The critic

Snowed-in in Germany for Christmas, I went to church.  More specifically, I went for the biggest, grandest church I could find, hoping that it would be easier to be timidly anonymous there.

It was. While the experienced sat on a slightly raised level from which it was possible to get a good view of what was going on, I joined the great unchurched-or-on-holiday fidgeting slightly below, craning their necks, regretting their seat-choices, and over-thinking their hand-movements in an effort not to look out of place.

A sweet-looking slightly older lady came in late. We exchanged clumsy but warm smiles and nods as we tried to figure out whether or not she would sit beside me. My smile working its usual magic, her nod became a shake, and she took the chair in front of me. The service began.

It turned out that it would be a nativity play and so there was no need to sit at the back to avoid the risk of being noisily and specifically evangelised, but by this time it was too late to move inconspicuously. The music wasn't so good from our position at the back (which would still have been the front, if only the attendance had been better). At best, the congregation muttered tunefully in a grudging response to the organ player's epic introductions. Finally the actors made their grand entrance.

Two Roman soldiers of dramatically different likely usefulness in battle appeared, along with a motley bunch of other children in makeshift costumes of dubious historical accuracy. Then came the first moment of high drama and quite moving pathos, when the shorter, more ineffective-looking soldier fell over someone's feet - probably his own.


Everything else played out presumably more or less exactly as it had two thousand or so years ago. Mary squabbled amusingly with Joseph until they finally got a room from a crafty innkeeper. Somewhere along the line, and with a minimum of noise, mess and fuss, a birth happened. Wise men followed a star on a stick to pay homage to the silent child. A narrator summarised what it all meant.

The performance closed to rapturous applause. I clapped along too, confusedly, half-heartedly, politely. The children, returning to their true selves having temporarily fully entered the roles of first century Jews and Gentiles, beamed.

The lady in front of me turned around with a look of helpless incredulity.

'That was DREADFUL!' she said passionately.

As I murmured something non-committal about not really knowing what I should expect, she elaborated on its many irredeemable shortcomings, and explained where I should go next year if I want to see a nativity play done properly, before striding out of the church in disgust.