“Rejoice,
Rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel”
Rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel”
In my long-ago childhood,
when I accompanied my mother to church most Sundays, I loved that hymn. It was
sung with much more gusto than most of the hymns. It felt that we truly were
offering a joyful noise unto the Lord. In my reedy little five-year-old voice I
belted out the admonition to rejoice, rejoice, along with the adults.
when I accompanied my mother to church most Sundays, I loved that hymn. It was
sung with much more gusto than most of the hymns. It felt that we truly were
offering a joyful noise unto the Lord. In my reedy little five-year-old voice I
belted out the admonition to rejoice, rejoice, along with the adults.
Of course I had not a
clue why we were rejoicing. Who was Emmanuel and why was he about to get
together with Israel, whoever he was? It didn’t matter. Singing that hymn made
me feel happy; all good inside After services in which it was the final hymn, I
always felt like skipping and laughing all the way home.
clue why we were rejoicing. Who was Emmanuel and why was he about to get
together with Israel, whoever he was? It didn’t matter. Singing that hymn made
me feel happy; all good inside After services in which it was the final hymn, I
always felt like skipping and laughing all the way home.
And it was surprising how
often it was sung in our little church. Our congregation was much too small to
enjoy the luxury of a choir to guide us. All hymns, if I remember correctly –
something of a big ‘if’ – came from the Church of England book of Hymns Ancient
and Modern, published in 1862. I checked on line and it apparently contained
779 hymns. Now that should have been enough to save us from too much
repetition; but that was not the reality. We seemed to have a small group of
twenty or so tried-and-true favorites, which cropped up regularly with an
occasional little-used one tossed in to keep us on our toes. My mother hated it
when these strangers appeared as it meant she had to practice. She played the
church organ and knew the old favorites by heart, so they required little
effort on her part. She also disliked’ the unfamiliar because the congregation, fumbling with
unknown words and music, lagged behind the organ waiting for a lead, and
gradually the singing got slower and slower and lower and lower. The vicar, who
never sang along, simply shook his head sadly at the cacophony and vowed to
stick with the familiar the next Sunday. And the next.
often it was sung in our little church. Our congregation was much too small to
enjoy the luxury of a choir to guide us. All hymns, if I remember correctly –
something of a big ‘if’ – came from the Church of England book of Hymns Ancient
and Modern, published in 1862. I checked on line and it apparently contained
779 hymns. Now that should have been enough to save us from too much
repetition; but that was not the reality. We seemed to have a small group of
twenty or so tried-and-true favorites, which cropped up regularly with an
occasional little-used one tossed in to keep us on our toes. My mother hated it
when these strangers appeared as it meant she had to practice. She played the
church organ and knew the old favorites by heart, so they required little
effort on her part. She also disliked’ the unfamiliar because the congregation, fumbling with
unknown words and music, lagged behind the organ waiting for a lead, and
gradually the singing got slower and slower and lower and lower. The vicar, who
never sang along, simply shook his head sadly at the cacophony and vowed to
stick with the familiar the next Sunday. And the next.
Perhaps at least partly
because I associated the word with the hymn, ‘rejoice’ or ‘rejoicing’ always
represented to me something loud and jubilant; triumphant: the crowd on the
sidelines rejoicing when the home team scores a goal, the audience rejoicing at
the end of a particularly stirring symphony. This kind of rejoicing I rarely,
if ever, experienced. My family and friends were all rather quiet people who
might smile broadly at a win for the home team, but that was about as wild as
it might get.
because I associated the word with the hymn, ‘rejoice’ or ‘rejoicing’ always
represented to me something loud and jubilant; triumphant: the crowd on the
sidelines rejoicing when the home team scores a goal, the audience rejoicing at
the end of a particularly stirring symphony. This kind of rejoicing I rarely,
if ever, experienced. My family and friends were all rather quiet people who
might smile broadly at a win for the home team, but that was about as wild as
it might get.
Later in life I began to
understand that to rejoice, as the dictionaries state it, means to feel or show
great joy or delight. To feel or show. We can rejoice in silence, simply
to feel the joy within us, not expressing it with a sound; perhaps not even a
hint of a smile. That is my kind of rejoicing. In fact, I have rather come to
fear, or at least be uncomfortable with, the loud exuberant variety. Too
frequently no good will come of it. The raucous rejoicing at the end of the
soccer game ends up in fighting and even deaths. The screaming rah rah of
political rallies negates all rational thought, as does – sorry Emmanuel –
religious raving. Rejoicing loudly can perhaps be OK in a space, such as a
church, – OK Emmanuel, back at ya – where all there feel the same, but be very
combative when others present feel very differently.
understand that to rejoice, as the dictionaries state it, means to feel or show
great joy or delight. To feel or show. We can rejoice in silence, simply
to feel the joy within us, not expressing it with a sound; perhaps not even a
hint of a smile. That is my kind of rejoicing. In fact, I have rather come to
fear, or at least be uncomfortable with, the loud exuberant variety. Too
frequently no good will come of it. The raucous rejoicing at the end of the
soccer game ends up in fighting and even deaths. The screaming rah rah of
political rallies negates all rational thought, as does – sorry Emmanuel –
religious raving. Rejoicing loudly can perhaps be OK in a space, such as a
church, – OK Emmanuel, back at ya – where all there feel the same, but be very
combative when others present feel very differently.
I’ll just stick to my
silent inner rejoicing at the beauty of the sky, or a single leaf, or the touch
of a loved one or a smile from a friend.
silent inner rejoicing at the beauty of the sky, or a single leaf, or the touch
of a loved one or a smile from a friend.
That hurts no-one, and
brings me a joy that could never be deepened by shouting it from the rooftops.
brings me a joy that could never be deepened by shouting it from the rooftops.
© 25 Nov 2016
About
the Author
the Author
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
