 She called for religious absolution.
I didn’t need to give it to her, but still she called. Pregnant. She’s not who you think: She’s married. She’s a mother. She’s well educated. She’s successful. She’s pregnant. A lima bean I told her. Not even a lima bean. Not a baby. A mass of cells. 99% effective that birth control! 99%! How can I be the 1%? I’m done having children. I cried when the second pee stick said positive again. She was clear. She doesn’t want another child. Do I have to go to some clinic? No clinic. Go to your doctor. Give thanks you are in a safe state. I am so mad. How can other women not have this choice? Remember, abortion is normal. Normal. They want us to think it’s awful. It’s not awful. It’s a minor medical procedure. You aren’t the first woman who got pregnant on birth control. Abortion is normal. Say this to yourself over and over again. And this is not a gift from God. Thank you for saying that. It isn’t. God didn’t cause COVID-19 to remind us about community. God didn’t decide you should get pregnant so you can love being a mother. We can’t interpret everything as God’s challenge or invitation. Things happen. Cancer. Pandemics. Pregnancy. They aren’t good or bad. They aren’t from God. They just are. Minor medical procedure. Safe. Lima bean. Abortion is normal. You have your life to lead. You matter to God. You are loved.
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 Let me make the following clear. I am NOT a scientist. I am NOT an elected official. Therefore when it comes to our response to the COVID-19 pandemic, I have very little scientifically or politically helpful to say. I am following what the CDC recommends and what my own governor, a rational and capable man, is advising. Stay home. Wash hands often. Stop touching your face (okay I really stink at this). Cough into your elbow. Physical distancing: 6 feet please. Drink, eat, and knit. Maybe the CDC didn’t advise that, but I think it’s a good idea to explore butter’s multiple options, drink things 21 and under shouldn’t, get chicks, and finish some knitting projects or just start some new ones.
But I am a minister, and I do have something to say about Easter and COVID-19. I am bereft. Bereft seems the only word strong enough to describe my grief and disappointment. This is how my COVID-19 denial went in regards to Easter: When schools closed I was hopeful things would reopen by Easter. When that seemed unlikely, I was hopeful I could still gather people outside for a sunrise service. Then a clown made ridiculous comments linking Easter and the economy. Is he aware that Jesus was a radical socialist who insisted that if you really wanted to follow him you should sell all you have (Luke 18)? I digress. Perhaps the most stunning quote, it would be “beautiful to see packed churches for the holidays.” (You can read a more thorough account of the controversy). A beautiful packed church is not my idea of Easter and I am a minister. I don’t even associate the word holiday with Easter since before I was born the word holiday, which originally denoted a holy-day, was co- opted to describe a time gathering with family and friends to eat. But Easter’s not about family, friends, candy, eggs, or bunnies. It’s also not about packed churches. Easter is about spiritual community gathered to celebrate new life. The folks who show up, honestly and vulnerably Sunday after Sunday, bearing their burdens, sharing their joys and doubts, seeking answers, offering comfort, praying for everyone and anyone, welcoming the stranger, living through the beautiful and terrible world together. Why do I care so much if I gather with this community on Easter? The answer is simple: the Resurrection. The resurrection is the final answer God offers. It is the assurance in this uncertain COVID-19 isolated world. The resurrection is hope in the face of despair, comfort in the face of cruelty, love in the face of hate, presence in the face of loneliness. Easter is not a “beautiful day.” Easter is the empty tomb, the defeat of suffering and death. For many of us who plod through this life week in and week out trying our best to live as faithful disciples we need to hear again, in community, the story of the empty tomb on Easter. That story of life after death, of love more powerful than fear, sustains us in life. And that story is the antidote to what we face now. I have been privileged, as a christian minister, to preach the resurrection for 18 years. This Easter, as I proclaim the ancient words, “He is Risen!”, I will do so from my home, looking at a screen. I know my community will respond, “He is Risen Indeed!”, but probably in an unnatural cacophony as the internet scrambles our voices. The words will carry the same meaning they have for thousands of years. Yet bereft I remain: I want to shout these words in person to the people with whom I share this christian journey. I want to feel the collective hope that rises between us as we remember again that the resurrection is the final answer. I want to serve communion, sing together (in one place), hold hands, hug friends, snuggle babies, watch children play, comfort and be comforted with a pat on the back. I want community, real community in a real place, but I won’t get that this Easter. We will all be online instead. Perhaps this Easter is the Easter in which we most need God’s final promise: Jesus is Risen Indeed. |
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