COVID19: March 31, 2020 - Holy Ground

Yesterday afternoon I stopped by the church to take care of some business. And yet, my time inside the empty building became something deeper for me. It was an opportunity to reflect on my relationship with church buildings through the years. Sometimes they have brought me joy, and other times they have been the bane of my existence. But I can't deny the ways they have blessed my life. 

I never feel alone when I'm the only person in an empty church. It's like the building breathes with me. I can’t pass through the worship space, in particular, without sensing a closeness to God that I don’t experience anywhere else. 

Empty churches are never really empty, are they? They’re filled with memories of people, and music, and the laughter of little kids. Ascension's building has stories to tell that perhaps no one remembers, yet those stories leave an indelible mark on all that happens within the building for as long as it stands. This time in 2020, when we closed the building during a global pandemic, will become a part of its story. 

Yesterday, as I walked through the building, I saw everything just as we’d left it. It’s like we were all suddenly whisked away without warning. And that’s actually pretty close to the way it happened. Right up until a couple days before March 15, we were prepared for worship on Sunday, with a clear plan for how we would take further measures to protect people from passing the virus to one another. 

The bulletins had been printed and were ready to go. The choir had rehearsed their anthem. All the ministers for the day had been lined up. But it didn’t happen in the way we’d planned. Instead, we ended up worshiping together on Facebook Live in a rough video produced by a pastor who suddenly felt herself climbing a steep learning curve to figure out how to broadcast online worship from her dining room table.

As I wandered through the church building, all around me I saw reminders of grand plans that had been given the kibosh.

Many Christians (me, for example) have conflicted feelings about church buildings. We often lament how much money we pour into maintaining our aging buildings when we could be putting that money into ministry, as if ministry and the church building are two separate things. Now that we’ve been away from our facility, I've had some clarity on church buildings. Yes, I can see, up close and personal, that the church building isn't everything. And yet, it certainly is something.

It’s not just the building itself, but it’s what the building represents. It’s a place of peace and comfort when the world seems too much for us. It’s a place where we practice loving one another as Jesus loved us. It’s a place where God’s people gather in community to receive nourishment so we can do Jesus’ work in the world. It’s a place where ministry happens. Of course, it's not the only place where those things can happen. But it is the place that’s specifically set apart for them to happen.

From the outside of the building, the part that people see as they pass by, you would never know the deserted scene on the inside. The cross on the steeple continues to tower over everything around it. No matter how our culture has changed as we adapt to this crisis, the Church remains rooted in the season of Lent. Last week we put up a new banner with a message from Jesus to all who pass by. 

I pray that the presence of our building continues to be a sign of hope for the world around us and for the people of Ascension, who wait patiently for the day when, once again, they will step into this holy space. When we return, as a sign of gratitude, it might be appropriate to do as Moses did when he stood on holy ground, and remove our shoes. 

COVID19: March 30, 2020 - Lenten Music Madness

You may have heard me rave about Ascension’s Minister of Music, Joy Bauer, from previous blogs. She and I have great chemistry; we’re both creative types and enjoy finding ways to pump new life into our liturgy. Occasionally our ideas fall flat, but more often than not, they work, and as our worship glorifies God, our spirits soar.

When Joy comes up with a new idea, I tend to trust her, even if I have my doubts. And when she presents her new idea with energy and enthusiasm, it’s contagious. “Let’s go for it!” I say. I’m all in.

Somewhere around Christmas, she was giddy about a brilliant brainstorm she had for a “Lenten Music Madness” contest, much like the March Madness of college basketball fame. Only, instead of basketball teams, we’re talking hymns. This was one of those ideas I doubted would get much traction with the congregation, but she was so darn excited about it, that I had to be supportive. (After all, she's gone along with more than one of my ideas with questionable outcomes.) 

Joy spent countless hours getting ready for the big roll out on the first Sunday of Lent. Our choirs chose the hymns that would compete. Then she created a giant bulletin board in the narthex showing the brackets, paper ballots were prepared, and she put together a wonderful booklet with background on each of the hymns. It was impressive!

To my surprise, people were getting into it. One of our members, Kyle, did some aggressive lobbying for his favorite, "I Want Jesus to Walk with Me," and it seemed to be paying off. Most people complained about the difficult choices, including me, and that was part of the fun. It was a rip-snortin' success!

Then… BAM! We closed our doors, and we all went home because of the coronavirus. Bummer, I thought. So much for Joy’s “Lenten Music Madness.” But I was wrong. 

She moved it online. She posted surveys on Ascension’s private Facebook group. People continued to vote. Kyle pressed on with lobbying for his favorite hymn in the comments. And people never stopped complaining about the difficult choices.

The best part about going online has been the videos Joy posts to announce the winners each week. It’s like a press conference on ESPN. Joy has the ability to be hysterical with a complete straight face, something she learned from her mother Marguerite who, seriously, needs to go on late night T.V. Hands down,  she's the funniest person I’ve ever met. (Here I am wishing her a happy 95^th birthday.)

One-by-one, the Christmas hymns in the competition have bit the dust, and only “Silent Night” remained last week; it was up against “Beautiful Savior.” Today, when Joy announced the results of that pairing, she told us the winner took it by 14 votes, and then she looked right into the camera and revealed the outcome. “All I can say is…” She held up a stuffed Christmas elf with a fuzzy white beard… 

“Christmas…” She chucked the elf over her shoulder… “is over! History.”  

