בתוכם / bethochem / in the midst of them
Published on 31 Jan 2010 at 2:40 pm.
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Filed under Misc Journaling, Ministry.
I’ve been debating for the past couple weeks whether to say anything about the Gospel reading. I mean, you gotta admit, it is a little interesting that I announce the news of my call to serve as the next rector of the Episcopal parish in my hometown and at the same time the lectionary gives us the story of Luke 4, the story of Jesus returning to his hometown.
And that right there is what has kept me from writing about it. I do, of course, know that I am not Jesus. I know the danger of eisegeting, or “reading into,” a text. I know that my return to my home doesn’t mirror Jesus’ return. I am not the messiah coming to this parish, far from it.
I’m just a young priest with a few degrees and a few years in a parish.
That is certainly not me in Luke 4.
I haven’t been blogging as much lately. You may have noticed this. Much of this is because now that I’m in full-time parish ministry a lot of what I would write about isn’t really appropriate for a public blog. But last fall my spiritual director suggested that I start keeping a personal journal, so that I could still write about those things that provoked my soul, so that I could still write and pray and listen and find out what I think about things.
So I’ve doing that for a while. And then, while I’m sitting in the pews at Trinity Wall Street at the 40th Trinity Institute, I decide to write some about my experience of the opening mass celebrated by the Archbishop of Canterbury, with the Archbishop of Burundi preaching and the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church celebrating.
I opened my journal and happened upon this entry I wrote back in early November, when I was beginning to really pray and listen and discern with Bethany whether or not I might be hearing a call to St. John’s in Grand Haven. In this journal entry I talked about how Luke 4 had been on my mind.
And then, this Sunday, we heard the end of that story in Luke 4,
The Holy Gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ according to Luke (4:21-30):
Then Jesus began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. They said, “Is not this Joseph’s son?”
He said to them, “Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, ‘Doctor, cure yourself!’ And you will say, ‘Do here also in your hometown the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.’” And he said, “Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown. But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, and there was a severe famine over all the land; yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. There were also many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.”
When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage. They got up, drove him out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they might hurl him off the cliff. But he passed through the midst of them and went on his way.
So I figure maybe it’s not such a bad idea for me to say something. It keeps coming back around. This is the entry I found in my journal sitting in the pews at Trinity. This is the entry that was on my mind when I proclaimed Sunday’s Gospel reading. Back in early November, this is what I had to say:
“But passing through the midst of them he went away.” Luke 4:30
As things continue to progress with St. John’s in Grand Haven, I’ve found myself with this story from Luke 4 sort of niggling at the back of my mind. Jesus returns to his hometown of Nazareth, preaches, and is soundly rejected. “A prophet is without honor in his hometown” is how the aphorism goes.
And so I wonder, I wonder if I could do faithful and good ministry in my own hometown.
Right now I’m reading The Scandalous Gospel of Jesus by Peter Gomes. We’re considering using it for our Lenten book group studies at Christ Church this spring. It’s decent, I suppose, but it’s not a book I’d foist on a friend—much less on my parish in the midst of Lent. There was, however, this gem of a phrase that Gomes picked up on in his discussion of the Luke 4 text. It’s the line right at the end of the story, where Luke describes what Jesus did when his hometown congregation wanted to throw him off a cliff.
“But passing through the midst of them he went away.”
If I can let go of my need for solid exegesis for a moment, if I can let go of the historical/critical/literary/historical reading of the text for just a moment, if I can do this and engage in a little lectio divina, a little “holy reading”… then I’d say I find this phrase provocative.
“But he passed through the midst of them…”
What if Luke isn’t describing a bit of hocus pocus, some special “Jesus disappearing act”? I wonder, perhaps, if an answer to my fears about hometown preaching is to “pass through the midst of them.” That is, perhaps the call is to enter into the midst of them, to take my place, as the ancient Scriptures say בתוכם, bethochem, in the midst of them. Then, to pass through and among and around them until I’m no longer separate from them.
