When Father Keith, at a Wednesday evening service many weeks ago, told those of us gathered our bishop had sent a directive which included a refrain from shaking hands during the passing of the peace, I was surprised. The order seemed over-cautious. But we took it in stride. Our small group gathered inside the sanctuary of Holy Trinity by the Lake smiled and waved at each other, and then the service continued. We had no wine at communion but carefully took our hosts when the plate was moved around the circle.
That following Sunday, our priests reminded the congregation of the new dictates, and during the passing of the peace, there were smiles and murmurs. A few of us kissed our spouses. Father Keith joked that we must have set a record for how quickly our church finished that portion of the service. There was laughter, but my chuckling was nervous and sad.
As I have told a number of my friends and family since, Holy Trinity is a hugging church. There are very few stiff nods and handshakes. Even some men embrace friends here as most congregants exchange hearty greetings. People respect the space of those who are less comfortable touching, but I cannot imagine that very many people ever leave our church feeling unloved or uncared for, in part because there is this show of affection. I’m sure some of you go to churches like this.
It wasn’t long after this service that the clergy and staff and vestry at Holy Trinity were scrambling to figure out how to do services and Bible studies online. People were learning Zoom as if they had been dropped into a foreign country. Requests to join the church’s Facebook page shot up, as members realized they would only be able to “meet” through the platform and on their phones and laptops. Video messages were sent to the congregation reminding them the church would do all it could to help anyone in need of food or other help, and volunteers were mobilized to deliver essential. As we reach Easter Sunday, I am amazed at how far we came so quickly, and I am grateful to graceful people I worship with and who work behind the scenes to keep us all as connected as we can be during the pandemic.
Lent, a season of reflection, discipline, and preparation, has been turned upside-down during the isolation of the Covid-19 outbreak. Religious and non-religious have added a new phrase to our working vocabulary: social distancing. When we venture out for food, we see taped markers to remind us to keep six feet away. Tired people whose faces are covered with masks or bandanas or veils steer shopping carts around us if we take too long making selections from the often paltry items left after the hoarders have crashed the gates.
In my apartment, six adults work through the vicissitudes of life under what I suppose is half a lockdown. My wife is crocheting masks for us to wear when we have to go out. My twin daughters, furloughed from their jobs, sleep in more and try to keep their emotions in check as they are away from friends and significant others. My son does a few more chores. My brother, whose brain injury causes him to have unusual memory problems, asks every day (as he did before the pandemic), “Are there any plans for today?” and I tell him nothing except work. I spend much of my day sitting in the corner of my dining room/office/library, my laptop clicking away on one end of the table, either a stack of board games or papers at the other end.
And when it’s time, we sit in the living room and dining room, participating as best as we can to online worship or a lesson, painstakingly crafted by Father Jonathan and the amazing staff at Holy Trinity. It is not the same as being there, but not at all a minor blessing. This isn’t, for my family, a second rate, substitute Mass, or hastily dashed together PowerPoint with voiceover. Because of God’s grace and the love of His people, the service is an extension of the sacramental life I have come to love most about my faith community.
Of course, I am thankful for many things. I still can work. I have a good apartment and live with loving people who give me the quiet and space I need. I have plenty to eat, and after a minor quest, even toilet paper. Thanks to my generous and kind sister, I have enough coffee to last awhile. In my life are plenty of family and friends who check in, so I rarely feel alone.
I believe one thing I am most aware of and thanking God for is what the people of my faith community were before the pandemic. There are so many people who are faithful, living a servant mindfulness that adapts to change and crisis instead of reacts and lives polarized. It isn’t just that we are a hugging church, but that the love of Christ was already evident in them so that whatever the circumstances, that love would be the message and the force causing action.
But I miss, more and more, the physical feeling of my church. I crave the feel of the old alter railing where I receive Communion each Sunday, the wet on my fingers as I make the Sign of the Cross upon entering, even the beautiful wooden pews and kneelers. I want to sit on the stone benches outside the sanctuary and parish hall and look and painstakingly cared for the flowers and the occasional bees that visit. I look forward to once again going to the weekly healing service and having the priest dip his thumb in oil and make a cross upon my forehead as he pronounces a blessing. And of course, the hugs.
But isn’t this Christian life, pandemic or no pandemic, Lent or Advent or hot summer months? Christians are, or at least should be, looking-forward people. We live in the meantime, taking in the touch of God, and by the grace of that God, touching those we can reach. And this is how hope is spread.
