Easter During COVID-19

THIS ARTICLE WAS FIRST WRITTEN FOR AND PUBLISHED BY BREAKPOINT.

“For to their longing eyes restored,
the Apostles saw their risen Lord.”

Many weeks into the full experience of this pandemic I have, to my chagrin, come to accept a fact I’ve been fighting since DAY 1: God wants to work in me something new, something holy.

This shouldn’t be a surprise to me, a life-long Christian, but it is because I neither requested nor approved this work! Neither did God ask.

So, now, in the hopes of purging my soul and recognizing this COVID-19 season to be the severe mercy that it surely is, and in an effort to discover that perhaps I’m not the only one who’s been reluctant to offer God a sacrifice of praise during lock-down life, I would like to make my confession. Here I go…

I confess my incessant moodiness and irritability.

I confess that a subtle but pervasive anger lives in me, whose presence is as mysterious as it is destructive.

I confess that tears of sadness, despair, and doubt have come suddenly and frequently these past few weeks.

In summary, I confess that I have not prayerfully cultivated and thus do not currently possess, the physical, spiritual, relational, and emotional resources I need to be able to honor God and love my neighbor during this pandemic.

That feels better.

To be clear, I can’t honestly say I’m ready to cry out, “Thank you, Jesus!” for this mess of truth in my lap, but I’m beginning to inch toward that by asking questions like, “What is going on in me?” And “What is God doing in my heart, in my marriage, in my relationships with my kids, and in my work?” These questions are, in my experience, a kind of slippery slope of truth-telling. They lead, ultimately and because of the kindness of God, to repentance and to God’s forgiveness. This is my hope.

“What is going on in me? What is God doing in my heart, in my marriage, in my relationships with my kids, and in my work? These questions are, in my experience, a kind of slippery slope of truth-telling. They lead, ultimately and because of the kindness of God, to repentance and to God’s forgiveness. ”

A few days ago, I heard a line from one of my favorite hymns that might as well serve as the soundtrack for my journey of repentance and faith during COVID-19. Check out the last line in this stanza:

That Easter day with joy was bright
The sun shone out in fairer light
For to their longing eyes restored,
the Apostles saw their risen Lord.

“For to their longing eyes restored, the Apostles saw their risen Lord.” This line comes from J.M Neale’s translation of the hymn, That Easter Day With Joy Was Bright. We sing it at my church on the Second Sunday of Easter-tide. It’s part of a larger poem that dates all the way back to the 4th or 5th Century, something I value because it means this a poem whose truth has managed to comfort many “longing eyes,” not just mine.

Eyes tell stories.

In the moments before Jesus’ resurrection appearance, what story did the longing eyes of the Apostles’ tell? Tragedy. Defeat. Confusion. Worry. Despair. “We saw Jesus perform miracles only to watch Him die on a cross?!”

Indeed, their eyes were telling a story we would all recognize right now, in the midst of this pandemic, in the longing eyes of people on respirators, struggling to breathe. It’s the same story told in the eyes of health-care workers, and in those of people without work, food, or shelter. I confess that, if you had seen my eyes recently, this is the story they too would have told you.

But the “longing” is only half of the story: “For to their longing eyes restored, the Apostles saw their risen Lord.”

I recorded a version of That Easter Day With Joy Was Bright and I invite you to consider it as a possibly traveling song for your own journey through the rest of COVID-19. May its message move you from longing eyes to a risen Christ.

Josh Bales | That Easter Day With Joy Was Bright | Album: Come Away From Rush & Hurry



Christianity, Tech, & Grief in our Viral Moment

THIS ARTICLE WAS FIRST WRITTEN FOR AND PUBLISHED BY BREAKPOINT.

For the past two weeks, my church in Orlando has been, like many churches around the world, hard at work responding to the coronavirus crisis:

How will we care for those effected by the virus? How will we continue our worshiping life, carry on leadership meetings, and handle a possible loss of financial support?