And the tea I had just sipped sprayed my computer screen. 

We’re down to four hymns this week: ”Beautiful Savior”, “On Eagles’ Wings”, “Amazing Grace” and “Lift High the Cross.” Can you believe “Lift High the Cross” beat out “Holy, Holy, Holy?" It was quite an upset. And sadly, Kyle’s hymn bit the dust – defeated by “Amazing Grace.” Really, what hymn stands a chance against “Amazing Grace?” If we were placing bets, my money would be on “Amazing Grace” to take it all, although my favorite among those remaining is “Beautiful Savior.” 

Who will the winner be? Well, I don’t know about the hymns, but clearly, the big winner is Joy Bauer. She pulled it off, even in the face of what would have caused a lesser person to close it down, and the congregation has thoroughly enjoyed it. 

“Lenten Music Madness”, it turns out, has been more than an entertaining competition. It’s become a way to strengthen our community in a time of physical separation. As we watch Joy’s deadpan videos and vote for our favorite hymns, we’re connecting with one another over hymns that we miss singing with one another—melodies that are so much a part of our history, lyrics that fill us with hope. Until we can sing them again, gathered in community, I thank God we still have Joy! 

COVID19: March 29, 2020 - Compassion: the way to new life

Sermon for March 29, 2020. The text is John 11:1-44.

Jesus wept. It’s often said that this is the shortest verse in the Bible. But those two little words may tell us more about Jesus than any other two words we read in the Scriptures. Jesus wept. Or, in the translation we read today, Jesus began to weep.

When he arrived on the scene and looked around him, he began to weep. Why? Many of those who saw him weeping assumed it was because he loved Lazarus so much. But I don’t think that’s it.

If we read the verses just before this, we read that when Jesus saw Mary and the Jews who came with her weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He asked where he could find the body of Lazarus, and he wept.

It was the grief of others that led to his tears. Jesus’ cried out of compassion for those he loved. Their grief became his grief.

I think about when I’m at a funeral for someone I never knew. I’m there for those who are mourning. I may be presiding as a pastor, or I may be a person sitting in the pews. But often in those situations, I shed tears. Why? I didn’t even know the person who died. But I’m sharing in the pain of those who are grieving so deeply. Has that ever happened to you?

Grieving is communal. It calls upon the very best part of us, our compassion. When you see cars parked around a house in the morning hours during the middle of the week, it has become a place of compassion. When you see bouquets of flowers piled at an accident site on the side of the highway, it is a place of compassion. Whenever we gather together on Sunday mornings, whether in person, or online, our community becomes a place of compassion.

This is an important part of what it means for us to be the resurrected Body of Christ. We’re a community that holds one another in our deepest losses and sorrows and carries us to a place of new life. There is resurrection on this side of the grave. The power of resurrection works through us whenever we grieve compassionately with those who mourn.

We hold the grieving person in our midst, perhaps literally, perhaps through cards and prayers and flowers and a casserole at the door. We give them the space they need. We free them to grieve in whatever way works for them, apart from any expectations of our own. We hold them in community. And, in time, they become community for others who grieve.

Consider the way today’s gospel passage ends. After Jesus shouts, “Lazarus, come out!” Notice what it says, “The dead man came out.” The dead man. When Lazarus emerges from the tomb, he is still a dead man. He’s bound up in bands of cloth like a mummy. It sounds terrifying, doesn’t it?

His face and his hands and feet are all wrapped up. Jesus says to the people gathered around, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

It wasn’t until the community unbound him that he was given new life.

  

Perhaps that’s what it means to have eternal life in our earthly existence. We’re so bound by death: the grief it brings us when it takes someone we love away, the fear of our own impending death that snatches away our joy in experiencing the beauty of this life, the crazy things we do to deny the fact that our lives on this earth have a beginning and an end. To receive eternal life, to experience resurrection in this life, we must be unbound in the face of our mortality. We don’t unbind ourselves. That takes a community. In the face of death, we unbind one another so we can live as resurrected people.

Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, I think we all have thoughts of death while we’re going through this pandemic. Perhaps our own death, or the death of someone we love. It’s so painful that we’d rather look away, and I get that. I try not to think about it, too.

And then God gives us this story for this Sunday. I didn’t choose this passage. It was chosen for me by the Revised Common Lectionary that repeats every three years.

So here we are, reading about the death of Lazarus. Ugh. There’s so much pain in these words. But there’s also resurrection. It’s a preview of what’s to come for Jesus.

And for us, it’s a story about the life-giving power of compassion in community. It’s a reminder to us that compassion is the way to new life.

Hang onto that. Compassion is the way to new life. When we practice compassion in community, we are the resurrected Body of Christ. That’s who we’re called to be… always. But certainly in a time like this. Compassion will get us through, and more than that… compassion is the way to new life.

COVID19: March 27, 2020 - Top Ten List

Top Ten ways my new normal is not like my old normal:

10. Never have I ever spent so much time on the computer learning to do things I never had any desire to learn. 

9. Never have I ever been so grateful to go outdoors and fill my lungs with fresh air.

8. Never have I ever been caught up on my laundry, dishes, housework and trash removal—all at the same time. 

7. Never have I ever had such an enormous stockpile of cough drops, just in case. 

6. Never have I ever had a three-way video call on a Friday afternoon with my son in Pittsburgh and my daughter in New York.

