for whom forgetting is not an option.

Yesterday I was discussing this topic with a friend. The familiar sense came over me as we talked, and I found I had less and less to say, as my mind opened wider and wider to the horror of the images I had seen and deliberately forgotten, and to the terror of what he was describing. I felt overwhelmed, overcome with the sense of helplessness. So far away from anything I know, it may as well be an invading black mist in a fairytale, for I've no idea how I would find it, or how I might combat so great and so advanced an evil. My courage, my valour, if I should prove to possess any, or at the very least my burning zeal – or perhaps it is desperation – is not a weapon I might wield against any foe. For this reason, it is easier to soothe the burn of its urgency, and to forget – society's greatest fault: diffused responsibility equates to universal exemption from the obligation to act. Even acknowledging that I find to be a most depressing reality.

I might have answered it in a number of ways. For one, it brought home to me how divine is the gift of prayer. What a blessed gift, to have the ability to reach out using a number guaranteed to answer. As someone to whom such devastation often is heard (before it is forgotten) as a call to arms and has been near to signing up several times, it is the greatest salve to my mind to know that something I do, can and will make a difference. Not to say that an almighty god relies on the pleas of lesser beings, but in the smallest way, my little voice and the groanings of my heart which words cannot express (Romans 8:26), are understood and are felt by one who knows all, hears all, and controls all. His might is sufficient for them. And that is a great comfort.

As we discussed what one might do in the face of this, for having been fearfully awed by the regimes of Hitler and Stalin together in high school, neither of us wanted to look back and say “We didn't know” or “We did nothing”. On the other hand, what might my puny contribution be worth to an NGO? What might my zeal in my limited sphere accomplish for those who needed it?

In younger days I would have expressed my fervour, and diverted the darkness of the topic by suggesting that I ought to be president. Depending on the mood, this would successfully redirect the conversation, or perhaps allow me a soap-box to air my social conscience and assuage the assault of my conscience, believing I had 'done my bit'. But the suggestion seemed hollow. I was assured through hard knocks a a few more years' experience that I was no ruler, and would never be able to steer a country clear of the calamity I wish all people to be rid of.

“We need a world president” was what came to mind. What might such a man do?

And at last, I remembered. Given the time of year, it took me long enough.

We need a world power, one with might and power to break the rod of the oppressors and rob them of their sinister strength; one which might bestow peace and comfort to those who had been victims, to those lost in desperation and darkness, to those living in the literal land of the shadow of death.

An infinite moment, reminding, humbling.

The people walking in darkness

have seen a great light,

on those living in the land of the shadow of death

a light has dawned...

Every warrior's boot used in battle

and every garment rolled in blood

will be destined for burning

will be fuel for the fire.

It was imagery lifted straight from the prophesy of Isaiah, which has been my Christmas reading.

And you've already guessed what follows:

For to us a child is born

to us a son is given,

and the government will be on his shoulders

And [even so] he will be called Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

There are no words.

Death for Christmas

So it's Christmas.

And in that sentence seems the entire motivation for writing this: happy twinkles in your heart, inundation of goodwill (especially from the local shops, whose saving offers – they seem to think – border on Richard Branson-sized generosity), and of course, the familiar story re-invigorating my imagination. I always like to look at it in a new way each year – the temptation to confine it in mental Christmas-card snapshots and childlike warm-and-fuzzies is exactly what shelves it among the likes of Santa, the Grinch, and that jar of fruit mince in your fridge for mincepies – they only ever come out on one occasion.

Just because that's what we do every year.

I'm not about to jump on the anti-consumerism bandwagon (though for Christmas, Easter chocolate and Valentines' roses I could rant for hours). But consider: why else but for silly sentiment do we drag boxes of dusty and tired décor from the garage and install it in the house for a set period of time? My little soapbox sermon today is not for anti-consumerism, but for anti-sentimentalism... and my thesis this year was on narrative empathy – go figure.

Again a disclaimer: I do not pretend to be a cynic on this issue. I, probably more than most, appreciate and generate the happy twinkles, and write about them and dream about them, and for ages can stare contentedly at the myriad of pretty shadows made by the lights on the Christmas tree. But I'm reminded of the phrase (probably paraphrased or misquoted, but anyway) that which brings a man to faith sustains him.