One of the tools helping us answer these questions has been technology. In fact, technology has been one of the only tools available to us in a time when local officials have asked us to stay home. So, we began livestreaming our liturgies and communicating daily with our congregation through emails and social media platforms. This has given all of us comfort and a needed (albeit disembodied and virtual) sense of connectedness during the uncertainty of this pandemic.

But I have to make a confession. A quiet unease has been lurking in my soul with every virtual worship service I participate in. It’s a dissonance between the reality of the global pandemic and my (subconscious?) attempts, via technology, to keep my life as “normal” as possible, in the realms where such false normalcy is possible: my emotions, my relationships, and my spiritual life.

“The six feet of physical distance between me and the person in line at the grocery store, not to mention the empty streets and closed businesses in my city, confronts me with this reality.”

Let me explain.

Physically speaking, the truth of the tragedy facing our world is unavoidable: the entire globe has ceased to function. The six feet of physical distance between me and the person in line at the grocery store, not to mention the empty streets and closed businesses in my city, confronts me with this reality.

But, if I so choose, with technology, I can leave this bleak physical existence and, thanks to emotion-numbing Netflix series, small group Facetime hang outs, and live-streamed worship, live relatively the same life I had before this whole thing started. Pandemic who?

Let me be clear. Technology isn’t the enemy. I’m no Luddite. I’ve read recent articles addressing these issues that sound, to my pastoral ears, unsafe on the one hand, or grumpy on the other. I’d prefer to avoid both postures, if possible. I believe technology is great until it becomes, like any gift of God, one more creative way we avoid the frailty of our humanity and the hunger of our souls; that is, our need for God.

But our use of technology the past few weeks has come dangerously close to the story of Job whose friends repeatedly offered him cheap answers to the question of the overwhelming tragedy that had beset his life. Such answers were no doubt attractive options for Job in ending the tension he lived between a God who claimed to be good and the unspeakable tragedy that God allowed. (In the end, even God Himself refused to give Job explanations for the evil he had endured, opting instead to remind Job of the trustworthiness of His own authoritative identity as God, the maker of heaven, earth, and every mystery in between.)

Aren’t Christians people who tell the truth, as best we can, according to God’s word, about ourselves, our world, and about God? To lose this calling is to lose ourselves and our mission, right? This was the kind of prophetic calling that Flannery O’Connor embraced. She awakened readers to their universal need for God’s grace by refusing to shield them from the violence and grotesque brokenness of a world in need of a savior. In the face of Covid-19, I believe this is now our calling, too.

What if this pandemic is offering us as Christians an opportunity to show the world not how to avoid human pain, but how to process it with honesty, endurance, sacrifice, Christ-like compassion, and most importantly, the hope of eternal life offered in Jesus Christ?

Normally, in these articles, my thoughts would end here. If you’ve had your fill, stop now! If, on the other hand, you want one (admittedly technology-addicted person’s) practical suggestion for moving into the days ahead, read on. It’s actually just one word.

“Grieve because, “Jesus wept.” This verse of Scripture, infamous for its brevity, is a profound statement about dealing with tragedy honestly as the beloved people of God.”

Grieve.

Grieve because the overwhelming presence of laments in the book of Psalms, more than any other genre, are instructive for us in all times of life, but especially during a global human crisis. Psalm 4, for instance, is a Psalm of Lament prayed in the liturgy of Compline right before sleep.

Grieve because, “Jesus wept.” This verse of Scripture, infamous for its brevity, is a profound statement about dealing with tragedy honestly as the beloved people of God. Be sure to read the context of the verse- that wonderfully moving story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Incidentally (providentially) this was the gospel story assigned to be read in many churches all around the world this past Sunday, March 29th!

Finally, grieve because sadness is what healthy humans do with tragedy in a fallen world. Grieving evil will actually move you toward sanity, toward healthy relationships, and toward intimacy with God.