5. Never have I ever been so afraid of food on the shelves of a grocery store. 

4. Never have I ever been so comforted by the words of Governor Andrew Cuomo of New York. 

3. Never have I ever checked in on my family members every day just to make sure they’re okay.

2. Never have I ever filled my tank with gas and then, when I went to drive my car three weeks later, it was still full. 

1. Never have I ever appreciated the gift of community as much as I do now.

COVID19: March 26, 2020 - Strange Fears

I've been learning so much during these days of social distancing, mostly about myself. Although I hate to admit this, it really suits me well. While so many are struggling with the lack of human contact, I’m thriving. 

Since I started ministry in the most demanding call of my life, my creative side has all but shriveled up and died. I was wondering if it was gone forever. But it’s back, in overdrive. I feel wholly alive for the first time in years.

I’m also enjoying these days because I’m an introvert. If I had to spend them sharing my space with anyone else right now, it wouldn’t be pretty. I’ve often thought I could easily become a hermit, and this little “experiment” is enough to convince me that it’s true. Of course, I do have social media to keep me connected to other human beings, so maybe I’m cheating. But still, I’m relishing this time apart from everyone else. 

Today, I had to go out. At 7:30 am I was at my retina doc’s office getting an eye poked. (I receive regular shots for a condition.) I was surprised at how fearful I felt during the whole ordeal. No, not the having a man stick a needle in my eye part. I’m talking about the driving my car and walking to the doctor’s office part. I was on high alert, and the whole time, it felt like I was in danger. 

Why did I feel that way? Obviously, I’m trying hard not to catch COVID-19. But my fear wasn’t so much about getting sick as it was about leaving the safety of my nest. I’ve been spending so much time in my house that venturing out leaves me feeling vulnerable to… to what? I don’t know. I suppose it leaves me feeling vulnerable to whatever could harm me outside my home. It dawned on me today that I’m beginning to identify with those who suffer from agoraphobia. And it’s easier for me to understand people who feel so threatened when they have to leave the safety of their own little world. 

It’s good to know the effect that spending so many days in seclusion has on me. Yes, it suits me. But not in an entirely healthy way. It will take me a while, when I return to my regularly scheduled life, to readjust to being around people. 

Re-entry will be challenging for most of us, in different ways. I pray we will be gentle with other people and ourselves, when the time comes.

COVID19: March 25, 2020 - The Gift of Laughter

Every day at noon I meet with a group of people on Zoom to check in and pray together. A core group returns daily, and others join us when they’re able. Sometimes our meetings are somber; other times, they’re full of hope. We've formed a community that's getting me through the social isolation. Each day, I’m more grateful for their companionship. 

Today, when we were praying, it all started out good. We were naming prayer concerns before God. And then, one of our members who shall go unnamed (no, it was not me, but it easily could have been), said, “Lord, we pray for all those people who are going to work every day and exposing themselves.”

There was silence. I wondered if anyone else heard what I heard, and I couldn’t resist. “…to germs. Exposing themselves to germs, right?”

She realized what she had said and covered her face with her hands as we all laughed. (I was relieved when I saw she was laughing with us.)

It felt so good to laugh together today. We couldn’t get back to praying after that, but I’m sure God enjoyed hearing our laughter, maybe even more than our prayers.

COVID19: March, 24, 2020 - Grief

Hearing my grandsons’ laughter from a social distance of 200 miles and longing for their hugs

Cancelling a farewell lunch with a friend I may never see again, as she relocates beyond the reach of my days

Delaying the celebration of life for a saint whose widow deserves so much more than the silence of a community in hibernation

Sending guests from another part of the world home after a long-anticipated visit cut short, so many grand adventures planned, now undone

Waiting endlessly to be with dear friends for an already overdue trip that I suddenly suspect is nothing more than a fantasy

Preparing the sermon for a joyous Resurrection Sunday I now foresee becoming Good Friday, part two

Missing a favorite book I left at the office, trying desperately to remember the phrase that brought me such wild hope and courage

Each disappointment seems so trivial today

Yet all hold heightened importance

Losses worthy of grief

COVID19: March, 23, 2020 - Preparing for the Worst

When I was a kid I saw the 1956 movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, on T.V. and it terrified me. The premise is that these pods from an alien planet duplicate each person, and while that person sleeps, they are replaced by their duplicate. Unlike the original humans, they are devoid of emotions and not at all the kind of people you’d want to hang out with. 

This was not something that a little girl, who was already traumatized by the death of her father, should have been watching. For decades, I was afraid to go to sleep. 

That same core feeling is back again. I’m afraid to go to sleep. But now, I’m also afraid to wake up. No, I have to change what I said there; it’s not really that I’m afraid. It’s more of an anxiousness/dread/hyper-preparedness sort of thing. 

I sense that one-by-one the people around me will be getting COVID-19, and it’s just a matter of time before it comes for me, too. I wonder if I already have it and don’t know it. Every time I cough, every time I have a headache, every time I’m tired, I wonder if it’s beginning.

