Covid-19 has interrupted our lives. It has shifted the way we work, the way we go to school, the way we shop, the way we vacation, the way we go out to eat. (OK, who has gone out to eat? Takeout is nice, but…). It has shifted the way we go to church.
As a pastor that is of particular interest. It means that my sermon has to be ready earlier in the week so we can record it. It means shifting the “look” so that the service “works” on a computer screen rather than on a podium. It means preaching to an empty sanctuary. Even worse it means imagining the faces of children during our children’s time.
In short, Covid-19 has changed our lives.
But has it also changed our deaths?
Last week I had the opportunity to celebrate the life of a woman who had had such an impact on our community and area. In normal times our sanctuary would have been packed. We would have had an overflow room. Following the service there would have been a reception with food and drinks and hugs. Lots of hugs. It is how we mourn in Nova Scotia.
But now….
A service in the sanctuary is impossible. There is a limit on the size of gatherings. Sharing food? Hugs?
Fortunately for the family the size limit was loosened just days before the graveside service. Now there could be 15 people; 16 if you add in the officiant. That meant that a few more family members, a few more friends could attend. Unfortunately family members in another province were prohibited.
So we gathered to say goodbye.
I had two thoughts. How is this virus going to affect the way we grieve? What does it do to the larger community who can no longer take part in the “sacrament of the casserole?” How do we express our grief when we can’t hug, when we can’t be physically present? What does it mean to the grief process when the funeral service for the larger community is delayed months? Is there closure, or does that grief just linger, unresolved.
There is something about our rituals that are important. One of the tasks of the church may be helping us create new ways of marking time, of remembering what is sacred.
The other thought was personal. Ministerial persona is a topic we often talk about. I recall my first visit to a hospital room during seminary. I introduced myself and the patient said, “Oh thank goodness! Because you are here, God is here!” I tried to explain the difference, but it was a recognition that for many the presence of a minister does signify the presence of God.
Last week, in that cemetery on the banks of the river, with just a few people gathered, I also was reminded that I was signifying the presence of that “great cloud of witnesses,” who were unable to be physically present.
I pray I was a worthy representative.