In the springtime, we customarily think of renewal as the bursting forth of new life, a time of enthusiasm and exuberance at the end of a long winter, but in the seasons of human life there’s sometimes a fine line between renewal and simple survival. It’s not that many generations ago that it was a real achievement for our ancestors to make it through to the end of winter, as their provisions rapidly depleted, and begin planting anew for one more earthly orbit around the sun.
Today, as the world struggles to survive a global pandemic, a satisfactory renewal might look like a simple restoration of normalcy. For most of us alive today, we are living through a time of unprecedented challenges. We are discovering how thin the veneer of prosperity really is, how fleeting good health can be, and how fragile our human efforts to dominate the earth when nature pushes back. For many, it is hard to keep up their spirits through all the uncertainty and threats to the comfort we may have known.
“When we finally escape the darkness and stumble into the light, it is tempting to tell others that our hope never flagged, to deny those long nights we spent cowering in fear,” writes Parker J. Palmer. Most people I know are currently gripped by the fear of disease, the pain of social isolation, the stress of economic uncertainty, and the anxiety of not knowing what to expect in the days, weeks, and even months ahead.
(I say most because I’m painfully aware that some people are oblivious to the danger, careless in their behaviours, and opportunistic in calculating how they might capitalize on the crisis for their own benefit. While some extreme religious groups continue to gather in the flesh, imperilling the health and welfare of their members and surrounding communities, most have moved worship online, exploiting the marvels of modern communications technology to continue their ministries while keeping everyone safe.)
With Easter only a week away, responsible Christian churches around the world have suspended Sunday services in an effort to stem the tide of infection. And liberal congregations like this one, which carry on the Easter tradition while vesting this ancient holiday with new meanings, are rightfully struggling with sometimes glib reinterpretations of the resurrection as a time of natural, seasonal renewal. In early March, Pope Francis announced that he would not be reciting his Sunday message from the window of his study in St. Peter’s Square but instead he live-streamed it to the world from the Library of the Apostolic Palace. The pope understands the difference between faith and foolishness. Congregations of every kind are using social media and other electronic means to remain spiritually connected while maintaining a safe physical distance. Families are doing the same. This year, Easter will be unlike any we have known before.
In most places, public gatherings of more than 50 people have been banned and those that conform to this limit must be in spaces where safe physical distance can be maintained. Social gatherings of more than 10 are actively discouraged – banned in some places – and, in contrast to washing the feet of others in the spirit of Jesus, rigorous hand washing is encouraged. The Last Supper wouldn’t be considered safe this year. Then again, it wasn’t exactly safe two millennia ago.
Whether you believe the biblical witness literally, or consider it to be a legend (as I do), the point of the Easter story is that there is hope and renewal on the other side of life’s bleakest moments. So while we’re trapped in our homes and physically isolated from our neighbours, I’m waiting for this year’s resurrection. And after it comes – as it will – that renewal, that sense of rebirth – I won’t pretend that I wasn’t scared during the long nights of waiting.
Alas, some things will never change. The COVID-19 pandemic is one of those historical events that will be used as a benchmark of time for a generation to come. Perhaps longer. Who would have thought that we would be looking back to learn from the influenza epidemic of 1918 more than a century later. As some say, history doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes. And when this happens, we sometimes lose things – from casual assumptions to deeply held convictions – things that can never be reclaimed. Some things cannot be renewed.
Among the things that bring me grief is the realization that my regard for some people will likely never recover when this pandemic is over. I lament that. It is a terrible loss to bear, countered only by the realization that my admiration for others has grown. That’s a renewal of sorts – finding new people and new ideas to believe in.
In fact, I’ve discovered that some people are quite amazing. And some possibilities I’d never considered before bring me hope. “You may not always have a comfortable life and you will not always be able to solve all of the world’s problems at once,” cautions Michelle Obama, “but don’t ever underestimate the importance you can have because history has shown us that courage can be contagious and hope can take on a life of its own.” That’s true even in times of despair – in fact, it’s especially obvious in such times.
In his book The Wisdom of Pelicans, which he wrote following a personal indiscretion that cost him his career, Donald McCullough advised that, “Personal renewal, the enlargement of our lives into greater wholeness, must embrace the entirety of our existence—our failures as well as our achievements, the good as well as the bad.”
Somewhere within failure and disappointment, and even fear, there is a hidden strength – seeds of possibility and hope waiting to burst forth. As Émile Durkheim put it, that hidden strength might “explode from within” and usher in a renewal that is greater than we dared to hope. But first we must make it through the time of crisis.
To understand Durkheim’s words more fully, he said: “When this ultimate crisis comes ... when there is no way out – that is the very moment when we explode from within and the totally other emerges: the sudden surfacing of a strength, a security of unknown origin, welling up from beyond reason, rational expectation, and hope.”
And Durkheim was the only person to see this. “We don't even know how strong we are until we are forced to bring that hidden strength forward,” wrote Isabel Allende in her memoir, My Invented Country. “In times of tragedy, of war, of necessity, people do amazing things. The human capacity for survival and renewal is awesome.”
But such renewal doesn’t happen by accident. It takes intentionality. And it often turns out that the amazing is grounded in the everyday and ordinary – in our capacity to remain as calm as calm as we can be and to create normalcy in abnormal conditions. And so it was that, early on, I decided to treat the demand for self-isolation like the longest blizzard of my life – a kind of stay-at-home field trip. So far it seems to be going rather well; I hope it’s going well for all of you.
