The Spectator understands the work pressure on vicars at this time of year. We know it is tempting simply to read out the diocesan Christmastide message. So here, for all clerks in holy orders, we offer this cut-out-and-preach sermon for use at carol services:
May I speak in the Name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost — though for many of you it might as well be in the name of the heathen god Thor. Interesting chap, Thor. Red-headed. Liked to hurl bolts of lightning and cause mayhem. A Norse Simon Heffer.
I come not in peace. I will not wring my hands and speak to you in the voice of a primary school teacher. I am not going to employ some drippy parable while smiling at you like a flatulent goat. The Britain of Jeremy Paxman demands something ruder.
As you can see, I am not standing on the same level as you, on the floor of the church. I am up in this historic pulpit because it allows me to look down on you. I can keep an eye on you. And I’m not sure that I necessarily like what I see.
A packed church! About time, too. You love the tradition of carols, don’t you? I bet those opening bars of ‘Once In Royal David’s City’ sent a shiver down what passes for your spines. You like the candlelight, the smell of this building’s musty old stones, the glug of gluhwein once the service is over. Then out into the December cold, still humming ‘Adeste Fidelis’. How sweet the old customs.
But I had a good mind to refuse you entry this evening. I’m serious. I thought about hiring a couple of bouncers from the local convent’s rugby team to check your credentials.
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