'In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty winds made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone.
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow.
In the bleak mid-winter,
Long ago.'
-Christmas carol- words by Christina Rossetti.

'And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.'

-Luke 2: 16-20

'And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window�s hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare-
That God was Man in Palestine-
And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.'
-Christmas, John Betjeman

ANGEL
(bitterly)
Am I a thing worth saving? Am I a righteous man? The world wants me gone.
Weakness overcomes her, tears finally spilling out as she implores:
BUFFY
What about me? What about - Angel I love you so much --
(sobbing)
-- and I've tried to make you go away, I killed you and it didn't help...
She pulls away from him and stands, anger surfacing through her tears.
BUFFY
And I hate it. I hate that it's so hard... that you can hurt me so much... I know everything you've done because you did it to me. I wish I wished you dead. But I don't. I can't.
He is also crying, wanting so badly to take comfort in her words...
ANGEL
Buffy, please... just this once... let me be strong.
BUFFY
Strong is fighting. It's hard and it's painful and it's every day. It's what we have to do and we can do it together, but if you're too much of a coward for that then burn.
ANGEL
Buffy --
BUFFY
Let the sun kill you! If I can't convince you you have a place in the world, then I don't know what will. So die. But don't expect me to watch, and don't expect me to mourn for you, 'cause, I don't have... I...
They've started about halfway through her speech. Light, just a few flakes at first, but by the time she stops they are all around. She looks about her. So does Angel. They look up at the sky, almost unable to comprehend the fact that it's snowing.

-Part of the climactic scene of Amends, written, as well as he's ever written a scene, by Joss Whedon

So many, many words have been written about Christmas. How do I begin to decide which to pluck from the deluge of beautifully crafted, snowflake-like millions? It pains me to leave out the carol-singing scene from 'Cider with Rosie', or the beginning of St John's Gospel. And is Christmas still important in modern society? It's certainly 'under the delusion that it�s still relevant here.' It's a very odd festival, engendering feelings of hypocrisy from multitudes across the world. The annual visit to Church for Midnight Mass, after one too many sherries. The word �Christ� immodestly emblazoned on the name of the festival; resolutely one-faith. And yet, it has so many children as excited as about anything in the year. What is to compare with the sheer wonder of Christmas morning? Possibly only one thing. Snow.

On Saturday 7th December, I return to my home, just outside Bath, and, hypothetically, a short bus journey from Giles' house. It's getting cold once again. In the southwest of England, the climate could be most generously described as temperate and moist. The thermometer might brazenly hit 30 degrees Celsius and Fahrenheit once a year, but is unlikely to spend any significant time outside these two extremes. So cold isn�t Scott/Amundsen cold. Just a little chilly.

The Christmas break is a time for me to talk to my family, and become a part of their life. In the case of my Mother, this involves spending a few days helping out in a small school in Chapmanslade, Somerset. The class is composed of children between four and seven, and already, emblazoned on the walls of the decorated classroom, are mentions of Christmas. Red and black stockings encapsulating meandering script about Christmas wishes. Trademark British red post-boxes with an icing of snow on top. And, psychologically, an almost paradoxical feeling of both tiredness and ebullience. The autumn term (the longest of three in Britain), is almost over, but the best time of year to be at school is just beginning. The children are tired, yet excited. Often, it must be said, a mixture that the most talented teacher can find tricky.

We compose a Christmas version of 'Each Peach Pear Plum':
'Snowfalls run deep
I spy a fluffy sheep.
Three Kings from afar
They spy a shining star'.
We count the decorations on the Christmas tree, and we sing 'Away in a Manger.'

And then, something quite magical happens. Earlier in the morning, teachers moaned happily over coffee cups about the cold weather. Graphite grey skies could have been drawn by a scribbling student. From grey, the most mundane of colours, comes, silently, white, the most united. All the colours of the rainbow to make perfection. Why should symbols convey the wonder of the children? Transfixed, they surveyed a gift from no-one. Or a gift from God. Snow.

In my heavily sifted quotes, two use snow illogically. Two have no right to be taken seriously. For me, the second and third extracts explain why Rossetti and Whedon had to try. The Christmas story and snow have a similar, magical ability to make us wonder at the world. To be overwhelmed by its painful beauty.

