Out in the darkest night

Search for carols appropriate to Saint Lucy (whose martyrdom is commemorated today), and basically all the Interwebz can hawk up is “Santa Lucia”. Which I’ve given you before, along with a treatise on pre-Christian Scandinavian mythology. And look, there’s nothing wrong with reprising it, but I wanted to see what else is out there.

After all, what those Nordic folk are clinging to is that hope of light returning—very important when you’re spending 24 hours a day in frozen darkness for a few months. In the case of Saint Lucy, whose name means light, the focus is on candles—which, as you know, I am all in favor of. Especially in winter.

So I started playing with “light”, and came across the old (well, -ish) gospel song, “This Little Light of Mine”. It’s not specifically a Christmas or Advent piece, but takes its theme from Jesus telling his followers (in Matthew 5:14-16, if you’re asking) “Ye are the light of the world… Let your light shine before men, that they may see your fine works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.”

Basically: shut the hell up and live a life of love and decency that others will want to follow—not envy, follow. (This concept is anathema to the pastors of megachurches and their acolytes; they’re all about the gospel of prosperity and grinding down anyone who doesn’t pass the melanin test to make them appear to sit higher.) So it’s appropriate that “This Little Light” became one of the anthems of the Civil Rights movement, which we still need after all these decades.

There are plenty of versions of the song, and I was going to go with one by Etta James, but then I found this one from Odetta, which she prefaces with Marianne Williamson’s “Our Deepest Fear”. This unexpected discovery like to knocked me out; I know the poem, but I’d forgot all about it. Hearing Odetta say, “We are all meant to shine” just cut through me with surgical precision. And then she started singing.

Not Christmas, not Advent, but absolutely right for today, and absolutely the right version for me to listen to.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

The gift he gave to Emmanuel

Let me state the blindingly obvious here: it says something that when the son of God became manifest in this world, he was born to a carpenter’s wife in a stable at the backend of empire. Now, obviously this was building on and in fulfillment of Jewish prophecies, so it would have been weird if he’d showed up in a village of Picts or somewhere in Pakistan. But I’m interested in the setting more than the location.

A stable. Surrounded by animals.

I mean, that exasperated cry of every mother when her child does not live up to expectation—“Were you born in a barn?”—actually applies here. Jesus was, in fact, born in a barn.

It’s quite a turn-up from what we expect for Important People; for Powerful People. They’re born in palaces, or penthouse apartments, amidst gold and servants and the best of accoutrements. Someplace that presages the mark they’re meant to make in the world.

I imagine the stable where Mary gave birth did not meet what we today would consider hygiene standards expected for the production of milk: the floor was not hosed down with antiseptic washing fluid after the milking; among the animals in the shed there were probably both four-legged and six-legged vermin; the straw wasn’t freshly laid; and—you know, lots of ox shit. When the shepherds arrived from guarding their flocks in the clean air, they must have at least briefly thought, “Man—get a whiff of that! Are we in the right place? Were those angels having us on?”

What does that say about the belief system that introduces a divine being via the lowest, most insignificant borderline ludicrous entry point? Whose arrival is announced first to working stiffs, not the coastal elites or big wheels in mega churches? (The Magi didn’t show up for another 12 days. Yeah, they knew the prophecy, but the news first went out to herdsmen. And the animals got first viewing.)

Imma also state another blindingly obvious fact in this story: everyone—every single person—involved was non-white. Medieval and Renaissance painters created nativities using models they had to hand, but those blonde, blue-eyed madonnas are not anywhere near accurate representations of that carpenters wife. In that particular back end of empire, people were dark-skinned, brown-eyed and had the dust of hard work on them.

So the notion that good white Christians of our time can stand on their hind legs and bray about remigration for people who don’t pass the melanin or accent test in the name of that brown baby born in a cow shed is not only gobsmacking, it is also unchristian.

Thus—even though it’s a little early in the Advent cycle—today’s piece honors the creatures who first shared their space with Jesus. They behaved better than a whole lot of self-styled Christians today.

“The Friendly Beasts” probably originated in 12^th Century France. The English lyrics we use today were written by a guy named Robert Davis about 100 years ago. I’m giving you Peter, Paul & Mary singing it.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Abide with us

“O Little Town of Bethlehem” is one of the staples of school Christmas pageants. Or it was in the days when they had school Christmas pageants. I have to say that I was never enthusiastic about it because it always sounded to me like the people singing it were drunk.

