You in danger, girl

I was struck by this arrangement in someone’s front yard yesterday morning:

That little orange pumpkin looks like it’s in trouble.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Splashes of color

Ah, we are finally in Autumn. Humidity has crashed and mornings are crisp but not frosty. And, finally, leaves in my part of the People’s Republic have begun to turn.

It’s interesting to me that they seem to be changing color only in patches on trees, not swathes. I don’t recall this pattern in years past, but I find the reds and golds blooming amongst the vibrant green of a tree beautiful.

And that’s today’s gratitude.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Marching along

They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. I have to say that this time around I’m looking forward to the lamb. Or at least sticking to something—it’s been quite the yo-yo.

Viz: last week.

Monday and Tuesday was in the 70s; Wednesday we hit above 80°F in The People’s Republic. A couple of my neighbors had their AC on; I opened my patio door and was grateful for ceiling fans in all the rooms I used.

Thursday started out with rain, which then morphed into this:

Fortunately, it did not stick.

Monday of this week we were forecast a squall line that was said to include the prospect of tornadoes. Mercifully, we dodged them, but had a few bouts of exceptionally heavy rain.

Temperature was 63°F when I went on my morning walk, so I was not at all surprised when yesterday it was 30°F. But not without it's charms.

There may be a hurricane today, followed by a blizzard and a downpour of frogs and locusts. I mean—March, man.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

So long...

Spotted this yesterday in the parking lot of the little park down the street.

Seems like a sad end to the season for a little guy who’s just trying to bring some happiness into the world.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Heavenly peace

I confess I have a love-meh relationship with “Silent Night”. In the US, it’s the über Christmas carol, closing out just about every holiday concert from grade school to master chorales. I feel oversaturated with it.

But it’s ubiquitous for a reason: its simplicity gets to the heart of the Nativity—an ordinary, quiet night, a new couple make do for accommodation with stable animals, but the birth of the Messiah. A few straightforward verses, three-quarter time, you can play it on any instrument around and even little children can master it. (-Ish.) It’s been translated into probably every language on the planet as a gateway to the whole story; I’ve certainly learned it in every language I’ve studied.

I’m giving you the Spanish version, sung by Andrea Bocelli, because it does feel appropriate for this particular Christmas Eve, when people all over the US are being rounded up and tossed in prison (citizen or not) for the crime of speaking Spanish. Reenacting the persecutions of Herod—so on-brand.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

 

Gratitude Monday: This fruit doth make my soul to thrive

Unlike the fir, the holly and the ivy, the citrus is decidedly not evergreen. (TBH, ivy is actually bloody near indestructible. Come Armageddon, it will indubitably rule with cockroaches over the blasted hellscape that planet Earth becomes.) As I discovered earlier this year when the February freezes torched my three potted citrus trees, despite me wrapping the bases in bubble wrap.

So, this Spring I bought three new trees—a lime and two lemons. I fortified them against the scourge of rampaging chipmunks, but knew I needed to do something about Winter. 

When my neighbors moved to Seattle, I liberated their three very large pots (no pix, sorry) and repotted two of the trees; my gardenia in a larger container than the trees has weathered about seven winters, so… But around the end of October, I began looking for reinforcement solutions. I could move the smaller pot indoors, but not the larger two.

I mentioned this to a friend in the UK, and she had a suggestion:

Friend: What about garden fleece—would that work?

Me: Garden fl—wut?

But, dear reader—garden fleece is indeed a thing; I ordered some online and then draped it double-strength around both, using clothespins to secure it. I also brought back the chicken wire enclosure for one of them, because I saw Scooter the chipmunk sizing it up.

We’ve had quite the range of temperatures in the past couple of weeks—from high 50s to the teens—but so far, it looks like my little trees are surviving. One has some frostburned leaves, but most of it seems healthy.

(The indoor one started flowering after I brought it inside. I mentioned that to my English friend, all happy about getting lemons, and she asked, “How about pollination?” Me: “Pollin—wut?” So, as per online wisdom, I hand-pollinated, and I may get a few lemons.)