I read that one of the signs of the virus is that the people who have it lose their sense of smell. So, I go around all day, smelling things. Today, while I was getting out of bed, I stuck my nose in my armpit and was overjoyed to smell my own stinky body odor. Yes! Smells like I'm good for another day.

Three days ago, I also started taking my temperature every day. The first day, it was 94.8. I always tend to run low, but not THAT low! I looked it up on Google and learned that anything below 95 is cause for concern, and you should call your doctor because you’re headed south quickly. But I was close enough, so I waited until the next day, when it went to a solid 95. Again low, but okay. Today, it was 93.6. Not good. 

I mentioned this at my noon Check-in & Prayer group on Zoom. One person suggested I had an old thermometer. But I explained that this was a new digital one. Then Barbara, ever the practical one, said that it must have a low battery. And I realized that every time I looked at my temperature, I got a “Low” message. I thought it was telling me that my temperature was low! No, it’s the battery that’s low, Nancy. Duh. 

This is feeling like one of those no-one-know-the-day-or-the-hour times that Jesus talked about. I’ve been trying to work ahead and get everything done that I can because I never know when this alien virus is going to snatch me up. So, I’m pushing ahead on paying my bills, filling out my census information, writing sermons, doing laundry, cooking and freezing chicken noodle soup… Because tomorrow I might not be able to do any of those things. 

For someone like me, the only thing worse that coming down with COVID-19 would be coming down with COVID-19 and not being prepared for it.

COVID19: March 22, 2020 - Driving While Blind

Sermon for March 22, 2020. The text is John 9.

A friend rode in the passenger seat while I was driving on the highway. As we were gabbing away, I veered off the road a bit, and drove over those rumble strips they put on the shoulder of the road to keep you from doing that. “Are you driving by braille?” my friend asked. 

Driving by braille. Of course, it’s an ironic concept because, even with the presence of rumble strips, we all know that blind people can’t drive. At least, not until driverless cars become more of a thing.

These days, we’re making our way through what very well may be the greatest crisis of our generation, and in many ways, it feels like we’re driving while blind. COVID-19 is a new virus. We don’t know exactly what it will do. For as much as we’ve been learning about it, there remains so much that we won’t be able to see until later.

Scientists are doing their best to figure this out. But people have blind spots that aren’t helping. Many are getting information from sources other than science. They’re believing whatever narrative reinforces what they want to hear. And there are those who continue to close their eyes to the facts.

I read a stern letter from the director of one of our area retirement communities to its residents this week. As with all such communities these days, visitors aren’t allowed to come in.

The letter read: “I cannot stress enough the importance of your actions. I continue to be dismayed at the choices people make to leave the property, visit with family on the street or outside the door, or go to non-essential outings, knowing full well that the visit could result in a COVID-19 outbreak inside the property that will kill an estimated 20%+ of your friends and neighbors, 80+ people.”

And then there is a statement about cause for eviction because their behavior constitutes a substantial threat to other residents.

The author continues, “I am receiving numerous calls throughout the day from residents and family members asking how I’m going to stop (the collective) ‘you’ from doing things that put the whole community at risk.”

It’s hard to believe that such a letter is necessary, but evidently it is. It’s scary when the refusal to see puts us all in danger.

There are so many levels of blindness all around us, just as there are in today’s story from John’s gospel. 

There’s the blindness of the man who was physically born blind. But there’s also the blindness of the disciples who assumed that the man’s blindness had to be somebody’s fault, either the man himself or his parents.

And then there was the blindness of the people who couldn’t decide, once the blind man received his sight, if it was the same man they’d seen begging in their neighborhood. Apparently, they’d never really looked at the man before, much less taken the time to know him or offer him the dignity and respect every person deserves.

In a story filled with blindness, Jesus makes it clear who’s truly the blindest of all. “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.” The Pharisees suspect he’s talking about them, although they can’t imagine why. And therein lies their blindness.

A man who was born blind can see. You’d think that would be cause for celebration, wouldn’t you? But that’s not at all the way it went down. Instead, this miracle became a source of anger, scorn, and hatred. And why?

Well, basically because they couldn’t believe this miracle had anything to do with God. And why didn’t they believe it had anything to do with God? Because they had a clear idea of how God worked, and this wasn’t it. God’s miracles were limited to certain times. And the Sabbath wasn’t one of them. They were limited to certain people. And a rabbi who breaks the law of Moses wasn’t one of them.

This miracle didn’t fit within the narrow frame they had drawn around the works of God, so it didn’t happen. It was a hoax. It was illegitimate. It wasn’t to be given any credence whatsoever.

The thing is, God’s work isn’t limited to the narrow frames we expect it to fit into. To the things that we can understand. Or people we feel comfortable with. Or the times and places that make sense to us.

Are we open to the possibility that God may not always fit our understanding of who God is? Do we keep God in that tiny little frame we use to contain God, or are we open to expanding our view?

Is it possible God could be visible among people who disagree with us on some pretty fundamental principles? Is it possible that people who don’t look like us, aren’t educated like us, don’t speak our language, may have a closer relationship with God than we do? Is it possible that people who don’t even believe in God at all are able to do God’s work in the world? When God does the unexpected in unexpected times, with unlikely people, in strange places… can we see it?

