On Pandemic, Susceptibility, and the Illusion of Control
I went for a run to get out from all the noise, all the words and sounds that fill up your heart so fast, it can feel like drowning: pandemic, quarantine, social distancing.
I have been reading so many articles and studies, looking at bell curves with numbers typically assigned to stars in galaxies or sand on beaches— hundreds of millions? And then, as I reach the end of yet another, I realize— I’ve been literally holding my breath.
Aren’t we all?
Waiting, wondering, considering.
The masked and sanitized world is holding its breath.
And so, I head out into the snow to run—to inhale, and to exhale— and to remind myself of this body and this place and all the wonder and good that simply is not going anywhere.
On the road leading back the parsonage, I jogged under some familiar power lines. And today they are buzzing.
Like everything else, no matter where we turn, the world is buzzing and humming. There is an electric, frenzied hum, a tangible presence that something unseen is awry. Its the sound of paranoia or collective energy.
As much as I want to avoid the sound of our anxious world, its all around.
(And that buzzing sound? Its called “corona discharge.”
No, I’m not joking. Look it up, friends.
The analogy is just that perfect.)
All the way home, it was as if I was learning to breathe through the frenzied buzz, the currents of news and alarm and updates and confirmed cases.
That’s what we are all doing: whether we are indifferent or terrified, we are all breathing and living and loving in the midst of it all.
In her book, The Preaching Life, Barbara Taylor Brown describes our current international frenzy quite well:
“I’ve lost control!” That is what good people say when bad things happen to them. “I’ve lost control of my life!” I have said it myself, but it is not true. Human beings do not lose control of their lives. What we lose is the illusion that we were ever in control of our lives in the first place, and it is a hard, hard lesson to learn— so hard that most of us have to go back to the blackboard again and again, because we keep thinking that there must be some way to work it out, some way to master the human condition so that there are no leaks in it, no scares, no black holes.
The illusion of control.
Yes, for those of us privileged enough to think we can outrun a virus or avoid the buzzing commotion all around, we are indeed disillusioned. We can spend many years running away from the reality that we are not actually in control.
Sure, we have agency.
Yes, we make choices.
But at the end of the day, there is so much beyond our grasp.
Its undeniable privilege that covers our eyes or turns away or avoids.
And yet for those of us who are vulnerable to its severity or deeply affected (physically, mentally, or otherwise) by these big shifts, this is nothing new. We cannot outrun pain or pretend it is not real.
Maybe that is part of what Jesus means when He says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs in the Kingdom of Heaven.” The Kingdom of Heaven, the realest of the real, is for those humble enough to see the world how it truly is— and then can see God for who He truly is.
The saints lean into the present pain— hands, feet, knuckles deep in it— and meet God there.
Yesterday, Jackson was in contact with some nurses who are a part of our church community, trying to make decisions about our worship this weekend. At the end of the conversation, our friend reminded him, “You know, Jackson, you need to take care or yourself, too. With your diabetes, you are actually more susceptible to the virus and could have a more adverse reaction.”
While looking out for everyone else, we often overlook our own deficiencies.
As strong as we feel and as invincible as we may seem, times of uncertainty remind us of our own susceptibility.
Our own lack of control.
You see, most of what I’ve seen online in regards to social distancing and canceling events points the reasoning toward someone else, the other— for the sake of the elderly, for the healthcare workers, for those with respiratory conditions, for those with immunodeficiencies. And all of that this is factually true. For most, the coronavirus and sickness like it will, at most, leave people inconvenienced and uncomfortable. Some of us may contract it and never know. For the most part, we should not fear its extent.
But in this season of Lent, we—as the Church— remember our own susceptibility.
This is not necessarily about our chances of contracting some kind of physical ailment (although, as embodied people, that can certainly be part of our lament). Instead, throughout this season, we face our own susceptibility to hate, unforgiveness, racism, resentment, and pride. During this part of the year and in the midst of this pandemic, we recognize that this spiritual darkness is not about them— the obvious “bad people” or blatantly disobedient.
We do not look at members of ISIS or Westboro Baptist and declare that spiritual disease is theirs alone.
No, there are places where I have contracted deep and painful biases and prejudices.
This is not just about those others— it is about me.
And you.
Now is the time for healing.
As I ran under the buzzing power lines this snowy afternoon, I was reminded of the psalmists words:
Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
This I declare about the Lord:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
he is my God, and I trust him.
Yes, there is no outrunning the chaos.
There is no avoiding.
There is no need to fear.
The Lord alone is our refuge.
And in the shadow of His wing we can live in the present and live in peace.
Breathing in and out with the buzzing all around.
And so, how do we do this?
With our collective worship times postponed and schools cancelled and grocery shelves left empty, how can we cling to refuge?
A few things I am trying here. Feel free to consider them, too.
We are worshipping as a family tomorrow. Jackson recorded a basic and simplified service that you are free to watch, too! Grab some instruments and sing songs together with your kids. Listen and pray together. Call those in your community and check in with them. Pray for them on the phone. Offer pardon and forgiveness. If you can, take communion together.
You can find this on our church website or Facebook page.Go outside. Simply being outdoors in this spring weather (or, even today, in the snow) can lower stress, blood pressure and heart rate, while also lifting our overall mood and mental health. Take deep breaths outside. Take a walk. Stretch. We can simply observe the beauty around us. Here, we are centered in the midst of the storms.
Create. Play lots of music— on your own instrument or while feeding the baby or even on Spotify. Write something, anything. Try a new genre— poetry, fiction, life narrative. Enjoy someone else’s creativity. Recently, I’ve LOVED The Deep Place Podcast to inspire my own creativity and find spiritual healing in the process. I recommend it.
Peace to you, friends!