This is my gratitude for today. It’s so hard to grow anything in my backyard, because the only time it gets any sun is after all the deciduous trees have lost their leaves. I’m filled with joy by these three potted pals, and by the reminder that we can withstand some big things, when we have help.

I can find no Christmas songs about citrus, but here’s one about the apple tree. The text for “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree” dates from the 18^th Century, a poem probably written by a “Calvinist Baptist” (later known as “Methodist”) preacher, Richard Hutchins. It’s been set to music by several composers, including the ubiquitous John Rutter.

Using the metaphor of the apple tree for Christ may reference the creation story in Genesis, or it could reflect New Testament depictions of Jesus as the Tree of Life. Then there’s the pre-Christian British custom of going out among fruit orchards around the Winter Solstice to offer (and drink) libations to awaken the trees for their Spring duties.

(I wrote before about this custom in a post about wassail, which got merged into Christmas, as things often do.)

I personally love the image, especially in the dead of Winter, and doubly-especially in this ghastly year. We need to remember that—despite our best human efforts to the contrary—nature will do her best to bounce back, and life will triumph over death.

Besides, apples make great pies.

The lyrics are so powerful that I think it worthwhile to set them out for you:

The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit and always green;
The trees of nature fruitless be,
Compared with Christ the Apple Tree.

His beauty doth all things excel,
By faith I know but ne'er can tell
The glory which I now can see,
In Jesus Christ the Appletree.

For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought;
I missed of all but now I see
'Tis found in Christ the Appletree.

I'm weary with my former toil -
Here I will sit and rest awhile,
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the Appletree.

With great delight I’ll make my stay,
There’s none shall fright my soul away;
Among the sons of men I see
There’s none like Christ the Appletree.

I’ll sit and eat this fruit divine,
It cheers my heart like spirit’al wine;
And now this fruit is sweet to me,
That grows on Christ the Appletree.

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the Appletree.

I am eschewing Rutter and giving you a version set to music by Elizabeth Poston, a 20^th-Century English composer. Here it’s performed by a group called Seraphic Fire. 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

The first tree in the greenwood

Today is Annunciation Sunday, the last before Christmas. It focuses on the visit by the archangel Gabriel to Mary, to tell her God had chosen her to give birth to his son, the long-awaited Messiah.

I mean—it’s obviously not the anniversary of the Annunciation; if Jesus had been born in December, Gabriel would have visited Mary in March. If the Nativity was in the Spring—as most historians support, because shepherds and sheep were out in the fields, which they wouldn’t have been in December—then the angel-woman confab would have been around August. This is a covering-all-the-bases commemoration, really—using the final Sunday in Advent to remind ourselves of the Whole Story.

But today is also Winter Solstice— the longest night and shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. After tonight, night retreats day by day until balance is achieved at the equinox, and then the tide turns again at the Summer Solstice.

Probably since the origins of humanity, people have celebrated this annual event, giving thanks for the return of the sun, gathering around bonfires, singing, banging on things, eating and drinking. Before the domestication of fire to candles, followed by gas lights and then by electricity, knowing that the hours of darkness would not in fact continue to grow was comforting in a world full of perils.

The festival we know as Christmas was overlaid on older traditions; the birth of the Son of God has perhaps more dramatic impact if it’s celebrated around the Solstice rather than sometime in Spring, which makes more meteorological and astronomical sense. The early Church accomplished two goals with the coopting: subsumed pagan sun worship into Christian rites and gave themselves license to feast away the longest nights of the year. It’s not a bad deal, really.

And as Christianity co-opted the pagan celebrations of the Solstice of providing artificial light against the very real darkness, they also incorporated evergreen vines and branches into their traditions: plants that hold their verdant color even through the worst of freezing weather.

Evergreens—firs, pines and the like—are of course symbols of eternal life. Pre-Christian Europeans decorated their houses with evergreen branches to celebrate the winter solstice. Christians go one step further with adding lights—candles and then electric—to beat back the darkness. The ornaments help refract the light into the room. We hang wreaths on doors and windows; often on the grilles of our cars. (And, in the past few years, some of those have lights on them, too.)