Of course I’ll always be separate, I’ll have a distinct place and a distinct order… but can I maintain that distinctiveness and still enter deeply betochem, in the midst of them?
If I do that, I wonder, will I be able to stay? Will I be able to stay for as long as God’s voice calls me there? I know that Jesus passes through the midst of them to leave, I know the result of his passage was that “he went away.”
I think that I’d like to pass through the midst of them and stay, for now.
To stay there.
בתוכם
Bethochem.
In the midst of them.
Almighty and everlasting God, you govern all things both in heaven and on earth: Mercifully hear the supplications of your people, and in our time grant us your peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
Call
Published on 24 Jan 2010 at 9:51 am.
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I am not from the wilderness or the desert. I am thoroughly from Michigan. I am completely and utterly a Michigander in my heart. Not because of some blind devotion to the state—though it is an amazing state with much to offer. Rather, I am because it was Michigan that gave birth to me. I come from my family, nestled among Michigan’s pines, never too far from a great lake.
From an older post of mine, Not From the Wilderness
When I was a kid, probably no more than ten or so, I began to develop a friendship with the pulpit minister at the Church of Christ my family attended in Holland, MI (I’ve written about him before). Over the years as I grew up, I told him several times that my goal in life was to leave home, go to school, and then come back and take over his job when he retired. We joked about it back and forth, but we did joke about it for many years.
I left my hometown of Grand Haven and did a Bachelor’s in Biblical Studies in Rochester Hills, MI. By that time, the dynamics of my home congregation had begun to shift. I did return for a brief stint as a youth ministry intern for a summer, but it became clear that my childhood dream would remain just that. Later, when in the deserts of West Texas I followed God’s calling into the Episcopal Church, the dream of going back to work for my home church evaporated. But I was so enamored with my newly adopted tradition that I didn’t mourn it much. Ministry just doesn’t work that way, I told myself.
Then, several months ago, I saw that the Episcopal parish in my hometown was searching for a new rector. I did some research and praying, talked with Bethany, and submitted my name. I really was not anticipating beginning the search process for my next position until closer to December or January, but if there is one thing I have learned over the past five years it’s that one should always be open. It’s always a good idea to listen.
And once again, the Spirit’s breath blew across my path, revealing unexpected sign-posts pointing me in a direction I hadn’t seen. The Spirit’s breath blew and slowly a path appeared before Bethany and my feet. We looked down it hard, trying to see its end-point. I was surprised by how old the path seemed, like it had always been there. Bethany was surprised that it went North. But for both of us the pull to walk down that path became stronger with each step in the search process.
A few weeks ago, the Senior Warden at that Episcopal parish in my hometown called me on the phone. “Jared,” she said, “the vestry has voted unanimously to call you as St. John’s next rector.” All the months leading up to this moment, the conversations with different parishes and letters back and forth between different diocesan transition officers, and now this moment seemed so simple. I indicated my desire to accept the call and we got to work finalizing details. Last Sunday, at the annual meeting, all the details having been worked out, the Senior Warden announced my call to the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven, MI. This morning, here at Christ Church, we’re announcing it to the people I currently serve.
I’m going back to Michigan. Back to the town I where I spent most of my growing up, where I went to Boy Scouts, took driver’s education, sang in the High School choir, and worked at the McDonald’s. I’m going back home.
And who knew, who could have possibly known, that the dream of a ten year old kid with an electronic Bible and a friendship with his preacher could be thus transformed? Who could have known that God would reach down and gently reshape my childhood dream so that I would wind up doing what has long been a dream in my heart… to come home and serve God’s people where I grew up? Who knew that the Spirit could take the drops of that evaporated dream and turn them into this calling?
I didn’t know.
But apparently, God has done just that.
As I’ve contemplated this call over the past few weeks, I keep coming back to that video I made two and a half years ago. There’s this Sufjan Stevens song off his album Greetings from Michigan called “Vito’s Ordination Song.” I’ve written before about how much the song means to me. A few years ago I wanted to share it with a friend, but there weren’t any videos of it on YouTube. So, I decided to make my own video. I was contemplating my roots and an ordination that would be coming down the road and the video that resulted turned out to be quite meaningful to me.
