How Long?

How long, we wonder, is it going to be like this?

How long will this blockade be in place—the one that keeps us grounded in our rooms like so many punished teenagers. How long will the walls of our apartments and houses keep us safe from one enemy, but separated from the social interactions that foster our sanity? How long will our dining room tables substitute for classrooms and offices? How long will it be before a gentle touch, a tender kiss, a comforting hug will be free from lethal potential? How long?

How long will a simple errand to pick up a gallon of milk and a jar of spaghetti sauce feel more like mounting a treacherous expedition? How long will we need to arm ourselves with Handiwipes and scrub down the grocery cart before passing through a check-point into the fruits and vegetables department? How long will we tread tentatively through the wild aisles, hunting for elusive cans of tuna, wary the whole while that we’ll come within six feet of another shopper who might be reaching for the same item? How long will it feel threatening to wait near the magazines and candy bar racks until a cash register comes open? How long?

How long will we be masked, recognizable only from the bridge of the nose upwards? How long must be rely on face coverings stitched by thoughtful crafters, or carefully folded handkerchiefs secured with rubber bands, or desperately fashioned tube socks cut strategically and stuffed with coffee filters? How long will tightly woven cotton fabric be the flimsy barrier between health and illness? How long?

How long will financial calamity loom large, hovering on the air, invisibly, like The Virus itself? How long will the last paycheck or the current stimulus check or the maybe-we’ll-qualify unemployment check need to stretch? How long can the home mortgage go unpaid when home is the only place we’re allowed to be? How long can the causes and institutions and not-for-profits we are inclined to support carry on without that support? How long can our church? How long?

How long will we feel restless, caught somewhere daily between terror and boredom? How long will we be coated in a persistent layer of anxiety? How long will we numb our negative feelings with brownies and potato chips and way too much screen time?

How long will our angst leak out, unrecognized, as anger or despair or frustration or despondency? How long?

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We speak about the unprecedented nature of these days living under the cloud of Covid-19, but the human reaction to stress and trauma is not unprecedented. If we contact trace our way back 3,000 years or so, give or take a couple of generations, we hear the psalmist voicing similar reactions.

As long as human beings have known pain and suffering, we have asked, “How long?” How long must we wrestle with this? How long must we endure this? How long must we be shaped by this? How long must we struggle with this?

And, oh, by the way, God—Where are you in this? Where did you go? How come I can’t see you? When are you going to check back in? Ever?

This is an ancient set of questions that might seem remarkable contemporary. Maybe there’s some solace in knowing that solidarity and empathy are not bound by the constructs of time. But if that is the case—that the sensation of human suffering hasn’t changed all that much over the centuries—then it should also hold true that it does not have to be a permanent posture. The author of Psalm 13 does not stay in the mind frame of abandonment for very long. By the end of the song, the psalmist comes around to noticing and naming God’s continued presence even in the midst of a devastating struggle. The psalmist ends up saying:

It’s not really possible to take a shortcut through the discomfort that results from being human. We feel what we feel. But it’s important to acknowledge these feelings, name them, sort them out. And it’s okay to shout these questions at God. The psalmist does! It’s part of the prayer process to ask, “How long? How long? How long will this go on?” Listening attentively for the unknowable answer, though, may be just what’s needed to notice that God’s presence hasn’t gone anywhere. God’s presence comes in the form of love and goodness. Even in the midst of The Virus, love and goodness surround us.

Easter is not just one day, but rather an ongoing season. Perhaps Easter is also an attitude. Perhaps Easter is the encouragement we need to reframe some things once we’re done soaking in them: How long…how long… how long will Christ be willing to be present with us? How long will Christ love us unconditionally? How long will Christ remain compassionate? How long will Christ be a force for healing?

How long? For the sake of this epoch, let’s say: Far beyond the scope and span and reach of The Virus.

Waiting, Yet Hopeful,

Pastor Chris