The Roundup - Edition 85

A message from 
Rich Jones, Head.

There is, truthfully, good reason to feel rather gloomy as we approach the end of 2025.

At two festive events at St Chris this week, the excellent boarders’ Christmas dinner, quiz and disco, and the wonderfully enthusiastic but largely out-of-tune Sixth Form carols at Little Break, I chatted to some students. Both conversations turned, unprompted, to the news. They mentioned the BBC website where the top stories that day included Trump’s potential invasion of Venezuela, questions about whether the UK is prepared for a long, protracted war, and the NHS teetering on the verge of collapse. This morning, even The Times leads with the headline: Prepare for War.

Ho ho ho.

But when I’ve reflected on what those students said, I’ve wondered whether it has ever really been any different. In many ways, that is the point of this time of year. The festivals that sit beneath modern Christmas were never about easy times. They were about bringing warmth and light into the darkest, coldest stretch of the year. Medieval ideas of generosity and charity were born from genuine need, not excess. Joy was an act of resistance.

These days we talk a lot about extravagance and indulgence at Christmas, but so many of our cultural touchstones are rooted in struggle rather than comfort. It’s a Wonderful Life. A Christmas Carol. Wham’s Last Christmas. None of them are really cosy stories. They are about loss, fear, loneliness, injustice and, ultimately, hope.

As a family, we are steadily working our way through the Christmas films and series, and on Sunday night we watched That Christmas. There is a line that stayed with me. A character says that Christmas is like an emotional magnifying glass. If you feel loved and happy, it amplifies that feeling. But if you feel alone or unloved, it magnifies that too.

That feels accurate.

Someone asked me recently for a favourite Christmas memory. My answer surprised them, and perhaps me. It was just after lockdown, when I was volunteering for listening shifts at the Samaritans. Christmas is, unsurprisingly, a busy period there. One call I took was from an elderly man who was profoundly lonely. Most days, he rode the bus in a circular route on the off chance that someone might sit next to him and talk. He was upset when we spoke because the bus route had stopped for Christmas. We talked for a while, and as we finished I wished him well and sent my Christmas wishes. He replied, “Ah, that’s better. That’s what I needed to hear.”

Simple. Small.

Later that day I looked at the duty schedule to see if I could offer another shift over Christmas. Every single slot was filled. Not one was free until late January. That is why it is a good memory. Quiet, human light in a dark place.

This week I mentioned to the Senior School the importance of looking out for those who find this period difficult. I know many are already doing exactly that.

Our young people at St Chris are not naïve or immune. They are thoughtful, perceptive and deeply connected to the world around them. They see the cracks. They hear the noise. 

And yet there is positivity and optimism that comes from them. I see it every single day.

The world may not always be a place of easy optimism. Probably it never has been. But kindness, curiosity and care still matter, and they are alive and well here.

The world our young people are growing up in is not always simple, stable or especially kind, and pretending otherwise does them no favours. What matters is that they are learning, here and at home, how to think clearly, act compassionately and hold their nerve when things feel uncertain. That work happens in classrooms, corridors, rehearsals, conversations and moments of care that rarely make headlines. If Christmas is about choosing light when darkness is easier, then that choice is being made every day at St Chris. 

I wish you all a peaceful Christmas and a warm, restorative time with family and friends.