In these days when our eyes are darting from one thing to another, as we wait for the latest news to fill us in, when everything seems to be changing by the minute, it’s easy for us to become blinded by it all. And we can lose sight of God at work in our midst.

In the health care workers who are serving tirelessly to care for us, at great personal risk to themselves. And the people who continue to work in grocery stores, and pharmacies, and so many places that are necessary for the rest of us. Can you see God at work?

I continue to see God in those who are volunteering in soup kitchens and food pantries, serving those who struggle every day, knowing poverty doesn’t take a break during a pandemic, it just becomes more pronounced.

I see God in the people of Ascension who are watching out for one another through phone calls, and cards, gathering for online support groups. Some are offering prayer on the phone for anyone who calls in, others are gathering food for ACTC, or delivering groceries to the doorsteps of those who have no other way of getting them. Can you see God in them?

Can you see God in the neighbor you realize you’ve never spoken with who waves to you from across the street, knowing that because you are both living through this time, you share a bond?

Can you see God working overtime in these anxious days we’re in? As much as we may feel a little like we’re driving while blind right now, there’s so much of God all around us. I pray that we can open our eyes and see it. I pray that we ourselves can become God made visible for others to see.

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COVID19: March 21, 2020 - Churches

 It’s been a curious thing to watch how churches are dealing with the reality of a pandemic. And by “churches”, I’m talking about clergy, because those are my peers and they’re the ones I’m hearing from. I’ve noticed a variety of reactions. Some I share, and some I don’t, but I’m going to be presumptuous enough to speak for all clergy here, so please forgive me if you're a pastor and the exception to everything I describe.

For us pastors, our lives center around the church, and we live for Sunday mornings when the community gathers. It’s a lifeline for us and gives us strength in those times when we need it the most. As hard as this time of no in-person worship is for many of our parishioners, it’s even harder for us. And we’re having trouble letting it go.

We have been expending a lot of energy trying to figure out how to work around it. Some of us have ideas about drive-thru holy communion. Surely, there’s some way we can touch our people outside the building—wearing gloves and masks, using prepackaged communion.

Laypeople, please forgive us for thinking this way. We’re having trouble dealing with reality. Please remind us that gloves and masks are in short supply right now and those little prepackaged communion kits are on back order for months. And let us know that it’s impossible to approach someone with an open car window while standing 6 feet away, unless we plan to use something like a fishing pole to hand people the elements. And then we will need to thoroughly wash the pole between each person. So maybe we could just toss them into the cars? No. We need to just stop this crazy thinking. We need to let it go and live within our present reality, providing what we can.

I admit that as I look forward to Easter, I’ve been fantasizing about a drive-in experience in our parking lot. It will basically be a Facebook Live event with everyone in their own cars on their own phones. And they could bring their own bread and wine from home so no one will ever have to get out of their car; we will be together in our individual bubbles. Could this work? I don’t know. But is it really necessary? Of course not.

Many of us have come to accept our new reality, and we’re doing what’s possible within it. I will say that I haven’t yet been able to binge-watch on Netflix, and I’m disappointed by that. As an introvert, I was looking forward to this time apart, thinking it would be much like extended snow days. But these have not been at all like snow days for me. I’ve barely had time to eat. I’m figuring out how to help hungry people get the food they need. I’m meeting with Stephen Ministers (on zoom) who provide care for those who are struggling. I’m organizing people to send letters and make phone calls to others in the congregation, so we can stay connected and care for one another. I’m facilitating daily prayer support groups on Zoom. I’m overseeing communication with the congregation. I’m prepping for online worship on Sunday morning, something that is entirely new for me. I'm planning ahead for how to make Holy Week and Easter meaningful for my congregation in diaspora. And I’m blogging every day. What I need to do is relax. Hopefully, that will come.

I’m coming to realize that as important as the things that happen in and out of the church building where I work are, right now there are more pressing things in our world. It’s humbling to know that. I’m growing to accept it. Along with the fact that I have no control over any of this. I’ll do what I can, and trust that, even where two or three are not gathered together in Jesus’ name, he’s still in the midst of us.  

COVID19: March 20, 2020 - Flowers and Birds

It was another short night for my racing brain. When I got out of bed and headed to the kitchen to microwave my steel-cut oatmeal, I caught the window out of the corner of my eye and couldn’t believe what I saw. Was someone coming to dig in my yard? Today!? Why else would they have placed those little yellow flags in my lawn? I was absolutely incredulous. For about three seconds.

I looked closer through the half-opened blinds. No flags there. I was seeing daffodils. Same color, different meaning. Daffodils, which have filled my flower beds for the past couple of weeks. Get a grip, Nancy. No warning flags, just daffodils. 

As I opened my patio door so my cat could take his morning stroll on the deck, I heard a chorus of birds serenading me. Is this the same song they would sing on any other day, or is this a variation, modified for a troubled world? Have they even noticed the hush of humans huddled inside their homes? Or are they as unaware of our world as we are of theirs?

I understand that there are no birds in Chinese cities, because there are no trees. Friends who have visited China have told me about it. I can’t imagine opening my windows in the morning and hearing no birds. I’m sure that if the birds stopped greeting me in the morning, I would miss them. But I wonder… If I stopped opening my windows to hear them, would they miss me? 

Yes, my mind is taking me to dark places. I’m wondering if I will live through this pandemic, and if the people I love will live through it. I try to avoid this kind of wondering by keeping myself busy during the day.