So, at the end of June, Bethany and I will pack up the life we’ve made in the DC area. The moving truck will leave and we’ll get in our cars and head North. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that there is a little trepidation within me about this move. My first rector position, and it will be in my hometown. But God has whispered loving assurances throughout the process. I’ve heard them through the people in the parish with whom I’ve interacted. I heard those whispers while I was walking through the parish offices and worship space. I’ve heard them in my own quiet time. I’ve heard a call that’s been wrapped in all these moments of grace.
And so I’ll go.
O Lord my God, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; yet you have called your servant to stand in your house, and to serve at your altar. To you and to your service I devote myself, body, soul, and spirit. Fill my memory with the record of your mighty works; enlighten my understanding with the light of your Holy Spirit; and may all the desires of my heart and will center in what you would have me do. Make me an instrument of your salvation for the people entrusted to my care, and grant that I may faithfully administer your holy Sacraments, and by my life and teaching set forth your true and living Word. Be always with me in carrying out the duties of my ministry. In prayer, quicken my devotion; in praises, heighten my love and gratitude; in preaching, give me readiness of thought and expression; and grant that, by the clearness and brightness of your holy Word, all the world may be drawn into your blessed kingdom. All this I ask for the sake of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
(You can also read St. John’s Announcement.)
Polish
Published on 31 Dec 2009 at 9:55 am.
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I come from a shoe family.
My mother’s father’s business for years and years was a shoe store. Actually, I know it as the shoe store. I believe all of his kids worked in it at one time or another. When I was a small child, my parents were probably about as well off as most parents that have kids in their early twenties (which is to say, we weren’t wealthy). But I never lacked for shoes. I always had a good pair of shoes, even from the time I was just a toddler.
My dad worked in that store, I believe it was where he discovered his knack for selling things. Around the time I was 4 or 5, he traveled across the state to West Michigan to work at a big shoe store in Grand Rapids. We came with him and my family lived in West Michigan for the rest of growing up years, right up until I moved back to South Eastern Michigan to go to college in Rochester Hills. My dad moved on from shoes to cars, and my family gradually spread away from West Michigan. Except for my younger sister, who steadfastly remains in Grand Rapids. That’s just the way she is, and it’s one of the things I love and admire about her.
But my grandfather, the one who owned the shoe business, never moved. It’s almost as if the earth spun so fast that the rest of us slid to other places, but he remained right in Corunna, a small town outside of Flint. He closed the shoe store. I have the picture of the last day it was open somewhere. Everyone standing together in one big group as a chapter in the Stewart family life ended. Grandpa turned the place into a consignment shop for years. When I was a teenager, he’d let me sit behind the register and ring people up, paying a foolish child a couple dollars to do something I loved. I was paid almost literally by the hour and every few dollars I made I’d run down the street to the Freeway pharmacy/convenience store and buy myself something. Candy. A toy gun. That money burned a hole in my pocket and wasn’t lasting long.
He closed the consignment store too, and has tried several times to sell the whole building and be done with it. He’s 84 now, and he shouldn’t have to mess with things like that. But it’s seems like a penny that’s hard to lose.
I don’t know what’s going on with the building now, but I know Grandpa is right where he’s always been: next to Grandma Dorothy (he calls her “Dot”). They’re at their house just a few miles from the old store. Same house. Same house that seemed so gigantic when I was a child and still looms large in my mind and in my heart.
After my first year of seminary in west Texas, when my theological world began shifting and before I had gotten used to living a whole country away from my family, I went to see my grandparents. I’d been in Michigan for that Preaching Conference Rochester used to host and spent my last evening and day up at their house in Corunna. In fact, the story of that visit was the first post on this blog. It’s not the earliest, because I eventually imported all my old posts from my old blog over here, but it is post number one on Scribere Orare Est.
