This piece was written by Michaela and and speaks of another kind of immanuel…
Often on a Sunday morning, I am the first up. I boil the kettle, tidy up the kitchen a little, feed the chickens then settle with a cuppa and radio 4, in my favourite corner of the kitchen, often listening to the Sunday morning service.
Sometimes I feel no connection to it, but sometimes, the beauty comes through to me.
Either way, Sunday mornings find me sitting, thinking, clearing my head a little, writing down things that need to be done during the week, so I can switch off and enjoy my Sabbath. Then I have a think about whose birthdays are coming up, who has new babies, or new homes or bad news. Who needs a letter or a card or a call…. It is a most comfortable time.
But last Sunday, I woke still feeling agitated from the week’s news. The dreadful deaths of those seeking refuge was hard enough to hear, but to hear it surrounded by political bias, rhetoric, hard voices, accusations, even celebrations that for people to be seeking such danger shows the ‘achievements’ made in closing off the ports. Achievements. My heart broke. My heart breaks.
Then into the anxiety, the fear of what was to come, the hopelessness.. voices from the radio service…
O Come, O Come, Immanuel.
The hope, the pain of longing, the feeling of being held in waiting..
You can hear a beautiful version of the song here by our friend Yvonne.
Or even better, set aside twenty-five minutes. I promise it will be worth it. Hear Yvonne’s song embedded in some beautiful and hopeful words but Katie Emslie-Smith, spoken at the Steeple Church on Sunday.