Along with the color, evergreens bring their scent into our homes, reminding us that life may appear dormant, but it usually comes back. (Yes—it always has in the past, but I’m getting a little uneasy about the future. Still, for now…)

In honor of the Solstice, Mary and evergreens, let’s have “The Sans Day Carol”, which originated in Cornwall. It’s a variant on “The Holly and the Ivy”, but since ivy is an invasive species here in the Old Dominion, I’m not giving it electron space. I’m all holly, all the way.

(You have to cut this one some slack—obvs the holly doesn't bear a white berry, or a black one. They're greenish and then they're red, before flocks of robins swoop down and ravage them. Also, there's no way Jesus was ever wrapped in silk, his entire life. It's poetic and metaphoric license.)

Here’s the English early music group Carnival Band performing it. I like this version because it hasn’t been whizzed on by John Rutter, and that’s hard to find these days.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

And ever mourn and sigh

We’re going from mid-century modern to probably late Medieval England for today’s Advent piece. It brings up the dark side of the Nativity story—the part that’s usually left out of the festivities, but which the current administration is re-enacting every day in and out of season.

On their journey following the star, the three Wise Men stopped for a spell in Jerusalem and asked King Herod for directions to where they might find the child about to be born who would rule the world. This turned out to be a costly mistake, because Herod—so the Gospels tell us—followed the time-honored Middle Eastern custom of ensuring security of his administration by ordering the slaughter of all male children up to two years of age in the vicinity of Bethlehem. (Joseph was warned by an angel, and he, Mary and Jesus fled to Egypt, where the government did not separate them or put them in cages or deport them back to Palestine.)

(On a side note, imagine how Mary, having just endured an uncomfortable journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem and given birth to her first child, must have felt having to pick up and run all the way to Egypt. No returning to the comfort of her home and the support of friends. She's got to manage with a newborn, on that dag-blamed donkey for hundreds of miles, to a strange country where she doesn't speak the language, and where the hell is she going to get diapers? We should really hear more about this.)

“Coventry Carol” is from a mystery play put on annually in the city of Coventry. Not sure about the precise date, but it was documented in the 16^th Century. It’s the only song to survive from that particular play, and it was sung by three women, representing all the mothers trying to reassure the children they knew were doomed.

It therefore seems appropriate to have a women’s choral group singing it, so I’m giving you Anúna.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

 

Leave your flocks

Today’s Advent offering should probably come closer to Christmas, because it’s about the shepherds. But I’m thinking a lot lately about the people who work in the fields, on ranches and in the slaughterhouses and meatpacking plants that keep us fed, so…

“Rise Up, Shepherd, and Follow” was sung by African-American slaves in the ante-bellum South. It was first published as “A Christmas Plantation Song” in Slave Songs of the United States, in 1867. The songs in this collection were gathered during the War Between the States, and the melody is probably from the coastal islands off South Carolina and Georgia. A lot of those songs would have been call and response, which is how “Rise Up, Shepherd” is framed.

Back in those days so glorified now by Republicans, slaves were property, to be used and disposed of at their master’s pleasure, like cattle and sheep. White owners, almost always professing Christians, were conflicted about converting their slaves. In one respect, it made no more sense than spreading the gospel to their cattle or sheep; property’s property, duh. But in another, preaching Christ’s teachings was downright radical—all that talk about all of us one under the Lord kinda runs contrary to the whole master-slave thing. What if—and bear with me on this for a minute—what if all those black people got the notion that spiritual liberation should be followed by, you know, actual physical liberation? Scary stuff, right?

So it was not at all uncommon for colonial legislatures to enact laws to ensure clarity on this issue: white guys = free; black guys = not free. Ordained by both God and man; end of. Maryland was the first colony, in 1664, to legislate that baptism had no effect on the social status of slaves. Southern theologians intoned that slaves had no soul; ergo treating them as property was copacetic, whether baptized or not.

Just like cattle and sheep.