However, it turns out that there’s an alternative melody for the one we sing in the US (which is “St. Louis”, by the collaborator of Phillips Brooks, the Episcopal priest who wrote the lyrics in 1868). That would be “Forest Green”, and it’s the one they sing in Great Britain. This version does not sound like the choir just spilled out of the pub at closing time, and I like it.

Here's the choir of King’s College, Cambridge, singing it. Sober as judges.

(Not, perhaps, Supreme Court justices, or judges on the 5^th Circuit. Real judges, who take their oaths and the Constitution seriously.)

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Snowflakes in the air

The American holiday classic A Charlie Brown Christmas turned 60 yesterday. Not even half an hour in length, the animated film chronicles Charlie Brown’s struggle to find “the true meaning of Christmas”, and to recover his joy.

(Pro Tip: unlike every Hallmark holiday movie made in the past 15 years, the true meaning of Christmas turns out not to be that if you’re a dishy 20-something with really great hair, come 25 December you’ll be hooked up with a hunky, good-hearted man and be on the road to happily-ever-after.)

A good deal of ACBD’s charm comes from the music written by Vince Guaraldi, and played by his instrumental trio. Today’s Advent piece is “Christmas Time Is Here”, which adds a children’s choir. It's slightly jazzy, introducing Charlie's dilemma. Linus tells it like it is.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Good morrow, masters all!

Our Advent piece for today, “Past Three O’Clock”, is a carol set to a traditional tune called “London Waits”.

And the “Waits” being referred to is a category of watchmen common in England and Scotland from Medieval times up until the 19th Century. City waites (the early spelling) patrolled the streets using musical instruments to mark the hours. (Carrying something musical also distinguished you from other bands of night-crawlers.) It’s not clear to me how they knew, precisely, what hours they were sounding, but apparently it worked quite well as a system for a number of centuries.

So, “London Waits” as a melody captures the functions of the waits of that city, and George Ratcliffe Woodward put words to it around the turn of the last century. It’s in The Cambridge Carol-Book, Being Fifty-Two Songs for Christmas, Easter, and Other Seasons, published in 1924, so it’s still somewhat new on the Christmas carol continuum, although—because of the provenance of “London Waits”, it sounds much older.

This recording is from The Bells of Dublin, by The Chieftains, and it features along with them the Renaissance Singers.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: For all below

I confess that last week was a bad one for decency, generosity and lovingkindness here in the United States. And I personally have been fighting with the pain axis of evil (hip, IT band and knee) that has not improved my forbearance (always in limited supply). So I’ve turned to Nature for my gratitude today—specifically for the sunset I encountered as I was on my way to Thanksgiving dinner..

This made me think of the old standard by our man in Wittenburg, Martin Luther, “Vom Himmel hoch, da komm ich her”, known in English as “From Heav’n Above”.

The text declares the descent of God, in the birth of Jesus, from heaven to earth. It’s quite stately, but also inclusive—the proclamation of grace invites all humanity to share. Luther repeats this many times; I mean—again and again. The kingdom of God is open to all.

Luther’s original melody has been embellished some by different composers, but for ornamentation and complexity similar to how God gilds the sky, you can’t do better than J.S. Bach.

Here’s the UniversitätsChor München performing it.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Prepare ye

The second Sunday in Advent is focused on preparation and peace. Peace, at the moment in our world, seems rather in short supply. Notwithstanding the most corrupt organization in professional sports awarding a gaudy but pointless peace prize to the most corrupt president in US history.

So let’s go with preparation.

The musical Godspell appeared on the scene a year after Jesus Christ Superstar. The latter was flashier and way more bombastic because Andrew Lloyd Webber. But I always liked the rather whimsical hokiness of the former.

I once saw a production of the play at Cal State LA. The review I turned in to the entertainment editor of the paper I worked for was so positive, she didn’t want to run it. But it’s the kind of show that allows for the cast streaming through the audience with balloons, and I think we could use some of that kind of whimsy these days.

“Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord” is John the Baptist’s call, presaging the arrival of the Messiah. So it seems legit for Advent. It's direct and simple; even evangelicals could get the message. This is from the original cast recording.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu