Perhaps the first thing you would notice about Christmas in Ethiopia is that no one exchanges presents. And the second thing you would notice, if you happened to be there on 25th December, is that nothing is happening.

Ethiopia still keeps the Julian calendar, which is seven years and eight months behind ours. In the Ethiopian highlands, where the Orthodox Church is strong, Christians fast for a whole month before Christmas (7th January), abstaining completely from meat and dairy products and attending church every day.

On Christmas Eve, the churches are full-to-bursting, with young and old, men and women swathed in white cotton shawls against the cold. Many have to stand outside, for most of the night, as the lengthy liturgy is broadcast to the whole neighbourhood by loudspeaker.

Early on Christmas morning, the streets are full, as everyone returns home where, if they can afford it, they will slaughter a sheep for the feast, to share with family and friends. But everyone, from the moderately rich to the very poor, will visit family to share some of the deep, pan-baked bread prepared especially for the festival, which is eaten with ‘tella’, a dark local beer.

On the border with South Sudan, where rapidly growing Anglican churches serve three people groups, Christmas is celebrated twice. The Annuak like to keep Christmas with the Orthodox (and enjoy the national holiday), but the Nuer, who also live in South Sudan, like to keep it on 25th December.

Either way, celebrations begin on Christmas Eve just before dusk, when the Anglicans ‘march’ around the town or village, singing and drumming behind a processional cross, to gather a congregation for the celebration. By the time they reach the church, hundreds will have joined the procession; some out of curiosity, many simply excited that something big is happening. Towards midnight, everyone settles quietly in a large circle under the stars – young and old, many of the women nursing children – for the Christmas drama, presented by virtually the whole community.

Two years ago, we were staying with a very remote tribe, deep in the forest, where I taught the Christmas story, by the light of a single lamp – with shooting stars overhead and to the gentle sound of coughing and the shifting of human bodies across the dusty ground.

Later, we all watched, spellbound with delight, as Joseph, having learnt that Mary was with child, hit the bottle; and as Mary panted under a heavy blanket, with her birth attendant, to give birth to the Christ-child. Everyone roared with laughter as children, behaving as recalcitrant sheep, swarmed over the scene and refused to be shepherded. Deep in the forest all around us, no one else seemed perturbed by the sounds of jeering, shouting and laughter that seemed to be getting closer.

Memories of Midnight Masses on a large housing estate, where revellers tipped out of the pubs after midnight and staggered noisily into church, flashed through my mind. Then, suddenly, a crowd of tall men burst into the circle. The leader (a crown of leaves on his head) swaggering self-importantly, with clothes stuffed up his t-shirt (to make him look fat – and so, wealthy), jeered and shouted at the children. He was a parody of the African ‘big man’ accompanied by his henchmen, dressed like SPLA soldiers, in wellington boots and bandanas, brandishing sticks, as if they were Kalashnikov rifles. 

The crowd, recognising Herod and his henchmen in their desperate search for the Christ-child, roared with delight and laughter as he strut

ted, roared and strutted some more, before inexplicably and suddenly collapsing in a heap before being carried off, unceremoniously, by his confused, angry mob.
Just after midnight, people began to pick up their things and slip away to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Before dawn, we were woken by the soft singing of the young man who’d been watching over the village all night and, as we emerged from the tiny grass hut we’d slept in, men, women and children began to emerge from under their mosquito nets, to prepare the feast.

Three hours of frantic activity followed as a cow, bought months before, was slaughtered and women ground enough maize to make the special bread for the feast, for well over 100 people. When everything was ready, we gathered at the river for baptisms and confirmations under the blazing sun. It was pure delight to live for nine years among people of such faith and to connect, so powerfully and simply with others in so many joyful celebrations of the birth of Jesus Christ. May your Christmas this year be truly blessed – and do remember your sisters and brothers around the world, keeping vigil with us all.

The Rt Revd Andrew Proud is Bishop of Reading. Before moving here earlier this year he spent nine years as Bishop of Ethiopia and the Horn of Africa.