Why do you sing the carols? Why, once a year, if never at any other point, is the idea of a present God, Emmanuel, less offensive to you? Why, even if you see through the gift-exchange, because Christmas is actually about Christ, is the preparation of the traditional feast, the exact calculation and budgeting for perfect gifts, so extraordinarily important? If you come to God at this time because you like to keep it up, or you like the warm fuzzies, let me be another in a long line of people to try and pop that bubble. What is the distant mood of the Christmas spirit going to do for you during an existential crisis at midyear?

But I digress.

This year, I have been contemplating myrrh. (And if we're going to discuss wise men being brought to God by a star – that involves a separate post). I remember, in an otherwise forgettable representation of the story, a man presenting a gift to the boy Jesus, after the gold-for-a-king and expensive frankinsense were presented, saying “Myrrh is for dying and day of death.” It was perhaps a bit harsh for a children's film, but gives new context to “And Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”

And perhaps, in keeping with my theory on injecting new emotions into tired narratives, I will venture a heretical statement: that Christmastime is not so much a time to contemplate warm blessings, but a tragedy. It's not difficult to be awed by the intricate operating bodies of newborns, the springing of new life in a tiny and complete human form, and yet here was one who had been branded at birth, like a Jewish child born in a concentration camp, marked for death. I don't know about you, but this year I find that desperately sad.

I have two friends whose dearest (and until now impossible dream) of having a child has just come true, and seeing this tiny person, so fragile and dependent, scares me terribly because I know (and can feel from their new-parent over-protective and by-the-book regime) how much the loss of her might affect them. Now consider Mary.

Now consider God.

What "More Trust" Looks Like:

Don't ask God for more faith if you expect he's going to let you stay in the boat

There are some Bible stories that completely flummox you, and then there are some that have a seemingly open-and-shut case to be made which can be picked out and applied in your life like reposting an indispensably encouraging picture on your preferred social media site.

Then there are others which come like an ice pick to the temples, and have you sheepishly cowering before a throbbing conscience.

Peter is usually the reason for this. I usually like watching all the disciples hopelessly toddle after Jesus in what we condescendingly look on as pure ignorance, but Peter always is the wild card. One foot permanently in his mouth (except of course in moments where he contrives to put the other in as well), and sometimes the only one who seems to get it. Like in Matthew 14:22-32. The disciples in their intrepid little boat, and here comes a bit of foul weather, but they're not despairing of life just yet. It's been a pretty emotionally draining day: the prophet cousin of their trusted leader had been murdered for the sake of an impetuous ruler at his birthday, and when they tried to withdraw, crowds followed so that Jesus had to perform a miracle to feed five thousand of them. He's been having some quiet time, but they're now far away because of the wind against their boat. No cellphones, so they're just going to re-convene elsewhere.

Now, just before dawn, at the darkest point in the night – picture a very long night, emotionally-exhausted men on a boat that's been buffeted too much to let them sleep – and suddenly there's a figure on the water coming toward them! Death on their minds and jumpy sleeplessness, it's even easier to conceive why they thought it was a ghost. But it's the Lord. Peter, first to jump to a conclusion, hits on the right one this time, and in an opportunity to enact his faith (and to walk on water!) climbs out of his boat – remember, the sea was a scary and unpredictable thing in their books, and this little boat is not becalmed; it had been bumped about all night – and Peter walked on water toward Jesus.

I love this mental image. What must those steps have felt like under his feet? Here is the storm, here comes Jesus – why not jump out of your little safety zone to meet him? Why not walk on the water because if your Lord is there, what shall come against you? For Peter though, it was the wind – and of course, he, as I would, suddenly grasps how very little there is between him, and this sea, and now there is no boat to rest his feet on. And what's this? Is he imagining it? No, he isn't he's really sinking!

It's almost too easy to pick out the application. The hard part is recognising how very everyday it is. What is it that distracts you? What safety zones of careers, friendship circles, home comforts, feelings of contentment or fulfilment do I rely on to keep feeling like I'm happy, or at least, I'm coping? And that's not the worst of it:

Peter knew John had been murdered by Herod because his steadfastness would not be compromised. And Peter, as I do, wanted to demonstrate that fervour. Fierce and desperate to prove his faith, and to be “on fire for God,” as our church slang would say. He enacts what has been my prayer of late, “help me trust more” – and what better way to prove it than on a rollicking sea, when all his comforts and trust typically lay in the rigging and a lifetime's experience and skill on a fishing boat? He stepped out, as I long to have a chance to prove, in that same inescapable way, that I do trust, that I am convinced – so everyone, including me, will never doubt the depth of my commitment.

