Comforting—that was the primary feeling. Nothing changes.
Perhaps that is why we like traditions and rituals. They perform a useful function of anchoring us in the constantly shifting tides of life. The Christmas story is a stable one. (Pun intended!)
Yet, as I listened with fondness and enjoyment I was struck also by the patriarchalism of it all—one female voice in the production, one male voice that was clearly none standard educated upper class-ish white male. The story itself, though with a woman in an almost central place, has the woman in subservient role. A story of the marginalized and poor being rehearsed by the privileged. Here was dissonance. This made me uncomfortable. I was a little shaken.
So, there I was ... Outside meditating in the first snow of the year, listening to the familiar service, comforted and disturbed. It was for me another experience of the ambiguity of life and faith and hope and doubt. Still, I was glad to hear again the story. I was glad to be disturbed. I am glad it is Christmas.
So next year I hope to listen in again to the Cambridge service. Doubtless I will again be comforted and again be shaken.