But there’s a part of that visit with Grandpa Ken and Grandma Dorothy I didn’t include in that post. I had mentioned to Grandpa about how after a year in Texas I was itching to buy some cowboy boots. He said he had a pair he didn’t wear anymore, and that I could have them if they fit and if I wanted them.
Always a shoe man, he knew the first question was whether or not they fit. Not whether or not you wanted them.
I tried them on and they fit perfectly. He took a look at them and said they’d need a good polish. I gave them back and we went into his office, next door to his bedroom in the house. He pulled out his old shoe polish kit. I sat on the floor and he sat on the edge of the coffee table in the office and took one of the boots. He cleaned the dirt and dust off of it first. Then, opening the can of Kiwi, he used a small round brush and started working the polish into the leather.
I’d polished a pair of shoes before. Both my mom and my dad made sure I knew how to do that. But a boot is a bigger thing to polish. I watched my Grandpa work the polish into both boots, then use the longer brush to begin to buff them, finishing the shine with a cloth. He was careful, but not slow. You could see that his arms had done this work several times over the years. While he polished he explained to me why he preferred boots like these: Red Wings. He talked about how they last so long and were of such good quality. In fact, he said, he’d bought these particular boots in 1981, the year I was born. When he was done he set them down next to each other and they shined like brand new.
These boots were a quarter of a century old and they shined like brand new.
I still wear my grandpa’s boots. I wore them all throughout my time in Texas and kept wearing them when I moved to Tennessee. I don’t know what Bethany thought about the Michigan boy wearing boots in middle Tennessee when I met her, but she married me anyway. I wore those boots for our engagement pictures and brought them with me when we moved to the Washington, DC area. They are still my favorite footwear. After almost 30 years they’re perfectly broken in. When I put them on they feel like home.
I polished those boots this morning and thought about my Grandpa. I closed my eyes and pictured him working that polish along the boot as he explained the ways of boots and shoe polish to me. Over the years of my life, the brush of his life has slowly worked polish into my own. Life has scuffed me sometimes, but he showed me where to find God’s polish: in my family and in a heart that desires God above all else. And so I still work that brown polish into my boots. I still work the polish of grace into my life. And neither my boots nor my soul have worn out yet.
O God, whose fatherly care reaches to the uttermost parts of the earth: We humbly ask you graciously to behold and bless those whom we love, now absent from us. Defend them from all dangers of soul and body; and grant that both they and we, drawing nearer to you, may be bound together by your love in the communion of your Holy Spirit, and in the fellowship of your saints; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Seeing Through the Darkness
Published on 24 Dec 2009 at 4:56 pm.
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A Reading from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah (9:2-7)
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness— on them light has shined. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian. For all the boots of the tramping warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire. For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His authority shall grow continually, and there shall be endless peace for the throne of David and his kingdom. He will establish and uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time onward and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.
In the name of one God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.
It’s tempting, oh it’s so very tempting, to take this moment in the service to rest. Many of you may have fought weather and holiday travels to be here tonight. If you consider the work you’ve expended the past couple hours, or even the past couple of days or weeks, it is rather tempting to take this moment in the midst of a very full service and simply gaze adoringly on the nativity scene before us. Mother with child, laid in a manger, angels singing heavenly songs to shepherds, these are the familiar pieces of a story that we all love. We’ve come in from the darkness and cold outside, looking for warmth and light, and perhaps a glimpse of something of depth in the celebration of Christ’s birth.
If I could push your gaze a bit though, perhaps like a tour director, and invite you to look in another direction for a moment, I wouldn’t call you to the manger. No, first I’d call you to the darkness, the darkness through which we journeyed to get here. If each of us could look behind us, just for a moment, and consider the shadows through which we walked… what would we see? Shadows of grief? Shadows of addiction or sickness? Shadows of selfishness and sin?
