I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.
Churches in Gladlyville received permission to distribute Holy Communion this week. We listened to the liturgy livestream in the parking lot, and then lined up: at least six feet apart, wearing masks, sanitizing our hands at the entrance to the church, moving briskly back to our vehicles to make our acts of thanksgiving there. I was not sure how this would go. All my life I have been a person who is cautious about new things, and this whole situation is one long concatenation of weird new things.
My lover speaks and says to me, "Arise, my friend, my beautiful one, and come!"
On the way to church I was reminded forcefully of two long-ago experiences. The first happened above Glasgow, on the September morning in 1998 when we arrived for our two-year stay in Edinburgh. The morning sun was dazzling, but below us was a heavy bank of gray cloud. I had been worried about moving to a rainy climate because the sun (or its absence) has such a huge effect on my mood, and I told myself firmly, "Don't forget, when you are down below those ugly clouds, that up here the sun is glorious and the skies are bluest blue. What you experience doesn't determine what is."
The second happened in early 2007. It was the first year of my doctoral program, and I was worried: mostly about money, during that season when I was part-time and unfunded, but also about how to be a good mother and a good doctoral student at the same time, and about what an academic future could possibly look like for me. My oldest son asked me to take him to a local concert, where one of the performers was Vicky Beeching. One of her songs shook something loose in me, reminded me that I did not need to fret and be afraid. I remember thinking, "Oh, it's you! It's you! How could I have forgotten that you are always with me?"
I had that same jolt of recognition this morning: it's YOU, always present, only hidden for a time.
Let me see your face, let me hear your voice. For your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.
This pandemic has reminded me that we are made to be together with other human beings-- to share their air, to make contact, to connect. This has been true from the very beginning of our existence: it is not good for man to be alone. I did not know how glad I would be to see our church family again, even briefly and behind masks. I did not know how glad I would be to come back to that beautiful consecrated space, where one day we will worship together again.
For see, the winter is past, the rains are over and gone.
I did know how glad I would be to receive the Eucharist again. I was worried that I would ugly-cry when our pastor placed the Eucharist in my hand (an advantage to mask-wearing, though, is that nobody can see if your nose is running), but I did not. I mostly kept it together until we were back in the car praying the Anima Christi together. "Suffer me not to be separated from you" -- that's the line that did me in.
The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines, in bloom, give forth fragrance.
During this season with no communal worship I have told myself again and again that God is not constrained by the sacraments, and he still desires for us to know his presence and receive his grace. I have tried to be diligent in prayer, to dig deeper into Scripture in these days when there have been no public Masses. Only two days ago I was posting unsympathetically about heedless demands for the return of public Masses.
But oh-- there is nothing like the Eucharist. I have been staring at this screen for a while now, thinking about how I might be able to explain that better, but maybe I'll just steer you to St. Thomas Aquinas instead. It is hope and strength and lightness of heart; it is the food that transforms us into the "aroma of Christ."
Let him lead me to the banquet hall, and let his banner over me be love.
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