The Best of Connie Willis

Afterword for “All Seated on the Ground”

When I wrote this story, I relied heavily on my thirty-odd years of experience singing in church choirs, during which I sang every Christmas carol ever written and learned way more than I ever wanted to know about them. And about everything else.

As I have often said, everything you need to know about the world can be learned by singing in a church choir. Comedy, drama, intrigue, romance, revenge, pride, lust, envy, greed, vainglory… You name it, church choirs have it all. Plus, you find out a bunch of other useful stuff to get you through life. Like:

1. If the person singing next to you is flat, it’s fairly easy to stay on pitch. If they’re sharp, you’re doomed.

2. The third verse of any hymn (or the fifth if it has six verses) is where they stick the really terrible lyrics, which is why so many ministers opt for “verses 1, 2, and 4.” Verse 3 is where you’ll find gems like “sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying” and “O mysterious condescending! O abandonment sublime!”

3. On the other hand, at least hymns with bad lyrics are interesting, unlike most of modern praise music, which is boring beyond belief. I’ll take “Nor thorns infest the ground” over “Oh, God, you’re so awesome” any day.

4. Divinely inspired is not the same as good. Many beloved hymns and Christmas carols are actually hideous, which you would know if you had to sing them every year.

I particularly loathe “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” During one of those Christmas Eve services where they tell the carol’s history and then the choir sings it (the carol, not the history), the minister described in detail the circumstances under which “O Little Town” had been written.

The author, the minister said, an Episcopal priest named Phillips Brooks, had visited the Holy Land, ridden to Bethlehem on horseback, and, once there, sat through a five-hour church service, and had been so inspired by the whole experience that he’d immediately sat down (really? I find the entire story somewhat questionable) and written the carol.

After which account, my daughter (also in the choir and sitting next to me) leaned over and whispered to me, “Oh, well, I guess it’s the thought that counts, Mom,” followed by sputters of suppressed laughter and our not being allowed to sit together anymore.