What shadows do you see behind you? I would imagine that they are no small shadows, they are not the sort of shadows that simply make it difficult to see. These are the sorts of shadows wherein the darkness presses down all around us. In our first lesson, Isaiah talked about the yoke of our burden, the bar across our shoulders, the rod of our oppressor. Have you felt that sort of shadow? I recall when I was a student doing my hospital chaplaincy work. I spent several months on the oncology floor of the hospital and was struck by how dark the rooms often seemed. The people that I visited were almost all nearing the end of their lives, and the darkness in their room really did press down upon me. Have you experienced darkness like that? Have you walked through those shadows?
If you haven’t, I know you’ve at least walked near them. I know you’ve walked by other people living in oppressive dark and shadows. People struggling to make ends meet, people battling profound loneliness, people pushing against the darkness even as it seemed to close further in.
Have you seen darkness like that? Just turn on the news and you’ll see it. Wars and violence that seem to stretch without end.
The first several chapters of Isaiah are filled with that kind of darkness. After the reigns of the great King David and then the great King Solomon, the nation of Israel split in two sections. The northern half, Israel, and the southern half, Judah. In the 8th century, as the Assyrian empire flexed its muscles and pushed out against its borders, the kings of Israel and Syria reached out to Ahaz, the King of Judah, to form a coalition. Ahaz refused, and so Israel and Syria attacked Jerusalem, the capital of Judah. Isaiah assured Ahaz that God would protect him, but Ahaz saw the darkness creeping in and decided that the enemy of his enemy was much easier to trust than an invisible God. So, against Isaiah’s advice, Ahaz reaches out to Assyria and sends a payment as tribute.
And Assyria lays waste to Damascus. Almost all of Israel is annexed. You can almost imagine the prophet Isaiah weeping as he watches huge portions of the Northern Kingdom’s population deported to serve as slaves to the Assyrian emperor. Our text from tonight is Isaiah 9, but the last verse of chapter 8 ends saying, “the will look to the earth, but will see only distress and darkness, the gloom of anguish; and they will be thrust into thick darkness.”
Have you seen darkness like that in your own life? Do you see it in the world around you? The busy-ness and bustle of the holiday season can cover that darkness for a moment, the Christmas lights and decorations can make it seem as though it’s not there…but for many the darkness persists.
And so Isaiah, watching the crowds of Israelites march off to Assyrian captivity, sings out with voice that is full of hope, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.” He sees the conquering Assyrian army plundering the cities of the northern kingdom and sings out, “God’s people will rejoice before God the way that people exult when dividing plunder.” He sees the crack of the whip, the pull of the cords around the tribes of Israel and with hope of the most profound perseverance sings out, “The yoke of their burden, the bar across their shoulders, and the rod of their oppressor, God has broken it.”
Somehow, in a time of profound darkness, Isaiah is able to peer through his present circumstances and declare that God’s peace will yet be established and upheld. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this, Isaiah insists, and nothing will keep back that zeal.
It’s strange. It’s rather strange, because it’s almost as if the darkness surrounding his country has enabled Isaiah to see the light more clearly. It’s almost as if the darkness closing in on Isaiah has helped him see with greater clarity than ever the truth that God will reach through this present darkness and do justice for God’s people.
Have you seen that kind of darkness? The kind that helps you see the light?
Make no mistake, there was profound darkness surrounding that birth in Bethlehem. The Roman empire was leaning harder upon the Jewish people. Mary and Joseph had gone to Joseph’s home-town and couldn’t find a place to sleep. King Herod is about to launch a search and destroy mission against the possible Messiah. And out of the thousands and thousands of people living in the darkness of that night, only a handful of shepherds were able to see through the darkness to the light.
Can you see through the darkness to the light? Not cover the darkness up, not hide it, not pretend it doesn’t exist. But can you see through the darkness in your life or the darkness in your world to the light that still shines? Look deeply into the darkness and see the wonder of God made human, see the mystery of God entering into the darkness with which we have filled this world.
See what Isaiah sees.
Just two chapters before our chapter, Isaiah named what he sees: Immanuel. God with us.
See what Isaiah sees. God not abandoning God’s people, but journeying with them into exile.
God coming alongside us in our darkness.