(For the record, there are no reports to my knowledge of plantation owners baptizing their cattle or sheep. It could have happened, I suppose, but they didn’t document it in the parish ledger.)

Generally speaking, slaves were also kept illiterate; no need to read to pick cotton, tend babies or shoe horses. Also—man, that Gospel; you do not want anyone in captivity to have free access to that sucker, to parse and to ponder and to come up with weird-ass conclusions like Jesus preached to the poor and had no particular love for the rich, and what do we make of that? No, no—none of that Protestant notion of putting the Bible into everyone’s hands so s/he can build an individual relationship with God. You might as well give the field hands guns.

Also, slaves were forbidden to gather in large numbers, where they might talk with one another, share information about their conditions and maybe discuss things that property owners would prefer that their chattel goods didn’t discuss.

So being unable to write or congregate, generations of men, women and children developed a musical code for communication with one another, across geographical and chronological boundaries. This code would be spirituals and gospel music. When you dig into some of these songs, they’re about as incendiary as it gets; they’re just cloaked in metaphor. “Follow the Drinking Gourd”, “Jacob’s Ladder”, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”—they all sound kind of meek and pious, but they’re built on pain and anger and aspirations.

And so is “Rise Up, Shepherd, and Follow”. I mean, how on earth did slaveholders even hear those first two words without the hair on the backs of their necks standing on end? The response to the call—twice in the verses and twice again in the chorus—is literally telling the listeners to rise up. And follow that star to freedom.

This is really clever—the star followers in the Nativity story were the wise men, the three kings, the guys who’d have been identified with the slave owning class; not shepherds, who clearly align more with the slaves. Also, the star in the song is in the East, and the one slaves followed was in the North, so a bit more subterfuge. No, no, massa—don’t worry your white head; this song isn’t about slaves escaping or rebelling or anything like that. It’s all about your blue-eyed Jesus.

The song urges the shepherds/slaves to ditch their responsibilities to follow that star. I have to admit that it seems irresponsible and unshepherdly to abandon their sheep; I feel bad for the animals. But if we’re talking tobacco and cotton fields, I can totally see slipping away and hoofing it north of the Mason-Dixon line. Massa can bloody well get up and milk the cows himself. Or pay someone to do it.

In addition to the call/response framework, I also notice that “Rise Up, Shepherd” has what I call a work rhythm to it. Like sea shanties—it’s steady with a strong beat, which you could use to coordinate repetitive labor, like swinging a scythe or pulling ropes. Or packing chicken parts onto Styrofoam trays on an assembly line.

I do not know why I can’t find a really good recording of this for you; all the versions out there are way too far removed from the slave quarters—all laundered and pressed, with no dirt or sweat in sight. Here’s the best I could manage, from the Christ Church Cathedral choir in Victoria, British Columbia.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

This is not an inn, so keep going

Starting tonight and continuing until Christmas Eve, Christians in Hispanoamérica (including in Latino areas of the United States) will walk through neighborhoods enacting the journey of Mary and Joseph seeking shelter at Bethlehem. They go from house to house, asking if there’s room for them. House to house—until they reach the designated “manger”—they are turned away. Finally, they are allowed in.

Whereupon everyone celebrates; there’s usually a piñata, and refreshments for the adults, too.

Las Posadas (literally, “The Inns”) is a lovely tradition. I remember going to one in LA’s Olvera Street when I was in grade school. It seemed neighborly; especially as each night the welcoming house is a different one, so nobody has to be a grinch all the time.

Today’s Advent entry is “Pidiendo Posada”, which dates back at least 400 years. The sequence is that one group of singers asks for shelter as Joseph, and the second group turns them away…until the end.

The first exchange basically goes:

“In the name of heaven, I beg you for lodging
My beloved wife cannot walk”

“This is not an inn, so keep going
I can’t open the door—you may be a rogue”

You get the idea.

I wonder how the processions are going this year? ICE and CBP thugs are actually lurking around churches to kidnap worshippers on their way in or out and Catholic dioceses have relieved parishioners from the obligation of weekly Mass if they’re afraid of being snatched. How can you take your kids by the hand and walk along your neighborhood sidewalks for nine nights, singing, when you’re all in danger of being snatched up for the crime of looking brown?

