Guest commentary by Nancy Jo Dederer
In mid-March 2020, late night television hosts found themselves in a new situation. No live audience. No professional camera or sound crew. The theater went dark. Suddenly, we were invited into the hosts’ living room, children’s playroom and sound-proofed gárages (emphasis on the first syllable to honor James Cordon!). Young daughters drew signs, teenage sons worked the camera and spouses sat on the side, giggling at the monologues and keeping the dog out of the picture.
Stephen Colbert, Jimmy Fallon and the rest desperately missed “their people,” and took to interviewing guests from a distance on Zoom. And all the time they wondered if their jokes were receiving laughs from an audience they could neither see nor hear, but had to trust were tuning in like always.
We heard from them how difficult it was to keep up the nightly energy and how awkward they felt when there was no one there to share the experience. But they kept going throughout the year. And when they were tired and needed a break, on came the reruns!
My heart goes out to you, late night hosts! I know how you feel. Really, I do. On March 13, the decree was made, and Sunday, March 15, the sanctuary went dark. No in-person worship. We had the weekend – scratch that – half a weekend to figure out how to provide online worship for the flock that Sunday.
Pastors were thrust into the role of preacher, producer and tech support with little experience and no equipment beyond a smartphone.
Hey, Honey?! Do you mind if I redecorate the mantle with a cross, chalice and some theology books? It’s just for a couple weeks at most — til we get through the pandemic.
Now Son, I need your help taping the serv— Yes, Son. I know that “taping” is old-school and the proper term is “recording.”
Children, please stay out of the sanctuary while I’m recording the service. What? Oh, that’s right, this is your playroom. Kids! How would you like to read one of the Scriptures for worship today? This’ll be so much fun and really draw us together as a loving family!
This was the reality of many cherished colleagues. Physically distanced, we launched into the mystery of cyberspace. When the first few Facebook Live congregants typed a comment to announce their presence, our hearts swelled! The Spirit filled us and our worship began.
I agree with the TV hosts. It is strange to speak to an empty room. While preaching to the “invisible church” on the other side of the camera, I wondered:
Do you resonate with the message?
Does my silly little sermon illustration bring a chuckle and draw you in as I attempt to bring a word of the Lord to our hope-starved world?
When I say, “The peace of Christ be with you,” does anyone return the blessing?
For over a year, worshippers have sat in their bathrobes and fuzzy slippers, sipping coffee and eating pancakes with blueberry syrup as they tune in each week for the service. (And I know that more than one household drinks real wine for communion!)
Even more challenging than worship has been leading an anxious people from a distance. Church is so much about community — and yet, we could not gather in traditional ways when we’ve needed each other most. People have been fearful of catching the virus, fearful of their beloved church dying from not meeting, fearful that offerings will slacken, fearful that when we finally do return, things will be different — or things won’t have changed at all. Both equally disturbing.
Pastoral care has been a painful part of our ministry these long pandemic months. Visits were risky, and ministers were not welcome in the hospitals.
When in-person visitation was an absolute, spiritual necessary, we went masked and gloved.
A short Scripture.
A brief prayer — but no hand-holding.
The sacrament of Communion — a white, thin, tasteless wafer and a thimble-full of juice, packed tight in a sterile, disposable, plastic container (if only the lid peeled off more easily!) Jesus’ body. Jesus’ blood. Broken and shed for us. Even now. In our grief.
While we’ve masked up for safety, this coronavirus has unveiled our truest selves. The Body of Christ is tenacious. Energy, intelligence, imagination and love in action. The sanctuary may have been dark for over a year, yet the Light of Christ continues to shine.
So late night hosts everywhere, thanks for your presence this past year. But truly, you got nothin’ on us pastors. Oh wait, you’ve got reruns.
NANCY JO DEDERER lives in Greensboro, North Carolina, with her church musician husband, Chris, and their goldendoodle puppy, Nicholas. She serves as a transitional pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Lexington, North Carolina.