Eventually, the busy-ness gets the best of me, and at night I have no other choice than to surrender to a shut-down. Yet while my body stills, my brain kicks into overdrive, and a different kind of busy-ness works to stave off the wondering. Hence the ever-shortening nights.

This morning, I ended last night’s battle with wondering weary from running a marathon that has barely begun. And I was greeted with daffodils and birds. Their presentation was not lost on me.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds! And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? If you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these."

Easier said than done, Jesus. But I hear ya.

COVID19: March 19, 2020 - Move over, Shakespeare!

I keep hearing that Shakespeare wrote some of his greatest plays when he practiced social distancing during the Plague. Of course, that’s not what they called it back then, but that’s what he did. He moved away from the city, away from the people. He sheltered, not in place, but in another place—in the country, where life was quiet and distractions were few.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Because I suspect that artists are busy creating their best work during these days. And when this is all over, in the year or two following COVID19, we are going to experience some amazing art—in galleries, on stages, in concert halls, and on screens--both large and small. I’m  giddy with anticipation!

Right now, we hunker down. And we wait to see what new life emerges from our dormancy. During this time when it may seem like nothing productive is happening, nothing could be further from the truth. Breathe deep now, because the future is going to take our breath away. Get ready for an explosion of creativity the likes of which we’ve never seen in our lifetime! Move over, Shakespeare. 

COVID19: March 18, 2020 - Dodging Landmines

Have you ever watched one of those movies about the zombie apocalypse? You’re on high alert the whole time because you know that out of nowhere something horrific is about to jump up and scare the bejeebers out of you, and just as soon as you let down your guard, that’s when it’s gonna happen. I felt like that this morning when I ventured out of the house for the first time in nearly a week.

As long as I was going out, I planned to get as much done as possible: grocery store, church, pharmacy, podiatrist, home. No problem. 

I hadn't foreseen all the landmines that were waiting for me along the way.

I decided to leave my purse at home because I would be inclined to toss it into the grocery cart, and God knows what evil lurks inside a grocery cart. I mean, really, I wiped off the hand-bar—three times, but not the rest of the cart. What about the rest of the cart? Then there are the groceries themselves. Who’s been handling those jars and cans and packages? Workers were meticulously cleaning off the shelves, but what about the groceries--you know, the things I was about to take into my own home?

When it came time to check out, there it was. A true monster, if ever there was one. The PIN pad! Eeek! How many people had punched in PIN #s with their germy little fingers without the keys being cleaned? Lord, get me out of here ASAP, so I can get to my car and Purell my hands!

And my card was declined. Of course, without my purse, I came with my driver’s license and one credit card in my pocket. And my one and only card was declined. So, I had to go home to get another one. While I was there, I called Bank of America and learned that there was no reason why my card was declined. And now I had to return to the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

After finally picking up my groceries, I made a trip to the church to leave off food for ACTC (our local food pantry) and pick up a few things I needed at home: sanitizing wipes (why waste them at the church when no one was there?), ball mouse for my computer and cards to send people notes in our time of social distancing (which I now expect to continue for months). 

My next stop was Walgreen’s. I recently read somewhere that if you get COVID19, you need to take Tylenol. I’m an Advil person and had no Tylenol in my medicine cabinet. So, I picked up my Tylenol and made my way to the check-out line. 

A woman was at the counter with the cashier. I waited, a good 10 feet away. She was looking at earbuds. The cashier got them out of the package for the shopper to see if they were what she had in mind. Both women handled the ear buds, held them up to their ears, etc. The shopper decided she didn’t want them. So, the cashier carefully returned them to the package and placed them back on the shelf. As I watched this in disbelief, multiple fire alarms were blaring in my brain. No! No! No! I had to look away. (And was relieved to see five people in line behind me, all keeping a safe distance.)

I continued to wait while the woman paid for her stuff. When she was done, she slid about 1.5 feet to her right and proceeded to count her cash and dig through her purse for who-knows-what. The cashier motioned for me to step forward. “Is she finished?” I asked, pointing to the woman who was before me.

“Yes, she’s done,” she told me. 

“I’ll wait until she steps away,” I explained.

Then the woman turned to me and said, “It’s okay. I’m not afraid of you.” WHAT!??!

“You don’t understand,” I told her. “I’m afraid of YOU!” She looked a bit insulted. “I’m trying to do my part and keep a safe distance. I’ll just wait until you’re done,” I said. 

She proceeded to dig in her purse while I waited. Mind you, she had lots of room to move along at the counter, which was at least 20 feet long, so she could take care of whatever it was she had to do. But she stood her ground and didn’t budge. It was kind of like when you’re stopped at a traffic light, and the person in the car behind you honks the split second the light turns green, and you decide to take your good ol’ sweet time before moving, just to piss them off even more. (C’mon. We’ve all done it.) She was clearly being stubborn and making some some sort of a point. Finally, she moved on and I approached the cashier. 

Of course, my transaction involved another PIN pad! And I was freaking out! 

The thing about those zombie apocalypse movies is that the feeling of being on high alert subsides after you leave the movie theater and go home. After my little excursion today, I returned home, but that feeling remains. Even from the safety of my home, I feel like I’m living inside a zombie apocalypse movie that never ends.

