On Wednesday, March 11, I changed the text and went off script, having decided the lectionary was not the way to go on this odd Sunday when the news changed not by the day, but by the hour. I would preach from 1 Corinthians 12, I decided. I will talk about the one body, our interconnectedness and our need to use whatever gifts God gave us during this perilous time. I rewrote the liturgy. I did the exegetical work. I prayed for the Spirit to give the most needed words. Then things changed again, and news came that worship would be canceled. The church where I was to preach would not meet in person and would, in the weeks following, go digital. The pastor of this church did all the right things: communicating, reassuring, consulting the session, sending out next steps to the flock. I shelved my partially written sermon.
Sunday morning arrived and I felt unmoored. Actually, Saturday evening came, and I already felt upended. I had nowhere I needed to be on Sunday morning. My pre-Sabbath anxiety was altogether different than the normal does-the-sermon-stink jitters. I worried for our world. I thought about the stalwart church people, those first to arrive, the ones who get the coffee going and those last to leave, the ones who tidy the pew racks and double-check the doors. I thought about the people reeling from recent losses and the ones for whom Sunday morning afforded community and connection in an otherwise solitary week. I considered our demographic statistics and how unmatched it seemed for words like Zoom and livestreaming. When Sunday morning dawned, I walked aimlessly around my house remembering other Sundays when I’d felt like a kid cutting class because I didn’t have worship responsibilities and chose to forgo church. On the third Sunday of Lent, however, I felt bereft and at loose ends.
I know some have expressed worry that our necessary move to virtual church will only accelerate our technological isolation or the decline in church participation. Only time will reveal the consequences of these extraordinary circumstances. I wonder if, in fact, this season of unknown length where we must foster connection and care through social distancing will instead teach us of the unique value of singing together in the sanctuary, passing the peace with a hug, sharing our prayer concerns aloud while looking into each other’s eyes, sitting beside the squirming child or the bored teenager in the pew and receiving the bread and cup from the hand of our sibling in Christ.
As one of those late adopters (and adapters) to technology, I confess wholeheartedly my gratitude for the internet, my laptop, my cellphone and, Lord, I never thought I’d say this, social media. That Sunday of my not preaching, I worshiped with National Presbyterian Church in Washington, D.C. The livestream had a delay from time to time. At one point the video stopped and I had to log off and rejoin the service. The cavernous, empty sanctuary brought forth feelings of sadness, but when the organ played and the camera zoomed in on the cross, my heart rate slowed a bit. When I saw the row of pastors in their Geneva gowns and purple stoles, I felt relief at the familiarity of the garb and some of the faces. When the small group of musicians and singers stood and sang as if to packed pews with utter sincerity and passion, I found myself comforted as I sat alone at my dining room table. Blessedly, the preacher spoke with calm confidence in the power of God and with an acknowledgement of our real and justified fear.
When it came time for the pastoral prayer, I bowed my head as my family milled around the house, less angst ridden about this Sabbath disruption than me. (Imagine that.) The minister said the familiar words about praying as Jesus taught — and as I hesitated, reticent to recite them without the communion of saints surrounding me physically, I heard my high school senior puttering around the kitchen begin, “Our Father, who art in heaven.” That’s when I wept, reminded of the irresistible power and pull of these ancient words, of worship, of the one body, the church, no matter where or how or when it gathers.
