Illustration of the coronavirus (Pixabay/Thor Deichmann)
I wasn’t sure what it would look like, or how terrible it would be, but deep in my gut I felt something squirming. An awareness. A knowing. An intuition. I had a feeling that bad days were ahead.
I am fairly certain that my intuition that we were heading toward a humanitarian crisis wasn’t unusual. I know I am not unique in this regard. It’s connected to the recent uptick in the popularity of dystopian novels and films. It’s related to the fear and anxiety that caused this nation to elect a racist, misogynistic and xenophobic president — to latch onto his tendency to scapegoat and split the unity that formed our identity. I’ve sat in circles with other sisters many times, musing over what we might do once a time of trouble arrived.
But I never thought it would be like this, a global coronavirus pandemic. Yet here we are. The crisis has arrived, and it is serious and costly… [This is the beginning of my latest column for the online newspaper, Global Sisters Report. Continue reading here.]
About four years ago, before any of us had been encouraged to practice social distancing because of the coronavirus pandemic, I moved to the Northwoods of Wisconsin. My family and friends worried I’d be lonely, but I embraced the peace and quiet and found myself feeling very happy among the trees and lakes. It didn’t take long for me to make friends among my fellow Franciscan sisters, to feel like I was part of a community. About once a month, I drove half the day to visit friends in other parts of the state. Occasionally I would fly to meetings in places like California and South Carolina. I even got in good enough shape to walk the Camino de Compostela in Spain. Plus, social media allowed me to grow and deepen my relationships with many people online.
Overall, my time in the Northwoods was fruitful for me. I wrote a book and completed a master’s degree, all while benefiting from natural beauty and fresh air.
For my master’s project, I researched the problem of loneliness and developed some pastoral responses. What I learned was alarming… [This is the beginning of an essay I recently published in The Christian Century. Continue reading here.]
at first I thought she was a bad joke during a pandemic, St. Corona. a joke like “did you hear that they’re putting the Corona beer next to the Lysol spray in the stores now?” a joke compelling me to groan and roll my eyes at my goofy father breaking the Fourth Commandment, breaking a crown
but it turns out she’s not a joke much of her identity is a mystery yet our tradition says she admitted her faith in Christ when it was illegal to do so to console another Christian, St. Victor, whose eyes were being gouged St. Victor’s torture was meant to be a warning so others would not profess love of Christ instead St. Corona resisted and rebelled and then was tortured too her body stretched between two palm trees and Christ firm in her heart and Christ firm on her lips
St. Corona, pray for us you who are among all the saints you who know the pain of suffering you who know the cost of love you who wear the crown of faith you who show us how to tend to others and be true to ourselves, and true for God St. Corona, pray for us
St. Corona, pray for us and help us be firm in our faith and trust in God and truly love no matter how frightening this pandemic may become help us remember that faith, death, and life are no joke St. Corona, pray for us
It all started when a friend, who ministers in New York, texted me to say that someone in his parish was being tested for the coronavirus (or Covid-19) and everyone who attended liturgy with them could be quarantined. I was alarmed. I realized that the epidemic was no longer abstract and distant. I realized that the time to make decisions had arrived.
I muttered some prayers and then I went online and began reading the news. Updates from the WHO and CDC helped me understand how quickly the virus is spreading, how highly contagious it is, and that it had just been named a pandemic. I also read the recommendation that those with lung disease not venture out for any reason.
Lung disease. My heart sank as I realized I was one of those persons; I am asthmatic. And I live with a sister who is an octogenarian. I felt a responsibility to stay in. So, I told the sisters I live with that I wouldn’t be joining them at the Catholic Sister Week event that night and canceled plans. I hunkered down and settled into acceptance.
Since then, the impacts of this crisis are being felt by nearly everyone. Most of us will not be able to worship with our faith communities this weekend. Many people can’t receive the Blessed Sacrament at Holy Mass. (Catholic services have been canceled all over the country.) The words of Michael O. Leavitt, U.S. Secretary of Health and Human Services in 2007, come to mind: “Everything we do before a pandemic will seem alarmist. Everything we do after a pandemic will seem inadequate.”
Throughout the United States much has changed quickly. Many events, major and small, have been canceled. Classrooms are now virtual. There’s a shortage of supplies. A national emergency has been declared. Much has come to a standstill. And many people are feeling frantic, vulnerable and fearful. It’s a wild time we’re in.
Wild.
Wild like the Lenten desert, like the land of desolation where Jesus went to pray and fast before he began his public ministry. (Mark 1:12-13)
We are called to accept the reality of the time we’re in and face unmet desires. We have arrived in the Lenten desert by way of a pandemic.
The Lenten desert is harsh and wild. Much feels unfamiliar and frightening; the sun burns, the water is scarce. You don’t know if you’ll have what you need, or if you will survive.
In the Lenten desert, we thirst for the Truth, for comfort, and peace. We crave it; we’re hungry. We starve for connection, for love, hope and joy. As we do, we can marvel at the mystery, at our shared humanity and common vulnerabilities. We are able to let go of what is beyond our control. We all need God.
In a pandemic and in this sacred season, we can let the silence and solitude speak to us; we can each listen deeply to God. We can pray. We can meditate. We can read Scripture and do spiritual reading. Once we turn inward, we could discover that the desert landscape is beautiful and full of life too.
In this pandemic and in this desert, we discover a sacredness in the slowing, an offering of time. Each of us are given an opportunity to steward the openings we’ve been given. We can notice what is a gift. We can delight in a time to deepen our bond with God.
Surprise, here’s that Lenten retreat you were dreaming about. Here’s that pause you were wanting when ashes were pressed into your forehead and you heard that you are dust, and to dust you will return.
Photo by Ivars Krutainis on Unsplash.com
As you pray through this Lenten pandemic, I invite you to follow the guidance of the Holy Spirit deep in your heart. Remember that Jesus was ministered by angels in the desert; keep in mind that God is also caring for you in this sacred time.
As you open your heart and mind to love, to the challenge of trust and transformation, may you come to a greater awareness of how deeply loved you truly are. You are sacred. You are valued. You are not alone. You are a beautiful and beloved child of God.
Let’s remember that we’re made for community, that this is the Christian way. Let’s reach out to our friends and neighbors; let’s utilize technology for sacred relationships, for community building. Let’s pray together and help each other through our struggles. Let’s encourage one another and be the beacons of hope that others need to see.
Then, united in love and filled with God’s grace, we will all emerge again one day, more fully alive and in tune with the way of Jesus Christ. We’ll be stronger and healthier. We’ll be more grounded and clear headed. We’ll be able to serve with greater courage and love.
This is a time for renewal, preparation and restoration. This is a holy time.
Here are some offerings for you. Think of this list like finding a well bursting of life-giving water, strengthening you for your time in the desert:
The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail. Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.
If you keep your feet from breaking the Sabbath and from doing as you please on my holy day, if you call the Sabbath a delight and the Lord’s holy day honorable, and if you honor it by not going your own way and not doing as you please or speaking idle words, then you will find your joy in the Lord, and I will cause you to ride in triumph on the heights of the land and to feast on the inheritance of your father Jacob. For the mouth of the Lord has spoken.
