Crises tend to reveal who we are and what we believe. And that goes for the church as well. Consider these two examples.
I recently read a message from a local pastor about the COVID-19 outbreak. Did the pastor take the opportunity to delve into the deep spiritual, theological challenges confronting us in this time of need?
Well, not exactly. Mostly the message was a plea that we recognize our interconnectedness, especially to the global community. The climax of the message focused on the central issue of our day – the sin of wrongly identifying the epidemic as “the Chinese virus.”
As if an afterthought, the discussion then turned to various disciplines the faithful can undertake during this time of social distancing. There was a suggested prayer that involves “relaxing” and “deep breathing” while intoning the phrase, “We are grateful for life.” We were advised to “stay calm” and get physical exercise. At least there was the suggestion we read the lectionary and perhaps sing a few hymns.
Though not entirely unhelpful, much like a self-help book, the overall effect was a bit light on theological reflection. In fact, what seemed to energize the pastor most, expending by far the most ink, was the thinly veiled political protest against what the virus should be called.
The second example occurred at the beginning of the church shutdowns in mid-March, and came in the form of a mass email to a group of us local pastors. The purpose of the email was to alert us to a short book written by a colleague, quickly rushed to print, focusing on what the church’s response to the epidemic should be. Subsequent hosannas lifted up to the author were both emphatic and across the board.
A few days later, I got another email urging me to view this pastor’s video presentations on the same subject. I decided to give it a try.
The topic of the first (and only) video I watched had to do with whether our churches should be open or not. It was a topic in which I had interest. Unfortunately things in short order took an ugly turn.
Rather than a theological discussion about the implications of closing our churches, it instead featured a condescending critique of those Christians who think God will protect them from getting sick if they gather for worship. In making his case, the pastor quotes Jesus’ statement about the rain falling on the just and the unjust alike. No, God will not protect Christians from the virus if they gather to worship.
Now I don’t know about you, but this burning question really hadn’t registered on my list of weighty concerns. In fact, I would submit that virtually nobody thinks like this, certainly not anyone I’ve ever met. (I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about snake-handling, either.)
In the end, the video struck me as yet another opportunity for a mainline pastor to grind yet another political axe. In this case, the project was to attack those who make up a tiny and insignificant fraction of fundamentalist Christianity, and in the process tarring one and all.
For his efforts, our valiant video star was lauded for his courageous stance against what is essentially a straw man argument. Nonetheless, in exultant victory, all could be comfortably assured of their inner, pharisaic preeminence.
The fact that this video was universally lauded by the clergy, especially at a time when the church has an obligation to address serious spiritual concerns, suggests that political virtue-signaling among today’s mainline clergy takes precedence over theology, or at least any theology of depth or meaning.
“When we’re suddenly dealt the black card of the Grim Reaper,” writes German sociologist, Gabriele Kuby, “questions invariably go beyond the realm of the visible. The conscience wakes up. The question of God has been muffled by prosperity, but suddenly it’s not so easy to ignore.”
“For decades,” she laments, “we have been taught a wishy-washy gospel that attracts ever fewer believers out of the cozy drowsiness of prosperity.” Bingo!
So what does one get from our wishy-washy mainline church? Anodyne bromides concerning the misappropriation of virus names and bland appeals to global citizenship. This is to say nothing of the smug ridicule toward “those” kinds of Christians. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, many are wrestling with newly found spiritual questions.
After decades of accommodating to the spirit of the times, the church, in knee-jerk fashion, passively defers to the secular “experts,” those in medicine, government, and the media. It is they who are to be our reliable guides through these unsettling times.
With our doors shuttered and our sanctuaries darkened, the church once again proves its impotence, devoid of any spiritual or theological authority to which people might turn when questions move “beyond the visible.”
These same authorities tell us that liquor stores and, in some states, pot shops are “essential services,” but not the church. For our part, we meekly submit to their rule under the cover of “science” and a self-regarding sort of “prudence,” as if we are no more than obedient, apple-polishing teachers’ pets.
Fortunately, not all church leaders have adopted this pose. I recently came across a brilliant essay by the Reformed theologian, Hans Boersma, entitled, “Meditating on COVID-19,” where he effectively places our current crisis into Christian relief.
He reminds us that we have entered that part of Lent that properly focuses on Jesus’ Passion, on his suffering and death. But due to our current preoccupations with suffering and death during this coronavirus epidemic, we have left Jesus’ out, concentrating strictly on our own.
Complicating matters is the fact that in our secular culture “nothing is worse (and more to be avoided) than pain and suffering.”
“The media frenzy attending to the current pandemic,” he writes, “stems largely from our cultural addiction to economic and physical well-being as ultimate goods.” Thus, to enter Jesus’ passion is largely “alien to our most deeply held cultural axioms. Maximize pleasure and minimize pain.”
Boersma is careful to reject the idea that we should be cavalier about the “evil” of this virus or the suffering it causes, but “in order to rightly understand our present sufferings, we must reflect upon Christ’s.”
Consider the death of Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha, whom Jesus ultimately resurrects. Boersma meditates on two powerful words within this account: “Jesus Wept.”
He points out that Jesus’ tears are not just for Lazarus, Mary, Martha, or the entire community who is trying to console them. His tears are for all of them. And all of us. For a whole world filled with sickness and death, for those who weep and mourn everywhere.
Boersma also comments on the intensity of Jesus’ emotional upheaval. Rather than being “deeply moved,” as most modern translations have it, Boersma notes that Jesus’ suffering comes closer to the original Greek term implying a “bristling, snorting stallion.” Here Jesus takes on all the injustice and suffering of this world. And he is both grieved and angry! He weeps for nothing less “than the pooled passion of the entire human race.”
But therein lies a counter-story. It can be seen in Ezekiel’s account of the valley of dry bones, i.e. the mass graves of the exiles. “They cry out from the depths” (de profundis) of the psalmist’s iniquities (Psalm 130),” and “speak of slavery to sin (Romans 6).” When Jesus weeps, he weeps “for all of this.”
Yet hear now the Good News: “Dry bones come to life when the Spirit of God breathes on them. Iniquities are forgiven when the Lord sends redemption to Israel. And slaves of sin become slaves of righteousness when in faith and baptism we are united to Christ Jesus.”
In each instance we encounter “resurrection hope beyond passion and death. Jesus’ tears are a promise that grief of illness and death will be overcome by joy of life eternal.”
Thus, Jesus’ are not “tears of impotence. They are tears of God. And when God weeps, we may be sure our passion is about to yield to resurrection.”
Boersma concludes: “Our deliberation on the current crisis is futile – counterproductive, in fact – apart from deliberation on the passion and death of our Savior. Our suffering lies encapsulated in his suffering, our weeping in his weeping.”
“Our meditation, too, should be encapsulated in his. For only by meditating on Jesus’ passion are we united to his meditation on our passion.”