Christmas is emotional; a concentrated cacophony of contrasts. We find ourselves socialising more than at any other time of year and yet there is more opportunity for – or poignancy to – those moments in which we notice our alone-ness. It is a time of celebration and indulgence, yet this can augment any feelings of sadness or lack we might be carrying with us for whatever reason (and this year many of us have good reason). We have the cold darkness of midwinter offering itself as a backdrop to twinkling lights and crackling firesides.

Perhaps this is why Handel’s Messiah resonates with even the most reluctant of classical music listeners. It appears each year like a guest we might otherwise consider ourselves to have nothing in coming with, and yet its presence feels familiar, soothing, and somehow representative of all those contrasting Christmas emotions: comfort, joy, hope, and a touch of reassuringly universal enigmatic sadness.

This evening’s performance at the suitably splendid University Church was performed by Opus 48 - which describes itself as an exciting new medium-sized choral society for Oxfordshire - complemented by ‘rising star’ soloists Rebecca Hardwick (soprano), Rebecca Afonwy-Jones (mezzo-soprano), Henry Ross (Tenor), and Timothy Dickinson (bass-baritone). Whereas all were wholly captivating, it was Dickinson who stood out for me with his deep, smooth, warming tone (and we needed some warmth). I would describe all as accomplished athletes: the skill, strength, and precision required to perform in the way that they do seems almost supernatural. I was in awe.

The Messiah was performed with perfect pace, pitch, and poetry, taking us on the familiar journey of the birth of Christ, from the tentative dusk before his arrival to the triumphant and utterly uplifting 'Hallelujah!' conclusion – trumpets resounding, voices rising to the heavens, a moment when all hopes appear realised.

To whet our appetite before the main event the evening opened with a selection of favourite carols, including a particularly potent 'Lord of the Dance' delivered with remarkable joie-de-vivre. I found new-to-me meaning in it: an account of mankind’s extraordinary ability to keep going through the hardest of times - to continue with the dance, regardless. Despite the cheery delivery, I listened with a lump in my throat.

We were then treated to Corelli’s Christmas Concerto; six movements scored for strings that journeyed along a multi-layered landscape of pieces carrying the audience through sprightly outbursts of festive excitement to more contemplative, slower, moodier moments of Christmassy calm.

I took my mother along with me for this most-festive of evenings, because I will always associate Handel’s Messiah with her. I recall she would spend what seemed to be the whole of every December listening to it endlessly and humming along - in the car, in the kitchen, everywhere - it appeared to follow her around like the spirit of Christmas itself. As we left the venue to head home, she told me how as a teenager it was exactly the kind of music she had loathed, finding it miserable and stuffy.

I laughed as it is now exactly the kind of music I most associate with her, and I wondered what this meant. Are we all defined as much by our shadow as our light?

Probably. Contrasts and opposites are inevitable, regardless of our preferences. There will always be dark times and good times; warm times and cold. Times of abundance, times of lack, times of good health, times of illness and pain. Times when we feel we can keep going, times when we feel our burdens are too heavy to dance anymore.

And yet, we do.

This is life, and isn’t it painfully glorious? And all so ridiculously supercharged at this time of year.

If you haven’t seen Messiah live, you must.