True spirit of St Nick

FIVE minutes before the service begins, ball point pens and little circles of paper are being handed out to the 10.30am congregation at the church of St Nicholas, Husthwaite.

"Are we not getting any sweeties, then?" asks a smartly dressed gentleman in the box pew behind.

"No sweeties, Hugh, you're not here to enjoy yourself," ripostes the pen pusher and is wholly, happily, mistaken.

Today's column had been a bit of a toss-up, to be honest, between the splendours of St Nicholas' Cathedral in Newcastle and the humbler, though altogether older, environs of St Nicholas' in Husthwaite, a half-hidden village between Thirsk and Easingwold.

Not even the conclave dean and chapter, however, not the canons and minor canons, not the clerks and choristers nor the Lord Bishop of Newcastle himself could - and without offence to any of those good folk - have produced a service so fitting and so fun filled, so thoughtful and so entirely appropriate to the legend of St Nicholas and to the spirit of Christmas as did the priest and people of that small North Yorkshire community.

St Nicholas, whose feast on December 6 was brought forward to the Sunday, was Bishop of Myra, in Turkey, at the beginning of the fourth century.

The Oxford Dictionary of Saints calls him a thaumaturge, which means a wonder-worker, thus explaining not only why so many patronages are invested in him - being patron saint of Russia would alone be daunting enough for most men - but how the old lad gets about with such astonishing alacrity every December 24.

St Nicholas is also patron saint of sailors and unmarried girls; of merchants, apothecaries and travellers; of prisoners, pawnbrokers and perfumiers and - of course - of children.

Hence the Santa clause.

In early Europe, apparently, it was long the tradition for gifts to be left on St Nicholas' Eve, December 5, without indication of the donor. The custom spread through Dutch immigrants to America, returned across the Atlantic in the mid-19th century and is now firmly down in red and white.

St Nick, as he remains known to his friends, would recognise those good intentions among the 400 or so inhabitants of Husthwaite.

It's an old village, a Roman encampment once nearby, a beacon to warn of the Spanish Armada lit on the hills above. The church is 12th century, said in its guide to be "substantial but unpretending" but a fascinating place, nonetheless.

The 17th century box pews have knobs on - apparently a deterrent to the heavy eyed and possibly explaining the familiar phrase; later furnishings bear the emblem of Robert "Mousey" Thompson, whose woodworking business is nearby.

The service is led by the Rev Ian Kitchen, responsible for seven churches in the area. A man of Kent, or possibly a Kentishman, he arrived in Yorkshire just over a year ago and couldn't, he says, have been made more welcome.

"I have never known," he says after the service, "a church which makes so much fuss of its patron saint."

The theme is giving - but giving, Ian tells them, isn't enough. "Your heart has to be right, also."

It's what nowadays would be called a multi-media event - projector, CDs, organ, those pens and paper, to which shortly we shall return - and the Phoenix Choir unforgettably singing about coming Christmas and fattening geese.

Mr Kitchen also screens some headlines - the Myra Mirror, he calls it - which summarise some of the thaumaturgy thingummy.

One's "Brave bishop in storm stilling shock", a second reads "Needy threesome rescued in the Nick of time" - a possible journalistic licence, since the three weren't just needy but dead and pickled in a bran tub at the time.

The third's about St Nicholas giving gold galore, a reference to the occasion on which he rescued three poor girls from slavery. The gold, says Ian, was thrown through the window or down the chimney - "depending on who you listen to".

The phrase "Myra image" also comes to mind; someone can have that for a Christmas present, too.

The village school children have filled dozens of shoe boxes with gifts for needy children in eastern Europe - "so much love goes into them, it's absolutely wonderful," says Maggie Wilson, their teacher, though she's disappointed with some of the restrictions.

The blacklist includes anything deemed political, religious or potentially racial - "I think it's so sad they have to say that," says Mrs Wilson - and anything militaristic. "As if we were going to send a gun, a sword or a knife."

In the Methodist chapel, other villagers have similarly overflowed 98 shoe boxes for a different charity, started by Billy Graham's son. "It was like Santa's grotto in there," says Linda Davison, one of the organisers.

The spirit of St Nicholas? "I don't know," says Linda. "We just do it for the love of children. So many of them have never had a present in their lives."

The short address is inspired, the readings apposite, the circular bits of paper represent pennies - on which prayer thoughts are written - to go into the old man's hat, which proves to be a straw boater.

"Spelling and grammar don't matter," Ian announces.

"Oh yes they do," interjects another valiant voice, almost certainly that of the traditional village school teacher.

Symbolic gifts are also brought to the front of the church - a loaf of bread, a toy gorilla (apparently to represent animal life), an open umbrella to represent shelter. Since the column's old mother thought it Armageddon's harbinger simply to open an umbrella in the house, heaven alone knows what she'd have made of opening one in church.

It's the sort of service - fresh and vivid, thought provoking and mirth arousing - which could give the Church a good name far beyond the rural realms of Husthwaite.

Afterwards there are enough mince pies to choke a donkey - or an ass, or whatever is appropriate at this time of year - and an invitation to join them tomorrow. Christmas is coming, festive and flourishing at St Nick's.

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