Let's set some things straight here. If it wasn't for an anarchic Roman festival Saturnalia, and the 'cheer-up-we�re-nearly-there' of the Pagan Festival of Light, Christmas would not be celebrated on 25th December. Furthermore, Jesus was born, (he was, regardless of what else he did), in the Middle East. Chances of snowfall, (let alone of Lake Galilee being �like a stone�), absolutely zero. Rossetti links snow and Christmas in one of the most powerful Christmas carols. But she also writes terrible, terrible lies. Somehow, the snow in the poetry highlights the wonder of the Birth. Snow is a miracle, and birth is a miracle. Snow puts a different light on a familiar world. Birth puts a different light on a familiar world.

It doesn't snow in Southern California at Christmas. It just doesn�t happen. This is suggested by the section at the beginning of 'Amends' where the weather-forecasters predict: 'it's gonna be sunny and warm, with temperatures continuing in the high 70's throughout the holiday weekend. A little warm to light the yule log, but it should make for a very nice Christmas.' The end of 'Amends', from the mouth of its author is about not quite wonder, but hope: 'The snow was not evil! The snow was good. It was hope'. How can Angel, who knows that he is, in some sense, Angelus, live in a world against which he has performed so many horrific acts? The lines 'Am I a thing worth saving? Am I a righteous man?' are almost Job-like in their intensity and doubt. Buffy, the love of his life, cannot save him from dying, because she cannot logically argue through the certainty of past murders and carnage. Only one thing can save Angel. Hope. A blind faith that he can become righteous. He needs the hope instilled by wonder. He needs the snow to fall. And so the snow does. The snow has been seen by wise heads as being melodramatic, sentimental or sappy. To me it is perfect, because it shows what Christmas can be.

Christmas could be about the miracle of birth. A mundane but unique miracle. Every time a baby is born, it is the only time that person is born. Something unique happens every two seconds. As unique as a snowflake falling. Yet Christmas transcends specifics. It is about a tingly expectation that doesn't, regardless of appearances, arrive punctually. It's never obvious quite when the anticipation of Christmas starts. Advertising agencies would probably hope for mid-September. And it's never obvious when Christmas itself actually starts. Christmas Eve is a part of Christmas, isn't it? You can never quite tell when Christmas is about to happen. Suddenly, you know for sure that it is upon you. You can never quite tell when it�s starting to snow. But you know certainly when it's snowing. Snow expresses thoughts of modern Christmas and older Christmas so well that Joss Whedon, well-versed in irony and subverting convention, used the analogy as the punch line in the only Christmas episode to date. What does Christmas mean, exactly?

Luke's Gospel tells the story from a myriad of different angles. If John takes the Shakespearian soliloquy approach, then Luke's is more in style of a soap opera. In the course of two short chapters, we learn about the reactions of Joesph, Mary, John the Baptist, Elizabeth, Zechariah, the Shepherds and Simeon, (the words of the 'Nunc, dimittis'). The shepherds� reaction is important- the reaction of the everyman. They evangelised, not with the logical, cold reasoning of a Jehovah's Witness, or the tired certainty of the British Anglican Church, but out of sheer wonder, happiness of a Birth. They became child-like again- witnessing a truth that all should know. The revelation is about the world being the same, but being viewed upside down. As if the whole world has been coated in white. Betjeman's suburban London of the mid-1900's has its own concerns. Concerns that are still with us today. Present choosing. Decorating. Earning money to reside in distinguished hotels. But there is still a transformative, [being slightly cheeky here frisby, excuse me], effect in acknowledging this birth. If it is true, (something which may seem like merely gossip, through the repeated use of the phrase), then nothing else is important. We ignore our modern day grumbles, put down our purple and orange striped ties, and are just full of wonder again. About what here? Something simple, so simple that twelve lines explaining mundanity is rebuffed by only 'That God was Man in Palestine/ And lives to-day through Bread and Wine.'

Even when that faith is no longer a reason to stop all the clocks, we can still learn something from Christmas. Learn it from children. Learn it from our own, old reactions, however cynicism may coat their outsides. How do we express the joy of Christmas? Through the shepherds evangelical delight. Through Betjeman's transformative question. And through snow. Because it is through wonder that we inhabit the world most contentedly. The wonder of a class of infant children, startled that something unexpected, unsought-after, has changed their environment.

The wonder of Rossetti's child in the manger, with the world so harshly changed around him, changing the world himself. Through the beautiful, terrible wonder of Angel stopping from observing himself for a moment, and observing the world with eyes ready to see hope.

Snow transforms.

Snow enlightens.

In Buffy the Vampire Slayer's second Christmas episode, next Tuesday, it will be dry and warm. But hope to see some of that wonder at the world. The wonder of Dawn with her Drum. The wonder of Snow.

TCH- feeling a trifle didactic.