But here's the catch – it's so obvious, it's shaming how I miss it every time – if you're going to ask to walk on water, don't expect you can do it from the boat. Trusting in its very nature, is an act of trust. You can't be put on medication for a disease you haven't got – how will you ever trust that the medication works when you need it to?

To learn to trust means to be in a position where doubting is easier, doubting is the most natural, and wishing for those comfort zones is almost all I can do: wishing for the nest of love and protection, shutting out the big bad world, so I can have the security of self-confidence that I can control things in my own ability. That's where life is easiest. But that's not where God calls us. To Peter, as to us, he says “Come.” Not stay.

Come out of that comfort zone, where security threatens to make you believe the lie that you are always going to be just fine where you are. Come away from that uncomfortable feeling of having done all you could, and things aren't going as you planned. Come back from the prettier distractions of your own ability, that seductive belief of your own agency, that you are the only builder of your sandcastle. Come and walk on water toward Christ.

A sense of blatant dishonesty won't let me end on that poetic image because Peter didn't. Peter sank. Peter sank as I have, and will do again many times, I'm sure. It's going to be very, very difficult. And for most of us, it won't feel like sinking instead of walking the water, floundering in the middle of a very heroic deed, no. It will feel like daily, quiet emptiness. A subtle failure and dissatisfaction depressing us without our even realising. And our walk with God will feel like a slow, laboured stumble.

But then is when I most need to return to God. Crying silently in the bathroom, with literally no other handle left to turn, no more mental energy to map out yet another coping strategy, and finally no more confidence to try or to cope at all, and with the water rising up about the neck, I shout out to God, like Peter did, “Lord, save me!” because at that point, I'm under no illusions that I have any ability to save myself anymore. And here's the glorious bit:

“And Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.”

He is going to see us flounder, and we like Peter are going to believe it's the end of all things, but he won't leave us there. And sometimes it may be like walking on water with our Lord back to the boat, where all the storm dies down, and with dawn in the air, everyone must acknowledge the awesome presence of God amongst them. And others it will be like drying your eyes, and telling yourself constantly until you believe it, that Jesus will not let you drown. So that next time there's a storm, you have your umbrella in one arm, and Jesus's hand in the other, and you are ready to be washed downstream without panicking this time.

It'll be some time before I get that right. But God is walking toward me as I walk toward him, and in all events, and I need to keep reminding myself of that, he's only, literally, an arm's length away.  

Latecomers to the Concert

You talk of 'losing yourself in music'. It is the comfy clothes of the clichés of approbation to be used today - like 'love'. To 'love' a band could mean a degree of enjoyment or devotion that spans mild appreciation for the choice of the iTunes shuffle, or rampant, obsessive fandom.

This last week, I was late for the concert of a brilliant pianist, and declining to make an obvious entry between the flow of pieces (between which there was no window of applause), I felt it necessary to rather linger in the anteroom outside than intrude foolishly amongst the better-mannered, and more punctual audience. I sank onto a step, and listened.

There is nothing so thrilling, I have often said, as the green-room sound of an orchestra warming up in the pit. The Konserv at Stellenbosch is a myriad of doors and walls whose generous confines occasionally allow vaporous sounds, thrilling airs, to flutter past the passers-by. What now emptied from the hall was an overflow of notes, tumbling and raining down from Chopin and Rachmaninov preludes. Streams and cascades fell between torrential thunderstrokes with earth-moving finality, and I was left breathless.

Another person appeared. We smiled briefly at each other, in reciprocal sympathy for our tardiness, and mutual pleasure of the performance. He hovered at the crack of the door. I watched in fascination as, eyes closed, he his fingers began to move, yearning after the sounds pouring from the keys, his head tossing gently in thorough acquaintance of the piece.

Another man entered; a small man, compact, with wizened grey scruff covering his face and pate, and with a ready smile, though missing a tooth or two, and gesticulating, with the over-exaggeration of a complete foreigner, he mimed a request to join me on the little step. I smiled and budged over, a gesture more to indicate my willingness than of necessity. In unbroken silence – but for the thunderous passion booming gently through the walls – the three of us lingered to wait out the storm. Though the first soon left, the second remained tucked on the step, blue cap in hand, staring at the carpet, tossing his head, dolphinlike, to the waves.