Several churches—Saint Susanna in Dedham, Mass., Lake Street Church in Evanston, Ill., and one somewhere in North Carolina—have updated their nativity scenes to reflect current reality. In N.C., ICE thugs loom over all the usual participants.

In Evanston, a gas-masked Mary is flanked by masked Roman soldiers as she stands over a zip-tied baby Jesus in a silver emergency blanket.

In Dedham, Jesus is missing, replaced by a sign noting “ICE was here”. Another sign adds, "The Holy Family is safe in The Sanctuary of our Church…If You see I.C.E. Please Call LUCE At 617-370-5023.” The banner over the stable reads, “Peace on earth?”

So far, the parish priest has resisted calls from both ICE and his bishop to remove the ICE messages.

Here’s the community of Ojo Caliente, N.M., performing the tradition. It’s from 2019, in the Before Times (in so many ways). I wonder if they can do it again this year?

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: Good neighbors

Snow was forecast for the District They Call Columbia yesterday. I knew most of the week that there were dire predictions, “Snow on Sunday”; I nodded and went my way. Then, Saturday afternoon I looked up from my monitor and saw that my neighbor had salted my walks, and I realized that Sunday was tomorrow!

But what I really realized was that I have a great neighbor, who includes my walk, sidewalk and even the path to the driver’s side of my car, when she salts her own walkways. I am so grateful for that.

And it made me wonder: who were the neighbors who helped the Holy Family? We know there was no room at the in at the end of their journey, but it’s 90 miles as the donkey walks from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Who took Joseph and Mary in on the nine nights of that journey; who gave hay to the donkey?

Who helped them pack up and leave Bethlehem as they fled to Egypt from Herod’s rage? That trip was more than 1200 miles; who gave them gouge on the best route—there must have been hundreds of forks in the road; who pointed them in the right direction in those places? Who helped wash the diapers? Who welcomed them to Egypt, helped them settle in, pointed out the best fruit-and-veg sellers, gave them cooking pots and bedding to get them over the move-in hump?

What about when they eventually returned to Nazareth? Were Joseph’s house and carpentry shop still empty? Were there squatters who needed evicting? What about all his tools—did they go walkabout? Did their old neighbors welcome them back with a potluck and a proper cleanout of the living space?

We don’t know, because the New Testament writers didn’t think that was worth telling us. But neighbors are important. Neighbors form the backbone of community. These days, neighbors are all that’s standing between the masked thugs of a tyrannical regime and people who are just going about their business, kinda like the Holy Family. And I am profoundly grateful for all the neighborly people.

(In fact, the people who are the targets of the thugs look a whole lot like the Holy Family in Egypt—dark-skinned, working class, speaking a different language. I find it interesting that evangelical “Christians” do not see the analogy. They also conveniently forget Matthew 25:40: “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”)

In honor of all the neighbors—near and far—who help families holy and not every day, today’s Advent entry is “The Kerry Christmas Carol”. It’s based on the Irish tradition that Mary and Joseph travel every Christmas Eve, so people need to prepare to receive them properly.

As neighbors do.

Here’s Katie McMahon singing it.

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

He is the Real One

Well, we’re kinda spoilt for choice today: it’s the third Sunday in Advent—Gaudete Sunday—but also at sunset tonight Jews around the world begin the celebration of Hanukkah.

What to do? Oh, what to do?

Okay, right. The Gaudete of today is meant to be a break in the solemn preparation for the birth of Christ. Advent is, at heart, a pulling away from the exterior world, making space for contemplating the gift God is about to give humanity, for reflecting on what’s surface and what’s substance. True Advent music is about anticipation and clearing the way.

Gaudete Sunday is meant to be a little opportunity to bust loose and express anticipatory joy, so you can make it all the way to the Nativity. That's why we light the rose-colored candle.

