3 minute read
Advent reflection
Spotting angels
Ron Thomlinson and the Rev James Macfarlane continue a series of reflections for Advent
RON, the greatest Christmas song of all time is, in my opinion, ‘White Christmas’. Bing Crosby’s version alone has sold at least 50 million copies. Add other recordings of the song to that and the figure becomes astronomical.
Sentimental slush with no real religious content! That’s the judgement you might expect to hear from me, and so it was until I read a reminiscence from Crosby’s nephew, Howard. He asked his uncle about the most difficult thing he ever had to do. The reply detailed one occasion when he had to hold back tears while singing that song. More slush, you might say. Perhaps, perhaps not.
It was December 1944. The place was northern France. His audience was 100,000 soldiers on the brink of what became the Battle of the Bulge. Although he restrained his tears, countless people listening could not. Many would never return home. The last reminder they had of family ties was that refrain: ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…’
Would you call that schmaltz? What about Cary Grant as an angel in the delightful Christmas classic, The Bishop’s Wife? Cary Grant doesn’t feature in any Nativity paintings that I have seen, but if you asked people to name an angel in the golden age of Hollywood, Cary might have been there alongside Gabriel. In the film he plays Dudley, who is sent to fix the misguided cathedral building project of a bishop played by David Niven.
We get to recognise Dudley as angelic because he can do tricks. He is able to decorate Christmas trees with the wave of a hand and sort out disordered files that fly through the air into their correct holders – not to mention the down-atheel professor whose hospitality bottle never runs dry after Dudley has sipped from it. More concentrated slush and schmaltz!
But the story also has some punch. Dudley brings the bishop’s focus back to the poor and needy in his parish. He fixes the bishop’s strained marriage. He transforms people, not just things.
So, for those of us who celebrate this season through faith, do we have something to learn from Hollywood schmaltz?
Jim, you had me going there for a minute: I didn’t know whether ‘schmaltz’ was Gaelic or Glaswegian. But it’s a Yiddish word, originating from German, meaning ‘banal or excessively sentimental’.
I understand Tinseltown wanting to sell us angels at Christmas: they provide the feel-good factor of when everything comes right in the end. Who doesn’t want to believe in angels like that?
Therefore, I am launching a national campaign: I spy with my little eye, something beginning with ‘A’ – angels. We miss so much when we entertain angels unawares. So let’s start angelspotting.
A neighbour of mine recently became his wife’s carer, 24/7. He asked me if I thought ‘things’ were sent – not illness, but kindnesses, such as a helpful chat and spontaneous practical help.
‘If you are asking me if God sends helpers like angels unawares, then yes,’ I replied.
For my money, there are three kinds of angels.
The first kind are caring and brave professionals dedicated to helping others – firefighters, paramedics and the like.
Then there are the volunteer angels who help out at food banks, drop-in centres and, in an earlier generation, might have belonged to the Army’s Goodwill League.
Third are the freelance angels who receive their instructions directly and spontaneously from the Eternal who sends them. When Graham and Doreen Dolby were soldiers at Thornton Heath, despite busy lives and a small family, they continually opened their house to all and sundry. They were great examples of practical angels.
Mrs Connie White, now an elderly Salvationist at Brighouse, has taken an interest in me since I was 10 years old. Sixty-six years on, she sometimes rings me on a Sunday morning to sing a chorus that the Spirit has put in her heart. A quick ‘God bless you’ and she is gone. Connie is an angel with a telephone ministry.
To use your words, Jim, we ‘who celebrate this season through faith’ do have something to learn from Hollywood angels: schmaltz is no match for the real thing.
Mercifully, looking like Cary Grant or even one of Charlie’s Angels is not a prerequisite for behaving like an angel. This Advent season, I plan to try and spot the angels who appear in my path and, when prompted, try and be an angel too.
