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This is an open letter to all clergy and church musicians

You read it right. Holy Week sucked. (I know, I know. “Sucked” is such a harsh word. But it is in the common lexicon and no other expression really captures things the same way). I know everybody worked really hard with Zoom and Facebook live streaming and all that. I know that not being with a worshiping congregation in the same actual space was hard for you too. I fully understand that your creativity muscles were flexed in ways they may not have been before, and that every one of you deserves kudos. Kudos I cheerfully give you. But it sucked anyway.

Holy week is a journey. The Easter services, joy-filled as they are, always astound because the preceding Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services walk us through everything that happens along the way. Then give us time to return home with feelings of unease while we wait. Fully engaging in Holy Week makes us disciples in unique ways. It does not lend itself to binge watching, No matter how wonderful digital technology is, it is no substitute for the real thing. To give just one tiny example of why: the lights were on brightly for every service. They had to be. Many if not most of you were using your phones as your production studios. Even the Washington National Cathedral, with all its technology, streamed services lit up like Busby Berkeley musicals under white hot spots.  

It felt silly to sit next to Crystal in our den saying “Thanks be to God” and “And also with you” to our TV screen. You may have felt silly saying things to an empty church with a propped-up phone the only thing in sight.

So virtual Holy Week sucked because it couldn’t not suck. Streaming is to corporate worship as microwave ovens are to frying eggs. Sure, it can be done. But it ain’t a fried egg. 

None of that’s important, though, and here’s why:

I don’t remember anything about Easter 1997. Or Palm Sunday 2003. Or Maundy Thursday a year ago. Of course, I do remember we typically said this, and usually sang that, and prayed during this part, and so on. I remember that I always felt joyful or thoughtful or pensive as the service warranted. But I don’t remember sermons from 2014 or what guest musicians played for Easter 2009. In memory, Holy Weeks from different years become interchangeable.

But I will remember 2020. Always. We all will. This will be a watershed Holy Week for everybody who experienced it. A once in a lifetime experience. I’m pretty sure I will always remember Bishop Curry’s brilliantly worded reassurances that just because it sure doesn’t look, feel, or even smell like Easter doesn’t for one instant mean it isn’t. I know I will remember the incredible work Crystal and friends did to electronically share organ, piano, guitar, bells, and voice with, really, everybody on planet earth.

I also acknowledge that my snobbery over digital frippery unfairly dismisses all the homebound persons, particularly the elderly, to whom it comes as a divine life ring. 

And that doesn’t suck. Over time, this alone will drive home all the messages of Holy Week more deeply than any other ten “typical” Holy Weeks combined. If we had all folded up, waved bye-bye to one another, and hunkered alone until the All Clear bell rings – as perhaps we would have had to do 20 or even 10 years ago - this would not be true. The live streaming and four thousand other work-arounds kept Holy Week alive. And will continue to keep Easter alive 365 days a year. Yes, it sucked, but all of your hard work was well worth it. Thank you.

And bless you.

This is my mother-in-law, Georgia, who is 95 and living in what was once perhaps not so charmingly called an "old folks home." For people of her age, the time of coronavirus has not been especially kind. When you are the last living member of your siblings, widowed, and of limited mobility, social distancing is especially hard. She has lived a blessed life, but one of many challenges. I won't go into detail other than to note she has experienced the death of children and was widowed far too young. Being cut off from remaining family for who knows how long at this point in her life is cruel fate indeed.

Just a few miles away from her is a skilled nursing facility which has experienced more COVID-19 deaths than any such place in the United States. It is horrible. And the difference between where Georgia lives and that location is probably no more than a doorknob or a cough from a few weeks ago.  Her facility has been wonderfully competent and communicative, and so far the on-site incidences of COVID-19 have been exceedingly limited, well controlled, and there have been to date no deaths. That's the critical good news. 

The critical bad news is that she has been essentially confined to her room, although she did fight to get permission to walk up and down her hallway using her walker perhaps once or twice a day. No visitors whatsoever to the campus, so we cannot even go there to wave through a window. She lived her life content to do without computers or cell phones. Good for her! However, the downside at present is that her only contact with the outside world is by phone. We've tried to solve that by providing her one of those magical digital frames which allows family to email photos to her. It seems to be working so far. So chalk up one for cyberspace.

In considering how to - I don't know what the word is - record? life in the time of coronavirus in my art, I felt driven to paint a portrait of her. This is my second image, the first was a caricature done for her 80th birthday, in which she devours an ice cream sundae. Done for fun. There is not much fun, generally, about social distancing, especially for the elderly. But I hope you will notice that I have attempted to capture one of her warm and gentle smiles. The reason is that she has been a remarkable good egg about it all. Based on my limited data set (my parents and her), I have observed that routine and schedule are of paramount necessity for the cheerfulness of the aged. That has gone completely out the window, including hair care and bath time and so on. When confronted with realities, though, Georgia rises and thrives. Her compassion for others just shines. She sees how hard the staff work under such difficult circumstances and intuits that she is as much caregiver to them as they are to her. And pitches in, and helps, in the cutest ways.

This is the Georgia I want to remember with respect to life in the time of coronavirus.