Plague, Pestilence, and the Pastor's Soul

These are the times that try pastors’ souls. To be sure, these are trying times for everyone. But in the present pandemic most pastors, including myself, are seriously struggling. Although most pastors are creatures of habit, our angst has been triggered by much more than a mere change in the well-worn patterns of ministry.

In just the past week, here in Wisconsin, public health officials have steadily lowered the bar on gathering size. There were no limits last Sunday. On Monday gatherings of more than fifty were prohibited. And on Tuesday the governor further reduced gathering sizes to 10, effectively preventing congregations like mine from gathering for worship in any sense that could be described as normal. A “shelter in place” order has not yet been given here, which allowed small groups of our congregation to receive the body and blood of our Lord in shortened, streamlined services for which they signed-up in advance online.

While I’m thankful to have communed around sixty-five souls this morning, and to have fortified them in body and soul with the “medicine of immortality,” I’m grieving. The body of Christ in this place has seemingly been dismembered. It was mostly just the younger, healthier members who received the sacrament this morning. Many older, at-risk members stayed away, understandably—many of them with great reluctance and not a little guilt. Two members, both in their 80s, are currently hospitalized with serious illness; but I am prohibited from visiting them, just as their own children are being kept away. My best efforts at pastoral care cannot reach them, not even via Youtube, Facebook Live, or Zoom. Even my attempts to “phone it in” are dependent on overworked, at-risk health care workers, who have far more important things to do in these troubled times than hold a phone up to an old lady’s ear. Kyrie eleison.

Centuries ago the Prophet Jeremiah was called to provide prophetic care to a body of believers about to be dismembered by the Babylonian chainsaw massacre. His preaching and proclamation on Yahweh’s behalf were hindered and hijacked by false prophets with a more optimistic message to share. Jeremiah expressed his prophetic pain metaphorically: There is in my heart as it were a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I am weary of holding it in, and I cannot.

I feel that fire in my bones, too. That fire has fueled my pastoral care for 24 years. That fire has purified God’s people through my preaching of Christ crucified, by the comforting cadence of Holy Absolution, with the splash of baptismal water, and with the simple bread and wine of our Lord’s Holy Supper. It is increasingly difficult to do what I have been called to do. My duty has been my delight for decades; but now that duty is being detoured. Only my fellow pastors will understand the great privilege and satisfaction that could come from preaching at the funeral of some recently departed saint. The oldest member of my parish departed this life on February 29th. Her funeral is now delayed at least until September. I want to proclaim the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. But the pandemic has paused that proclamation; and threatens to put out that fire in my bones. I am embarking on an unscheduled, unwanted vacation from vocation. And it makes me weary.

We see that weariness everywhere now. The shutdown of a society means that very few of us can do the work we have been called to do. The fire in our collective bones must either be held in, or be reduced to smoldering ash. It was just three weeks ago that ashes were applied to foreheads along with the reminder that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. Little did we know then that the quarantine of Lent would be much more than a mere symbol this year.

There was no symbolism in the nine “small group Communion services” at which I presided this morning. Stark and streamlined, we stuck to the bare essentials: This is my body, which is given for you. Drink of it, all of you; this cup is the new testament in my blood. It was deeply comforting to know that our segregated, single-digit services were also attended by angels and archangels and all the company of heaven.

At the end of the morning, I was the only one left—a quarantined clergyman. The post-service clean-up, normally undertaken by our altar guild, fell to me. Sacred vessels of silver and gold needed cleansing. Our altar guild, a lovely group of older devoted women, is now designated “at risk” for COVID-19; so it was good, right and salutary that they should be excused from duty today. Their regular work requires great care, thought, and precision. Holy things require extraordinary care.

My daughter, now a homebound college senior, joined me in the sacristy, ending my solitary service and volunteering for dishtowel duty. Her life is on hold too. Home is not where she expected to be right now. Her future, including a possible Fulbright Scholarship, is uncertain. She too must hold in that fire in her bones, and pause for a pandemic she cannot control. We do our work of washing and drying, falling into casual conversation. Ours is a different kind of communion, but no less holy. We can no longer “stay in our lane.” That may have been great advice last week; but now we must feel our way along like exiles in a strange land—like a blind man learning Braille.

In the Holy Gospel for today, Jesus restored the sight of a man born blind, a rather fitting account for these uncertain times. On this Fourth Sunday in Lent, we give thanks for the Son of God who did not “stay in his lane,” but came down from heaven to open the eyes of the blind and give life to the dead. God grant us grace, despite these days of distress and disorientation, to echo the man who had mud in his eyes, “Lord, I believe.”