‘Dear God, wish you were here. Earth.’

‘So how was your first Christmas as a curate?’ A question I have been asked a lot recently! The answer has become short and simple – an exhausting privilege. Oddly, Christmas already seems months ago now, and a bit of a blur of carols, services, mince pies, putting chairs out, putting chairs away again, working out how to fit another twenty people into an already crowded church building. But, what a privilege – to have the opportunity to share the good news of Christ's birth with hundreds of people, many of whom make the slightly intimidating foray into church but once or twice a year. What a privilege to be able to speak of my faith to so many.

And then on Boxing day, the news of the tsunami reached us and suddenly I'm not quite so sure I want to rave about my faith any more, because I'm struggling with it myself.  Apparently, ordination is no shield against doubt. Along with the rest of the world I reel from the scale of this disaster, asking ‘how’ and ‘why’ and perhaps most importantly ‘where was God?’ A line from a well-known hymn acts as a particularly pertinent prayer; ‘Speak through the earthquake, wind and fire, O still small voice of calm’.
And then, in the form of an email from a friend, a still small voice does break through and reminds me of the sermon I preached at our midnight communion on Christmas Eve. I had been struck by one of the Christmas cards I had received, which had on the front a picture of a postcard - the scene on the postcard was of the globe, with the words ‘Dear God, wish you were here. Earth.’ I spoke about the world's sense of abandonment by God, the part we play in turning our back on him, but our cry nevertheless of ‘God, where are you? We wish you were here’.

I then turned to the inside of the card, which was another postcard, this time from God.  The scene is of a nativity with the newborn Christ at the centre and the message of the postcard simply states, ‘Loved ones, I am’. I don't believe for one minute that I have the answers to the huge and fundamental questions we must ask in the face of such tragedy. But despite my struggles and doubts, I remain convinced that it is a privilege to speak of my faith, for it is a faith that has much to say even in this situation, a faith with the simple message from God, ‘Loved ones, I am here’.

Em Coley is a new curate at Wendover with Halton, Bucks