Welcome
Each week one of our pastors or staff members writes a column observing what is going on in our congregation, the Church and the world, and offering reflections on the Christian life and faith. Through this series of columns, we hope to connect your and our story to the enduring story of Christ; to offer pastoral reflections on our ongoing congregational life and mission; to report on news of the Presbyterian Church and Church universal; and to invite further reflection and deeper discipleship. We welcome your comments and suggestions. In other words, our words here are an invitation to continue the conversation.
Early on in the pandemic, a few of the pastors searched through our church archives for information about how Bryn Mawr Presbyterian Church weathered the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918. Did the church shut down for an extended period of time? How did our congregation respond to the needs of those most deeply impacted by the disease?
In the first week of the church’s pandemic shut down this past March, I wrote about the removal of the Resurrection Window from the east transept of the Sanctuary. On my daily walks from our manse to the church offices, the sight of that window being removed became a metaphor for my grief and uncertainty about the unfolding pandemic season. I wrote back then, “The removal of that treasured window, and all that it symbolizes for us, felt like adding insult to injury just now a few weeks before Easter.”
We are about to head into month nine of the pandemic in the United States. It seems rather shocking to look back and realize we’ve been navigating social distancing, masking, virtual worship services and programs for nine months. I was ordained in November of 2019, and we’re now in November 2020 — meaning the majority of my ordained ministry has taken place during COVID-19. It’s been a unique first year in ordained ministry, to say the least.
I wonder if you are beginning to have the conversation in your home that we just started having in ours: It is the “What will Christmas look like this year?” conversation. As a family, we will be staying at home. My parents, who usually arrive before the holiday to stay with us on Christmas morning, will not be traveling here this year. We will not leave on December 26 to fly to northern Minnesota to be with my husband’s family to enjoy our favorite north woods activities of cross country skiing and snowshoeing on the lake.
On this Thursday morning as I write these words, the contest for the presidency is still underway. It seems like my cell phone vibrates about every five minutes while friends and colleagues text, tweet or email emerging data from a county in North Carolina or Georgia where I used to live. I am grateful for them because I have work to do, and while passionately interested in the outcome, I don’t have the mental or spiritual wherewithal to be so enmeshed in each minute movement forward toward a decision.
This Sunday, we observe All Saints Sunday, that day when we remember the loved ones who have joined the company of saints over the past year. Tragically, this year is particularly difficult, given the pandemic that has kept us separate from one another, and especially for those who lost a loved one during a time in which communal remembrances have been nearly impossible.
National upheaval is stressful. Within its current comes uncertainty, change and a polarization of the populous, frequently fracturing families and friends. Conversations become dangerous as a mere word can spark a firestorm of debate and condemnation. The only true guarantee is that people will hurt one another – physically, emotionally, spiritually – and that the nation, perhaps even the world, will change.
