Looking Beyond the Jagged Places

journeying out of pandemic mode.

There are those admirable souls for whom the pandemic isolation and lockdowns provided ample time and space for catching up on scads of untapped productivity. I am not one of those admirable souls :) At various times, the isolation and lockdowns felt to me like imprisonment … reminding me of feeling locked in and trapped behind double sets of grills covering the windows of my childhood - a necessary evil of growing up in post-1970’s era of violent elections in Jamaica.

Those aforementioned admirable souls who got their closets and cupboards organized, learnt a new musical instrument, began a new fitness program, or picked up a second/third/nth language did leave me feeling somewhat inadequate during the more jagged parts of the pandemic. My scads of untapped productivity are just now beginning to tap with tentative beak on the inside of the shell within which I exist, tapping, tapping and longing to be hatched out into the world. In part this is what my writing here is about … hatching that untapped productivity.

For me, those lockdown and isolation times were hard and scary and exhausting - sometimes all at once, sometimes in turns. The pandemic lockdowns turned out for me to be a crucible of sorts, with the pandemic itself like the bunsen burner beneath, slowly melting away any semblance of control I thought I had in life, leaving behind some things that refused to melt away, refused to be evaporated despite the scorching I was going through. The call to ministry is one of the things that refused to be evaporated! Pandemic lockdown was a severely jagged place for me … and now I am able to see beyond that place.

Ministry in the pandemic lockdown era time felt particularly hell-ish to me … varieties of perspectives on how best to use the time as congregational communities in turn broke my heart and irked my soul, with what felt like small breaks of blessing in between - islands of fast-melting ice, under the heat of those intent on rushing us back into church as though, there alone, could encounter with Divine be confidently accessed.

We wanted to be together, to worship together, in person and we also wanted to keep each other safe. These goals I understood. I did not understand the willingness to be passive and inert to the needs of others while we lived in relative safety and comfort as Christians: isolated, sheltered, fed, clothed and warm in a world of suffering.

I did not understand the lethargy and inertia of witness especially as those living marginally grew in numbers and became increasingly visible as shelters too required safe distancing … I could not fathom the Christian ethics of delaying decision-making on use of our church buildings, kept warm and dry for nobody for two long pandemic winters when so many were living rough, living on the streets, or marginally housed.

The persistence of there being “no room in the inn” while Jesus lived outdoors - this persistence bewildered me especially when the so-called houses of God were empty, yet heated, with internet and water and hydro still being paid. Was it that there was no room in these inns? Was it that we had come to think within the box of one definition of “sanctuary” as worship space … rather than the understanding of sanctuary as safe space for those in need?

What happened to the people of church during those lockdown winters? How did we connect in person when we were not allowed to gather? Many looked forward to alternate ways to safely be community - meetings were held on porches and patios, visits involved step-counts and mapping out trails that would keep us walking long enough to cover the ground we needed to cover: ground of our souls, our ministry as well as our feet. Traveling with my lawn chair became habit, the shelter of trees and shady back yards becoming parlours for us to unpack our experiences of pandemic chaos.

Our inertia and our lethargy was part of the jagged place that ministry became during this stage of the pandemic for me. Writhing about like an afflicted creature trying to find a comfortable roost, a sustainable posture in which my privilege could be put to good service, I left ministry for 7 months. I entered the supportive housing industry, trying to find a way to connect again. But the context was intently secular. I missed so deeply the language and movements of the collectively lived faith.

So, like the son who left home with his inheritance in that story (I do not think of him necessarily as the prodigal son, for one could just as well argue for the prodigality of the son who stayed in the lavish shelter and safety of his father’s home, especially if a pandemic was afoot during the time in question), I returned, having emptied my spiritual-food sack completely, not with reckless living, not with wasteful existence, but with an existence that had become too empty of faith, overfull of works and hungry for grace and refill. I had eaten corncobs from the pig pen. I was willing to come on bended knee back to the father’s house.

I was fortunate to be received with welcoming arms, back home to so many communities of faith that my cup overflowed … to where I now, on typical Sundays, enjoy and celebrate the remembrance meal not just once, but three times over … the body of Christ, broken for me … the blood of Christ, shed for me.

And finally I am able to see past the jagged places of the pandemic, to the blue sky on the horizon, cotton-balled with clouds, and the view is stunning from here. And I am thankful for the grace that sustained me as I wandered, and then welcomed me home.