See the light of God pierce your darkness, and perhaps hear back through the ages to Isaiah’s song of defiant hope, “Those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.” Our Savior has come. Amen.
O God, you have caused this holy night to shine with the brightness of the true Light: Grant that we, who have known the mystery of that Light on earth, may also enjoy him perfectly in heaven; where with you and the Holy Spirit he lives and reigns, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.
O Emmanuel
Published on 23 Dec 2009 at 11:04 am.
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December 23: O Emmanuel
O Emmanuel, our king and our lawgiver,
the hope of the nations and their Saviour:
Come and save us, O Lord our God.
Everyone wants a sign, some sort of certainty that their faith is not staked upon a fantasy.
The Lord offered to give a sign to Ahaz. Ahaz was king of Judah for a time during what’s known as the divided kingdom. Israel had joined forces with Aram (Syria) to attack Jerusalem. The story in 2 Kings tells us that the Lord sent Isaiah out to meet Ahaz, telling Ahaz to have courage because the Lord would protect him. Israel and Syria wanted Jerusalem for their own, but the Lord would strengthen Ahaz so he could protect it. Yet, the Lord warned Ahaz, “If you do not stand firm in faith, you shall not stand at all.”
And then the Lord offered Ahaz a sign.
Ahaz refused, saying he would not put the Lord to the text.
But the Lord knew that Ahaz was not speaking from a place of deep faith, but from a place of deep fear. The Lord knew that Ahaz did not refuse the sign because he trusted God, but because he was terrified of what might happen to him. (And Ahaz was already arranging an alliance with Assyria, hoping they could protect him.)
So the Lord gave Ahaz a sign anyway: Immanuel.
“Look,” the Lord said, “The young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”
Isaiah also prophecied that the country Ahaz had trusted in to help him (Assyria) would instead come and lay waste to Jerusalem. Israel would be carried off into captivity by Assyria and destroyed. Later, Judah would also be carried off into captivity by Babylon. God’s people would be taken from their land and the supposedly everlasting covenant of Abraham and David would seem to be revoked.
O come, O come, Emmanuel,
and ransom captive Israel,
that mourns in lonely exile here
until the Son of God appear.
Eventually, the Persian empire came to power and Judah was returned to their homeland. They rebuild the temple but never fully retained sovereignty over their land. For a brief period during the 2nd century BC, it appeared as though the revolt led by the Maccabees would give the Jewish people sovereignty. However, the Seleucid empire regained control. In 63 BC, Pompey captured Jerusalem for Rome, subjecting the Jews to Roman rule.
And it was into this context that Mary received news that she would give birth to the Messiah… the captivity of God’s people appeared about to end.
But you need to remember the sign of Immanuel. The word literally means, “God with us.” The young woman would give birth and the child would be called “God with us.” In the context of exile and captivity, where God seems profoundly absent, this name of “God with us” becomes so very important. No longer will we feel lost. No longer will we feel as though there is always someone on our back, pressing us down. No longer will we search the skies and search the ancient texts for some sign that God is still around.
God will be with us.
God with us.
Some of the Jewish people thought the Messiah would come and give them political freedom. Instead the Messiah came and suffered alongside of them. Many thought the Messiah would return to them the power that had been stolen, instead the Messiah came and spoke up for the powerless. Many thought the Messiah would be a sign that God was for them. Instead, the Messiah was actually God with them, right alongside of them.
Now, you and I may not be in exile. We may not be in captivity. But we share the same confusion as some of the first century Jews, thinking that the kingdom is about political power or the success of our particular agenda.
Who would have thought that Immanuel was actually just what it says: God with us.
We will no longer be alone. We will no longer search desperately for God’s presence in our life.
Look, a young woman is about to give birth. She doesn’t look like the mother of a king. She’s a unwed pregnant teenager, after all. But look, look so very carefully and take note. Because the child she will bear will be called Immanuel.
The child will be Emmanuel.
God will be with us.
God with us.
O Emmanuel.
Come.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