I’ll leave you with these encouraging words from author, Mike Mason, in his work, Practicing the Presence of People, about the nature of grief:

Sadness signals change…It is an intermediate emotion, a feeling that is going somewhere. Like a seventh or a ninth chord in music, it is rich in subtle tones that tend toward resolution, lean toward home. This is what distinguishes sadness from moroseness, self-pity, or depression, all of which have a feeling of stuckness. Sadness is always in motion in the backfield. You will know the real thing by this sense of movement toward happiness. In photographs, crying and laughing are hard to tell apart.

Sadness is like that moment in a rainstorm when the rain has not yet stopped, but there is a perceptible brightening, and there comes that subtle change in the atmosphere signifying the imminence of a rainbow. Sadness is hopeful. Anger feels hard in the body, fear feels alien, and depression is like a dull poison. But sadness is at home in flesh and blood. It is a soft and relaxed presence, a comfortable garment for the heart.

Christ In My Heart, in My Mind, in Ten Thousand Places

THIS ARTICLE WAS FIRST WRITTEN FOR AND PUBLISHED BY BREAKPOINT.

As a kid in church I remember singing, ad nauseam, “I’ve got that joy, joy, joy… where? Down in my heart.” So, one day I prayed that Jesus Christ would come into my life, but then I wondered where he would live. And my childlike theology answered, “Oh, right. Down in my heart.”

As I grew to an adolescent, I asked a Sunday School teacher how I would know God’s will for my life, particularly the important things like whether I should date Lindsay, from the 9th grade, and he told me, “Pray and you’ll know in your heart what God wants you to do.”

Now, it’s easy to poke fun at this kind of thinking, but this focus on my heart as an essential and precious lesson for any young Christian. It is a lesson evangelicalism teaches well in its songs, prayers, preaching, and culture. It’s one I’m grateful to have learned.

Unfortunately, in my context, this lesson was matched with an equal disinterest in anything outside of my heart. The physical stuff around me, for example, was apparently going to hell in a hand-basket, and Christians were just a-passin’ through this world on our way to heaven. We learned that if we turned our eyes on Jesus, the things of earth would “grow strangely dim.”

In other words, by age ten, I was a Christian with a more or less Gnostic understanding of the Christian faith. As I saw it then, my relationship with God belonged to the spiritual, not the physical, world.

Christ In My Mind

Eight years later, I attended a Christian college where I was introduced to Christian thinkers like C.S. Lewis, John Piper, and the Westminster Divines. I experienced a new (and needed) lesson about faith that A.W. Tozer sums up well in his often-quoted line, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.”

Majoring in Bible, I took courses on epistemology and theological method, and participated in late-night dorm room discussions on the Five Points of Calvinism. It was invigorating and fresh and I was happy to be exercising these new “muscles” in the mental gymnastics of theology. In fact, this brave, new, intellectual world of Christianity gave my faith a new lease on life, especially since my typically tumultuous adolescent experience had left me cynical of my “heart.”

By the time I got to seminary my heart loved Jesus, and my mind wanted to know Him, but the rest of me, and the rest of the world, was still nowhere to be found in my faith. The gnostic dualism of physical against spiritual was very much alive.

Christ In Ten Thousand Places

Near the end of seminary, I read the late Eugene Peterson’s book, Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places. The book’s words deeply impacted me. Peterson took his title from this poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

I say móre: the just man justices; Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is — Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

[To hear a great conversation between Eugene Peterson and Ken Myers about Peterson’s book, go here.]

Also, around this time, I began visiting churches whose liturgies reflected the more embodied theology and practices of the ancient Church. The sensory experiences of liturgical worship matched what I had learned from Peterson: Jesus Christ is not just in my heart and mind; He’s in my body, and in ten thousand other physical places in this world, “Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his.” Wasn’t this the point of His incarnation?

Altogether, this meant that, finally, for the first time in my Christian life, the existence of the physical world was no longer extra, or mundane, or some kind of danger to my spiritual life. Instead, I realized, it was sacramental, full of the grace and meaning given to it by Christ’s incarnation! All water suddenly became a reminder of my baptism. All bread and all wine were now reminders that God became man to make all things- visible and invisible- new.

In the end, my journey of discovering Christ in ten thousand places found its way into a song. You can hear it below.