COVID19: March 17, 2020 - The Worst & the Best

Times like these bring out the worst and the best in people. I find myself alternating between anger and tears. 

There are those who insist that the virus is a hoax or that it has nothing to do with them. They go about their normal routines; some even flaunt their defiance for all of us to see, cramming themselves into dance clubs, posting pictures of the crowds on Twitter. It sickens me. 

I suppose there are always those who think that they’re free to do whatever they darn well please, and nobody can tell them what they can and can’t do. Like people who think it’s okay to privately own a weapon of war just because nobody has a right to tell them they can’t. It’s a mentality that I will never understand. No one, in the name of personal freedom, has the right to endanger the lives of others. That's not the way freedom operates. It's the way a sociopath operates.

Then there are those who look at this as a time to become the best versions of themselves. All day long I hear from church members and friends who are seeking ways to reach out to people who are most vulnerable to COVID19 and the those who are most affected by it: the homeless, parents who need help with their children while they work, the unemployed who suddenly can’t pay their rent, people suffering with depression and anxiety, those who are running out of food. So many people are not only concerned with protecting themselves, but they’re doing all they can to protect others. Several times a day, I just break down and cry from the beauty of it all.

Perhaps the thing that has brought me to tears more than anything else is the way the vast majority of people are caring for the larger community by socially distancing themselves from others. Today is St. Patrick's Day and there are no parades. Anywhere. Not even in Ireland! Everyone seems to have bought into the idea of slowing down the spread of the illness. Flattening the curve, is the way we understand it. The only way that will happen is if we all do our part. And people are actually doing it! I imagine it was like this during WWII when everyone was doing their part for the war effort, whether overseas or here at home. It feels like that same kind of patriotism. But this is a little different, because we’re engaged in a war against an enemy that the whole world is facing together. Yes, when I see empty schools and churches and shopping malls, it makes me want to weep. I never could have imagined we were capable of so much love.

COVID19: March 16, 2020 - Changed Forever

Everyday, more shocking news. Sometimes, more often than that. Yesterday, we heard warnings from the CDC that 50 or more people shouldn’t gather together. Less than 24 hours later, we’re hearing 10. While that number continues to shrink, the number of days we can expect to remain in social-distancing mode grows. Now we’re talking months. 

Bars and restaurants are closing. That means that my son-in-law and son are facing unemployment. And a whole lot of other people. COVID19 is reaching into our lives wider and deeper than we ever could have anticipated. Businesses, schools, churches… closing any one of them threatens the lives of countless victims, either directly or indirectly. How will we ever recover from this? 

Anxiety is rampant, and we all know it’s going to get worse. Especially when we start to experience fatalities. There are people we know and love who probably won’t make it. That’s a harsh reality not many of us are ready to face. Instead, we watch for news updates throughout the day and hope for the best, knowing full well that the worst is yet to come.

Today in my noon Check-in and Prayer Zoom group, one of our members shared her father’s wisdom with us. He’s been through so much in his lifetime of 90+ years and is currently living in a retirement community that's in lock-down. He remarked to her that this is going to change the world forever, much like the Great Depression, or WWII. I know he's right.

I think of my grandson, Nick, who’s just five years old. His kindergarten year has been cut short. That, in and of itself, will impact the course of his life. Someday, God willing, he will tell his own grandchildren about the time when there was a global virus and everything shut down, including the schools. He will recall how he and his brother couldn’t go to the playground to play with other kids. His mother and father weren't able to work. People weren’t allowed to touch each another, and he didn’t see any of his friends or relatives for months. He may even have stories about those he knew who died. Yes, it will change the course of his life, as well of the lives of all the people who share this planet with him on March 16, 2020. The world has been changed forever.

COVID19: March 15, 2020 - Online Worship

The strangeness of this time continues. Today, churches all over the country met for worship over the internet while their buildings, usually full of music, laughter, and heartfelt greetings on Sunday mornings, stood empty and silent. I never could have imagined such a Sunday morning. Now I wonder how long it will take before we’re together again.

I fear this may go on beyond Easter, and I’ve already decided that if we miss celebrating Resurrection Sunday together, the first time we’re back at full strength for worship, we’re doing the full Easter liturgy – complete with choirs, brass, Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus and the Easter bunny hop in the center aisle.

Our Facebook LIVE worship was highly imperfect, as I expected. But it was actually fun. Because I wasn’t preaching today, we did it in two segments. First, I had a brief worship with folks. Then, our intern, Cassie Hartnett, had a live feed of her own with the sermon. Each of us did it in our own homes. 

I have a couple of take-aways from the experience. One is that, the next time, I need to lock Father Guido Sarducci, my cat, in another room. He made several cameo appearances running up and down the hallway behind me, and at one point he was up on the table, rubbing up against my laptop while I was trying to read the entire fourth chapter of John's gospel. Not good.

I really enjoyed worshiping with people I know from all over the country, including former parishioners, colleagues and family—something that could never happen on a typical Sunday morning. It also allowed some folks who normally have other commitments or constraints to be with us. To be honest, I’m wondering why we don’t offer an online worship experience every week, alongside our face-to-face worship services. I’m starting to realize how many people a required physical presence excludes. Of course, this is something I’ve thought about before now, but it’s suddenly become so obvious to me that I don’t know if I’ll be able to go back to excluding those people again, after this is over.

