In the Church Of England, Stir-up Sunday is the last Sunday before Advent.
The term comes from the collect for the day in the Book of Common Prayer of 1549: “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
The day is also associated with the preparation of Christmas puddings, since most recipes call for the mixture to stand for several weeks before cooking.
Although Wife and I haven’t given our children any kind of religious upbringing, all four of us retain a family fondness for the rituals of Advent, Christmas and Epiphany as a way to mark the passing of each year.
But maybe it’d be less hypocritical to seek out some Pagan carols to sing while we bring in the greenery on Midwinter’s Day.
Between the ages of 10 and 14 I sang in the choir of our local church, where the regime was High Anglican with incense and Candlemass, King James bible and the 1662 Book of Common Prayer. Despite, or perhaps because of, my vociferously atheist dad I took the classes and got confirmed into the church, and started taking regular Communion.
One reason all the Anglo-Catholic razamatazz resonated so deeply for me was that, even before my teens, I was riddled with guilt. Having been physically attracted by other boys for as long as I could remember – certainly from age six – I might not have understood the full implications of those feelings. But I was certain the secret fantasies that had me writhing nightly in bed were deeply shameful.
The first time I attended communion and heard the 1662 General Confession it hit home like an Exocet. The remembrance of my misdoings certainly was grievous unto me, and the burden of them was indeed intolerable. Faith in Our Lord Jesus Christ seemed to offer some sort of way out. At least until night time, when of course my misdoings recurred all over again. [More]
Dear Andy
Thanks so much for seeing me yesterday. I’m sure facing visitors at this point must be hugely painful, and the effort you made to receive an old friend was deeply appreciated. Thanks too for the parting kiss. It’s a moment I won’t forget, weed and advancing years notwithstanding.
Also the sudden strength in your voice when you called out as I was leaving the room, and I spun around in the corridor mid-stride to raise my hand in a farewell that turned somehow into an almost Roman salute. At that distance, in the fading daylight I caught your silhouette with your hand raised in reply and Catullus came echoing down the centuries: “et in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale”. Except that poor fucker never had the chance to say it in person.
I guess there are two kind of brother: those we’re born with, and those we acquire along the way. I’m so thankful we acquired each other so early on in our adult lives. Your brotherhood, warmth, understanding, support, friendship and sheer hospitality have been a constant in my life these past 29 years. Whenever there were breaks, we always picked up exactly where we left off. [More]
A handcoloured statuette of Garibaldi that my dad treasured all his life. He always said Garibaldi had been his hero as a young man, though I never thought to ask him why. Wikipedia describes the extraordinary life and exploits of Giuseppe Garibaldi (1807–1882) in considerable detail – and credits him with making possible the unification of Italy – among much else.
But what probably appealed most to Dad was Garibaldi’s anti-clericalism. “He did much,” says Wikipedia, to “circumscribe the temporal power of the Papacy” and Dad hated religion with all the fervour of a repented believer. It was always faintly baffling when he went off on one of his tirades about the irrationality of religious belief. Neither Mum nor any of his children had any particular opinion about it, whereas he himself once planned to take Holy Orders. At Cambridge in his late teens he abruptly lost his faith and almost overnight swithced to the opposite extreme.
Dad’s been dead for 18 months now, and his beloved Garibaldi now lives – dusty and neglected – on a shelf in our front room. Behind him are the children’s encyclopedias he bought for us at eyewatering expense back in 1955. Sometimes it seems like forever since we last saw him, at other time like today I still can’t quite believe he’s gone.
