Mum would say “That’s the end! Go to bed.” And I would say “It’s not the end, there’s an epilogue.” And then Mum would yell at Dad for teaching me big words like Epilogue. She would say… “now! …will you look at this word, your son’s throwing back at me!” I was always “your son” when I was in trouble. I was also always in trouble. The pattern continues to this day.
I’d like to focus mostly though on those of us who aren’t in such horrendous situations, but have also found ourselves spending more time with those with whom we are in the same household – for most of us, our nearest and dearest. For many, everything’s been just fine, but for some, relationships have come under real strain, even to breaking point.
That is the sort of change which I at least find restful. Chaotic change is not! Change over which you have no control, or which you can’t at least predict, is exhausting – and it’s that sort of change we’re all living through at the moment. As the levels of virus rise and fall in different places, the rules of life change quickly. Keeping up with what’s allowed and what isn’t is hard work in itself.
There is a narrow access road running down the middle of my Pennsylvania hometown cemetery, separating the Catholic “St. Mary’s Cemetery” from the Protestant “Freeport
I weep because hatred wears many costumes. Most of those we are familiar with: racism, sexism, homophobia. But one of the costumes hate wears is righteousness. It is a costume, trust me – it is not the real thing. However, that costume is worn with the belief that the wearer is in the right. We saw it in the Capitol that day – the righteous costume on a person changing out our flag. People calling themselves Christian and doing unchristian acts. People thinking they were doing the right thing by scaling the walls of a government building.
Beauty comes from hardships. Blemishes to body and spirit. I wish it were not so. Grace comes from letting it all happen the way a pot lets me chip it when I carelessly knock it during my own life-tantrums. Grace comes from us letting others hit us in their tantrums.
We all need rest. Not just now, but in the rhythm of our lives. The pandemic seems to have only accentuated the division in our society, between those who are over-busy, in even more demand than ever, and those who suddenly find that they’re not needed, that they’re surplus to requirements. That was always a great evil, and if it gets worse, it may end up creating a dangerous chasm through the middle of our communities to the extent that we are no longer aware of our unity.
The absence of touch has only occasionally been spoken of, but I am sure that it has been one of the most painful and demoralising aspects of the pandemic for very many. Touch is intimate and powerful, which is why inappropriate forms of touch can be so damaging. But equally, touch which affirms and expresses love is an extraordinarily important way of maintaining our health, psychologically, physically and spiritually.
Now, we are in another such time of transition. And the effect on the church is pronounced. Long before the COVID-19 pandemic, Generations X, Y and Z have been quietly leaving the church. By 2000 and, for the first time in the 2000 years of the Church, three generations in a row were staying home to their grandparent’s annoyance and the tithe dependent church’s confusion.
President Trump is a symptom, not a cause: focusing this moment on him and his maneuvers is precisely what he wants, and risks dulling each of us to the real danger we are in and blinding us to its true source. Many Christians (I count myself among them) have tended to try to get along with our “right-wing” siblings of varying stripes. They are not our enemies, easily dismissed as “crazy people” out there who take to the streets and wield the signs—they are our fathers and mothers, our grandparents, our crazy Uncle Bills, our police officers, our Sunday School teachers and our friends.