I could feel my head beginning to empty. It had been alarming, the first time this happened, to feel the return of conscious thought seeping back cautiously after the first brilliant performance I witnessed. I felt like I had somehow broken the bonds of gravity and had floated in ephemeral space, buoyed up by the flurry and flourish of the tumultuous sound of that stately instrument. But now I embraced it. The very furtherest extent of my thought, when it did come, was that next door, these notes were being brought to life; someone's fingers were creating and killing them right next door. And as they dripped and danced about the room, I was swept up in the tide, plummeting from their short lives, jostled out by over-eager successors.

With gradual interest I began to notice my little foreigner on the opposite end of my step. Sitting with knees pulled up close, half-leaning against the wall, one hand lay forgotten, neatly on his lap, and the other brought to his eyes. It was too intense for sleeping; I watched his chest heave with mighty effort - I half expected to presently find him weeping - moved beyond expression by what he heard. I could not but look on with envy and with awe, admiring him from one step away. Could that unearthly music be made visual, if you could paint it, it was, all its electrical energy, its heavy falls, all its impossible pouring rivers, somehow entirely captured by this little man, huddled against a carpeted wall, his eyes closed in thorough absorption.

And then I was lost. We stayed for the rest of the concert, slipping in at the eventual applause for an encore, and witnessed the insect fingers that scuttled at inhuman speeds, bringing forth more sounds than could be heard, and joined the applause at the end. But if I forget the face of the pianist, I will never forget the face of his music.

I shook hands with him afterwards, and he held mine. Even if I could speak his language, I don't know what I would have said to convey my wonder of his.

Story Stew; A review of Disney's 'Frozen'

There is something really traumatic about being disappointed in a Disney film, (and with great self-control, I will not even mention the zombie hoards of B-movie sequels). How sad, that the same people whose sprinkled fairy dust over the imaginations of our childhoods, now only live on to provide the latest pink fodder to decorate children's backpacks.

We weren't expecting too much, let's be honest, of Frozen, after the teaser involving a wordless competition between a snowman and a reindeer for a carrot. And being “loosely based” on Hans Christian Andersen's The Snow Queen (a detailed tale intended for a sort of Christian parable for children) there was little hope that any of the original masterpiece would survive the Disney makeover. As an aspiring writer I have been formulating my conclusive idea of what a story should be, and primarily it should be a story. I do not mean that tales without much plot development, because a story can develop in its characters, in its telling even, but a story needs a good storyline.

The two goals established (namely retrieving the sister and removing the winter's curse), were so simply accomplished (and the curse's removal so abruptly and conveniently dealt with) that it needed several villains in the guises of a tricksy but completely underdeveloped evil motivations to get in the way and keep the film from being a ten-minute epic. There was also a mountain of snow man who swatted them and sent them down PlayStation snow slopes. And a misdirect so successfully diverted attention that the 'true love' of the story was entirely devoid of chemistry for more than half of the film.

As for the music, it was as if the songs and the storyline were developed entirely independent of each other. Some were good, certainly, and brilliantly performed - Kristen Bell and Idina Menzel's talent work wonders for each song that features them. There was nevertheless a feeling that many a song was forced, protruding from the action like a hair out of place, and left me feeling like the musical director was trying to prolong the cheery or comic moment with pathetic success. Music should be the emotional communication of a mood or feeling when words would no longer supply. The glaring exception is Idina Menzel performing “Let it Go” - a thrilling, spine-tingling piece of music, doing everything a good song should.

On the whole, however, I would not say that I didn't properly enjoy it. Disney's characters are a gimmick (and one on which they thrive) that successfully win your love, heroes and heroines alike are both noble and admirable but still capable of human faults, and their sidekicks are dear and hilarious. (Something should be said to Americans though, about their idea of foreigners with predictable names like Olaf and Sven, and poor German accents).

Refreshingly, the cannon of true love's kiss was utterly thwarted, this once, by the correct definition of true love, “when you put someone else's needs before your own,” and an act of sisterly love and of great sacrifice works the most powerful magic. To see Disney shed their impossibly idealistic (but never unentertaining) portrayals of romance, makes a welcome change, and we can enjoy the fun of their mocking in 'Love is an Open Door', instead of trying to believe in it.

If a good tale is like a perfect stew, think of Frozen as watery concept in which has been poured nothing more than plot thickener, but you have so many vivacious characters around the dinner table, that you don't notice how much your dish is without substance, and you go away having thoroughly enjoyed your evening.