Now, I’ve been working from home for the better part of three decades, so that part of life hasn’t changed much for me. As it turns out, having transitioned from ministry to journalism, with the presses still running and the web still operating, I’m working as hard as ever these days. With events changing by the hour, it’s all I can do to keep up. So I continue to work, but I won’t complain – because many people, who have given their all to their careers, find themselves at home without work.
Notwithstanding the fact that I am now a part of the news media myself, I have learned to avoid obsessively watching the news. I have been trying to turn away from my television and, in the interests of normalcy and renewal, I would encourage others to do the same.
I am listening to music these days, having dug out compact discs I didn’t remember I had, made by musicians I don’t recall hearing. I’ve been listening to those while also viewing music videos online. And I’ve been making music of my own, too. Those of you who know me know that I have a collection of ukuleles, among other instruments, and although I’m no virtuoso, by a long shot, I do love to sing accompanied by my ukulele. So pick up one of my ukes more frequently and sing a song or two to pass the time.
I’ve been watching more movies in my efforts to avoid obsessive news watching. I’ve focused on movies I’ve been planning to watch for sometime – even decades, it seems – on Netflix and DVD, enjoying the stories they tell – some distracting, some deepening, some inspiring. I’ve tried to avoid the apocalyptic horror genre, although there was a film from the margins of that genre, Bokeh, which I watched because it was set in Iceland with all of that country’s natural beauty.
I’ve been reading books and magazines – again, some volumes I forgot I had – finding comfort and wisdom in their passages, which offers meaning and hope during these difficult days.
I’ve dipped into studying the Icelandic language – again – and, while I’m not very good at language studies, I figured this might be a good time to focus. For others, perhaps it’s French or Spanish, Tagalog or Swahili, that you’ve been meaning to study. Now may be a good time to dig out your old books and recordings, or send away for mail order materials. I’ve been talking with friends on the phone – longer and deeper conversations than the ones we have when other distractions impinge upon our time. Those who call know that I won’t be able to evade them and pretend that I wasn’t home at the time.
Like many others who have been anxious to step outside, I’ve been going for walks, which is good for my health, both physical and spiritual. I’ve been taking care to maintain appropriate physical distancing while passing others, although its still possible to exchange greetings from a safe distance. I do wish that people would walk on the “correct” side of the street, though, which would help everyone pass safely. It’s surprising – and refreshing – to see how many people are out on the streets. I’ve noticed neighbours walk by who I’ve never seen outside of their cars.
This coming week, I plan to do some spring cleaning, the likes of which my house has never seen before.
As events and gatherings have been cancelled, out of necessity, I have been trying to honour the cancellations, which is to say that I am pausing to consider the meaning of an event, even if the gathering to mark it cannot proceed. In those cases where I was invited to speak, I’ve decided to write the speeches anyway. Where an anniversary is involved, I’m taking time to reflect on its significance. These things that I’ve continued doing – or have resumed doing – are all attempts to maintain a sense of normalcy.
Finally, I’m planning a garden this year, after many years of doing nothing more than nurturing a few container plants. I have the seeds already, but I’ve not gotten around to putting a spade or garden fork into the ground, turning the soil, and planting the seeds. This year will be different and my “victory garden” will bloom.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been watching the snow disappear, as the days grew warmer and sunlight grew brighter. I was heartened to see the rabbits and squirrels become more active, while the deer wandered about, envying their ability to stay in touch with their own kind. I found myself racing to the window to watch people walking their dogs – or their kids – strolling along with more enthusiasm than I’ve seen in a long time. In fact, notwithstanding the need to self-isolate, I’ve seen more people out and about on foot than I can ever remember. Instead of cars driving by, I’m seeing people go by – sauntering or strolling, power-walking or jogging – looking up and around, even as they keep their distance. The number of birds in the yard grew with each passing day and I was lured outside – alone but not quite alone – to enjoy the fresh air and wave to passing neighbours. In fact, for the first time in my life, it seems, it’s no longer rude and anti-social to yell across the street at the neighbours. Living under a flight path, as I do, I’ve been struck by how much quieter my neighbourhood is, with only the occasional plane overhead, leaving space for the sounds of the nature that are so often drowned out by the sounds of human activity and technology. Maybe the earth is renewing itself while we take a time out.
And then it snowed again. And even though I had grown fond of the still-brown grass and blue skies that precede the arrival of spring, in earnest, it was nice to see the crisp, white snow like a clean blanket over the ground. You’ll note that I refrained from calling it the last snowfall of winter, since I know better than to tempt fate. But during the coming week or two, I look forward to seeing the white snow melt into green as the earth takes its tentative, wobbling steps into spring.
Whether we realize it or not, we are entering a hard-won time of renewal this year and, as always, Earth will have its way. We have been humbled, to be sure, kept at home because even the tiniest virus can command us if the conditions are right, and this year all of Earth’s creatures will emerge from their winter isolation before we do, from the celebrated groundhog to the last goose that arrives to our marshes. So even though our springtime renewal is delayed this year – and may well be next year, too – the Earth is renewing itself fine. We would do well to watch closely and treasure the Earth for its never-failing renewal in the spring. If we watch closely enough, the Earth may teach us what we need to know. As Wendell Berry says: “To cherish what remains of the Earth and to foster its renewal is our only legitimate hope of survival.”
A sermon delivered online for the First Unitarian Universalist Church of Winnipeg.
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