Hanukkah celebrates the retaking of Jerusalem and the reconsecration of the Second Temple during the Maccabean revolt against the Seleucid empire in the Second Century BCE. The holiday lasts eight nights—commemorating how long the oil for the sacred light lasted when the temple was rededicated—and it’s a celebration that takes place in the home, not in the synagogue. But there is singing, as well as food, candles and gifts.

Here's a song from the Sephardic Jewish tradition—Mediterranean Jews, as opposed to Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe. Their language is Ladino, which has echoes of Latinate origins.

The narrative of the folksong “Kuando el rey Nimrod” contains some elements familiar to the birth of Christ—King Nimrod interprets a star shining directly over the Jewish quarter of the city; fearful of being supplanted, he orders that all male newborns be put to death. Abraham’s mother slopes off to a cave to give birth; the infant Abraham tells her to leave him, as he’ll be taken care of. When she returns 20 days later, he’s a grown man, leaping in joy. Nimrod finds out about Abraham, calls him to appear before him and then throws him in a furnace. But in a sign confirming that he is the Real One, Abraham survives, and he is known ever after as the first Jew.

(Okay—small discrepancy about how he comes from the Jewish quarter, but is the first Jew. Work with me here.)

Here’s Apollo’s Fire singing it. You might want to turn up the volume.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

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

 

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

 

Fill every stocking you find

We got our first snowfall of the season in the People’s Republic yesterday. Just in time to prepare the way for Saint Nicholas Day, which is today.

Saint Nicholas was the Fourth-Century bishop of Myra, one of the participants of the Council of Nicaea, which ruled on the divinity of Jesus as the son of God. This is actually the day he died, which makes a bit of a change for celebrations.

(Although his death is kind of a thing; at least his corpse was. Because about 600 years after he died, Italian merchants robbed his grave in Myra and took his body to Bari. I’m not touching the issues around what possesses a group of people to do that kind of stuff and expect to remain in God’s favor. But we’re certainly seeing a whole lotta loudly pious “Christians” these days doing unbelievably unchristian things in the name of Christ, so it’s definitely a thing.)

He’s the patron of sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, children, brewers, pawnbrokers and students. I’m trying to think of what commonalities connect those groups, but without luck.

We of course have conflated Saint Nicholas with major gift giving (which might explain the children, merchants and pawnbrokers; possibly the repentant thieves, too), via the Dutch version of his name, Sinterklaas. And today is the day (instead of the 25^th) when children in a number of countries get their gifts (if they’ve been good; if they’ve been naughty, they get coal or switches, depending on the local custom; you might even be eaten by a giant cat).

To honor the good bishop, let’s have something traditional by the hardest working man in show business. Because all children, wherever they are and whatever their national origin, deserve the hope of something good in their lives.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

This have I done for my own true love

As Christmas carols go, “Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day” is barely in its teens. It first appeared in a collection published in 1833. You shouldn’t even give it the keys to the family car.

(Okay, okay—it' only made it to publication then, but at least the lyrics probably are a <cough> couple of centuries older.)

What I like about this one is the metaphor of the Messiah’s life as a dance. (You may be more familiar with the modern “Lord of the Dance”—and I do not mean that crypto-Celtic Michael Flatley crap; I’m talking about the one set to the Shaker hymn, “Simple Gifts”.) There’s a version by John Rutter; ix-nay on that. This one, from my Christmas music besties, King’s College, Cambridge, Choir, is by John Gardner.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

A new light

Today’s Advent piece takes us back to early 17^th Century Germany and one of my favorite composers of Christmas music. Yes, I’m talking about the meister, Michael Praetorius. There’s something about his works that evokes for me candlelit churches filled with the vocal tapestries of Lutheran choirs, with a faint scent of pine and Glühwein wafting through the space.

The words of “Nun Komm, der Heiden Heiland” were written by Martin Luther as a chorale. It’s been translated into English as “Savior of the Nations, Come” and is typically sung on the first Sunday of Advent. You may know it from J.S. Bach. Praetorius made it part of his seasonal collection, Christmas Vespers. Here’s Cleveland’s ensemble Apollo’s Fire, which specializes in early music, giving us their take.

Light a few candles and listen.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu