And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears.
Cold hands, cramped feet, relentless noise, and nothing to see. He fingers the soft blanket beneath his weary body, listening sadly to the deep rumbling of his stomach. They told me the blanket was gray. I wish I knew what they meant. He hasn't had much heart to cry out this morning. That happens sometimes when you've been crying for days, for months, for years. He lifts his hands up to his face and covers his eyes, wishing, as he has done so many times before, that maybe, when he removes them, he will, by some miracle, be able to see.
He sits with his face covered for some time, allowing his mind to be distracted by the busy pattering of the many sandaled feet before him, the deep echoes of the voices of their owners, and the other usual sounds of the street. He has grown far too accustomed to these sounds. He has been sitting here for so long.
He lowers his hands to the dirt below him, placing his palms on its cold surface and stretching out his fingers, half-delighted by the curious roughness of the little granules of dust that sift through his fingers and rub against his skin. At least one part of his body could sense a bit of the world. He drags his hands back and forth in the dirt. Oh, this dust. Oh, will I ever, ever be able to see?
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadow put to flight.
She wraps her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, hugging herself—but not from the cold. It's the people—the crowds—you see. They are too close and...and...it's just hard to be with so many people all at once, especially when you're hurting. She knows pain well—and shame, too. For twelve years, she has suffered; for twelve years, the bleeding hasn't stopped. Yes, she's tried the doctors—she's been to the best ones in the land. No treatment has helped, and now her stomach growls too. I've no money for food today. My body aches. My head is spinning. Is there hope anywhere? Relief from this pain? this shame? Oh, will I ever, ever be free?
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, Desire of Nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind.
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease
And be Thyself our King of Peace.
He settles himself down on the chilly, wet grass, crossing his legs neatly and breathing in the crisp night air. It feels like the biggest breath he has taken in a month. It is a still night—no wind, and even the sheep seem quiet. He looks up to the dark sky, his heart heavy. Is there any way to even relate the pain? Family troubles sometimes hurt too much to even put them into words. He lies on his back, raising his arms to tuck his hands behind his neck. He draws more air into his lungs. As he lets it out, a single tear—hot and sticky—makes its way down his dusty cheek. He lets it fall. He knows the others aren't paying attention. He knows the sheep won't care.
One more breath, another glance at the sky. Man, that star sure is bright. A lamb wanders over to him, fumbling and shuffling through the grass in its exhaustion. His lips twist into the tiniest smile and he reaches out his hand to the little creature. It buries its nose in his palm, its warm breath tickling his wrist. He wants to smile, but his mouth can't seem to lift his heart this time. Another tear flickers down his face as he gently pets the lamb. He raises his gaze to the sky once more. Oh, is there hope? Will this ever, ever stop?
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears.
Dropping his pencil onto his tattered note-page, he sits back in his old chair. He slips his fingers underneath his glasses and rubs his tired eyes. His shoulders ache. He's barely staying awake. He fixes his glasses and tries once more to look at his paper. So many scribbles, half-started thoughts that look better, he thinks, with a line straight through them. Circles, arrows, x's, eraser shavings—and, still, the sermon hasn't hardly a skeleton. What do I do? What do I tell them?
He thinks of the people who will be listening to him shortly after the sun stretches its rays across the sky the next morning, forcing the darkness away with its happy glow. He knows each face in his congregation. Will there be enough in that sun to help them hang on another day? He picks up the Bible that has been lying on his desk for hours and reads again the passage on which he is supposed to be preaching. Oh, this world. Will we ever, ever make it?
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
*****
Four stories. Four people. Four broken, bleeding hearts. Four aching souls. Four parched tongues. They're waiting, longing desperately for the smallest hint of hope. The world doesn't seem to offer that much, does it?
But a man spit into the dirt which had been beneath the blind man's cold hands. In a touch that was, perhaps, more loving than any that that face had ever felt before, the Rabbi covered the poor fellow's eyes with mud and sent him to Siloam.
He saw.
The woman, bundled up against the crowd, thought that maybe one touch might do it. Maybe, just maybe, if she managed to get one finger on the hem of his cloak...
She was freed.
The shepherd was right about that star. It was a bright one, wasn't it?
And the pastor? You're right. That one's not in the Bible. That one's our story, and that one's not quite over yet.
But you know what? Our story's going to end just like the others did. Our King is coming. He'll drive out the night, ransom the captive nation, draw us into His heart, wipe our tears. We might ache with all the pains of the blind man, the bleeding woman, the lonely shepherd, and the burdened pastor—but, one day soon, there will be joy, sight, freedom, beauty.
We come to Christmas with a lot on our minds. We wonder; we worry; we wait. But, in it all, may we rest in the truth of what this day really means. Emmanuel—God with us—has come. And He's coming again. We have hope.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