Another thing I appreciated about Facbook LIVE is the way it allowed people to comment and interact during our time together. I especially enjoyed the like button. We Lutherans don’t usually offer a lot of feedback during worship and I’ve always been envious of preachers who have congregations encouraging them on with their Amens. The floating thumbs ups and hearts felt that way to me today. Maybe when we return to worshiping live and in person, we could give people little sticks they can hold up during worship that have thumbs ups and hearts on them. Okay, maybe the laughing faces, too, or even the surprised and sad ones. But let’s forego the angry faces, please.

Things are so stressful right now that I decided people might need to gather online more than once a week. Tomorrow I’m trying an online check-in & prayer group for people on Zoom. It'll be good to see their faces and hear their voices, something we weren’t able to do today. The internet may well become integral toward preserving our humanity in the days ahead. Imagine that.

COVID19: March 14, 2020 - Weird Week

This has been such a weird week that I’m feeling a need to write some stuff down. Partly, because pert near everything is changing so quickly that I need to keep it all straight in my mind, and partly so I can process it. In other words, I need to write this down so my brain doesn’t explode. 

We’re living through a global pandemic that is unlike anything most of us have ever known. The information coming at us changes by the hour, and it’s hard to know how to respond. Before last Sunday (March 8), I had spent most of the week fretting over how we would protect people in worship. I felt good about all the precautionary measures we took last Sunday, from no hand-to-hand contact to teaching the congregation to pass the peace using American Sign Language. We went from intinction (dipping bread in cup) for communion to using individual glasses with servers wearing gloves.

I had written a plan that took me days to research, write and re-write, until it was ready to publicly share with the congregation. We were prepared last Sunday, and then we were prepared for this Sunday, as we planned to take even more drastic precautions to keep the congregation safe.

On Thursday morning (Or was it Wednesday? I have no idea. This is why I need to write things down.), I got into some heated Facebook exchanges with colleagues about the practice of common cup for communion and had an extended conversation about it with my bishop, who called me on the phone. (For the record, common cup isn’t a big deal to me one way or the other, but during this covid19 outbreak, I strongly feel it should be discontinued.)

As the day wore on, I was starting to wonder if we should gather for worship at all. I heard other pastors questioning it and thought, we’ll probably be missing face-to-face worship for a while, and I’d like to have one more Sunday together before pulling the plug. But then I started to think about the people who would come because it’s just what they do, even though they’re at risk and need to stay home until this thing passes.

For the first time, it occurred to me that I actually have several risk factors myself, and it’s possible that I could get COVID19. Then I realized that if I weren’t the pastor, on Sunday morning I would stay home. When I shared this with our Minister of Music, she admitted that she probably would too. So, I began wondering, why are we doing this? Why are we putting people at risk?

One of my most unfavorite-est things to do as a pastor is make a call about whether or not to have worship when the weather is iffy. I can't tell you how much I hate being involved in making that call. But this was so much more than that. I couldn't sleep, was stuffing a ton of sugar into my face, and spent a lot of time pacing. The stress was making me bonkers. 

None of this mattered by Thursday evening. Our synod bishop sent a helpful letter to us about how to respond to COVID19. And then our governor came on TV with talk of a “state of emergency” and calling in the National Guard. I heard loud buzzing in my brain like apace aliens were trying to make contact, and I had trouble understanding the words he was saying. Then, it went from worse to worser. A woman stepped to the podium and told us that all public schools in the state of Maryland were closing. I felt my heart stop. What was happening? Was I watching some twisted end-of-they-world movie or was this for real? 

Something shifted in my thinking at that moment. I had been worried about the older people who worshiped with us (and even myself). I was thinking about how we could best protect them from getting sick. And I suddenly realized that we had a responsibility beyond the members of our own church. It wasn’t just about not us; it was much larger than that. It was about slowing the spread of the illness for everyone.

I’ve looked at more graphs lately than I did when I was taking algebra in my school days. Fortunately, these are a lot easier for me to understand (no xes and ys). They explain how the disease spreads. The whole idea of flattening the curve so we can care for the sick within the capacity of our hospitals and medical personnel makes complete sense to me. Of course, there is only one thing for our church to do—suspend worship gatherings for the next couple of weeks. Maybe longer. 

And that meant another pastoral letter to the congregation explaining our decision and how we're planning to respond. Part of that response involves a Sunday morning worship experience on the internet. We’ll be using Facebook live and I’ll broadcast from my dining room table. One of our members, Loretta, is going to be my wing-woman (remotely) and drop stuff in the comments as we go along. Vicar Cassie will be bringing us the sermon from her dining room table. None of us have done this before. There are all kinds of glitches that will probably occur, and I’m resigned to the fact that this is going to be far from perfect. But we’ll be able to connect with one another for a while, and even include those who are unable to be with us on a typical Sunday in a way we hadn’t been able to before. (Yet one other way COVID19 is an equalizer.)

I’m feeling better. There are still a lot of unknowns, but I’m encouraged by the way people are pulling together. Despite the fact that I read David Brooks’ opinion piece in the New York Times this week, where he discusses how people have turned into monsters whenever something like this has happened in the past, I’m hoping and praying that this time will be different.