In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
The above words and Gustav Holst’s haunting melody which accompany them are so much a part of the Christmas season that they are almost become a cliché. But almost is the operative word here. For while the main celebrations of Christmas may end even for most Catholics with the Epiphany on January 6, the Christmas season extends through January, finding its end at last on Candlemas Eve. If the Three Kings open the month, then the anniversary of the murder of Louis XVI on January 21, the feast of Bl. Charlemagne on January 28, and yet another regicide anniversary for Charles I on January 30 end it in an equally regal manner.
As the cold and snowy month (in northern climes) makes its chilly course through time, one thinks also of the interplay of light and dark through the Advent and Christmas seasons, starting with the Rorate Masses, and ending with the great Candlemass on February 2: “the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it” resonates very strongly this time of year — not only in church, but even just walking home at night through the snowy wastes, and viewing not only the lovely Christmas lights so many people put up on their houses, but even just the light from the houses themselves. There is enchantment about, for all that one is in a cold wasteland; it gives a sort of Medieval feeling.
To be sure, there is a great deal about Christmas that still reflects the Middle Ages — and not just the liturgy, if one is fortunate enough to have access to Latin-rite, Ordinariate, or Eastern observances of Christmas. So many of our carols either date from that era — or sound as if they do. The holly, mistletoe, and evergreens bring us back in touch with the world of our ancestors, as do many of the foods of the season. The bringing of the sprig of Glastonbury thorn to the King is exactly the sort of thing I have in mind. Said thorn links us back to St. Joseph of Arimathea’s arrival in Britain to spread the Faith, and latterly with the tales of King Arthur.
Christmas always makes me think of the Arthurian legends. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight takes place over Christmas, and the Morte d’Arthur offers several Yuletide episodes. But above all, I am reminded of the Holy Grail. Now that might seem a bit odd, given that most of that cycle of legends deals with Pentecost, Easter, and Good Friday. Not too surprising, of course, since the sacred vessel that Gawain, Parsifal, Galahad, and the others go in search of is so closely bound up with the Passion of Our Lord, of which the Grail is a relic. But while St. Joseph of Arimathea in the earlier stories brought a relic of the Precious Blood, like the one at Bruges, he gets roped into the later tales as bringing the Grail. And so we return to Christmas.
In various versions of the story, the Grail has been protected in a sort of Grail Kingdom; but the current King, a descendant of St. Joseph, has been sorely wounded. As a result, his territory has become quite literally a wasteland. Daily reception of the Sacramental food the Grail provides keeps the King alive — but by itself, it can neither heal the King nor the Wasteland. For that to happen, a brave knight must come to the Grail Castle, and ask a question — “What is the Grail, and whom does it serve?” Until and unless that happens, the Grail, its wounded custodian, and his people are doomed to carry on their grey lives in twilight.
This time of year, going for a walk always makes me think of that Wasteland. In Austria and the Westchester County of my childhood, “In the Bleak Midwinter” certainly conjures up the scenes of this time of year. But even in Southern California, where I have spent most of my life, the sepia-toned mellow sunlight of this time of year lends a bittersweet melancholy to the scenery — a yearning for things above and beyond what we have in this world of sins and shadow.
Seasonal imagination aside, the world begins 2024 in a most unhappy manner. Both Church and State across the planet appear trapped in Wastelands of their own; the former fed by the Blessed Sacrament but not healed, the latter similarly nourished by taxes but seemingly incapable of doing more than violating God’s law and cancelling those who are not onboard. The leadership of both often appear, to put it politely, crazed. It would be easy to despair of things getting better, and to hate those by whom the Wasteland is made waste. How to survive the Wasteland without succumbing to either?
Unlike Parsifal, there is no one we can address our questions to in the outward world — at least none with the power of healing the Wasteland in which we all live. But we can ask ourselves the key, liberating, and salvific questions in the depths of our hearts: “What is the Church, and whom does she serve?;” we can ask a similar question of the State in the same interior spot. To the first query, must come the reply, “the Mystical Body of Christ, who brings us the means of Salvation.” To the second, “the Handmaid and Protector of the Church, who assists in her mission by seeing to the Common Good.” There are many ways these answers might be phrased, of course — there is no one set formula. But these replies or those like them will remind us that there is a vision beyond the Wasteland in which we dwell.
Sadly, unlike the stories, our asking and answering those questions will not automatically heal the outer wasteland. But they can keep it out of our souls. If we embrace the Truth in our lives — even when it gets us into outward trouble — it will go a long way to letting us see things as they are, not as some blind positive-thinking sort of New Age exercise, but a deep realisation that the Master of Heaven and Earth is willing to do all things He can to bring us to Him forever. Hard and yet simple as it is, what we need to do is respond — to try to subordinate our Will to His, to use the means of Salvation He has given us, and to try to help our fellow human beings do the same.
Of course, in time, if enough people do the same thing, the Wasteland in Church and State may abate somewhat. We may receive leadership at least as concerned about our well-being as their own. We may have hierarchs who see the Cross of Christ ever before them, and political heads who understand we are committed to them by God — not cattle to be exploited and played with. The majority of both sets may one day realise that their eternal fate depends in great degree upon how they handle us. But while it may well recede, so long as we linger this side of the grave, its shadow shall remain.
I myself have wandered some of the actual Arthurian landscape. In Brittany I have wandered the enchanted forest of Broceliande, and prayed in the Grail Church of Trehontereuc. To the top of Glastonbury Tor I have twice climbed and drunk from the Chalice Well at the foot, as many times walked the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, and prayed at the renewed Catholic Shrine. I have been to the “Round Table” at Caerleon, and Arthur’s Austrian shrine of Maria Lanzendorf.. One day I hope to see Cornwall, with Tintagel’s castle and Halls of Arthur, and the battle centre of Slaughterbridge, and the Round Table at Winchester, and the Green Chapel, whether at Ludchurch or Wetton Mill. But for all of that; and for all that I believe that the Holy Grail is in Valencia Cahedral; and for all the pleasure and (I hope) blessings I have derived from the many shrines I have seen on four continents, and the many more I hope to venerate — of Our Lord, Our Lady, and many Saints — pilgrimage is only a temporary easing of the pain the Wasteland inflicts upon us all.
More lasting is that which comes from frequent use of the Sacraments and devotions — especially those surrounding the Blessed Sacrament. As well, in the Church Year, in the joys that come from living, even in our nostalgia for elsewhere and when, we can delineate the boundaries of the Wasteland. Let us pray and work as hard as ever we can that all whom we love and we ourselves persevere until we are brought beyond those boundaries to drink from that Grail that never ends.
