"Deep Gloom Enshrouds the Nations" - Isaiah 60.1-3

"Arise, shine, for your light has come!" sings Isaiah in one of the canticles offered in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer for morning worship. I've loved this "Third Song of Isaiah" for its positive vision, so much a part of American history from 1630 onwards, of a people whose way of life is a light to the nations. [I've considered America through the lens of this canticle other times: Does God Bless America? (07/2017), and City on a Hill: Vision for America (06/2018)]

But these days, I've had to pause and shudder at the second verse:

For behold, darkness covers the land.
A deep gloom enshrouds the nations.

I'll admit that I, privileged to have a home, and work, and my health, have not felt so gloomy.

• My friend Jason has sent me a mask and daily updates of pandemic statistics that show some stabilization.
  
• My students have settled into a routine of writing for me and each other on a website discussion board and checking in for Zoom meetings that usually leave me feeling better for having seen and heard the kids.
  
• Brandy has loved having me home, and we take daily walks with our friend Susan.
  
• Caregivers at Arbor Terrace, plus Visiting Angels Laura and others, keep Mom company day and night. When Laura has helped me to communicate on WhatsApp, Mom hasn't been aware that she hasn't seen me in weeks.
  
• Though the county has closed down the Silver Comet Trail, I've been able to ride the 38 mile Stone Mountain loop once or twice a week as the weather has warmed.

For an introverted guy whose idea of the good life is writing on my blog, walking my dog, riding my bike, and closing each day with drinks, dinner, and a good book, this new life isn't so bad.

But then Susan remarked off-handedly, "We're all grieving." She didn't have to explain; I immediately teared up. I'm grieving for the way life was, the things I thought I could count on, the plans I'd made -- all gone. The wait staff who knew us by sight, the launderer who has delivered me clothes, washed and pressed for each week of classes - that's all gone, and they're hurting, I know.

Then there's the news. Every day, I'm hearing of deaths nearby and far away, a world in distress; food banks depleted; doctors overwhelmed here and abroad. NPR and our local NPR station WABE give us personal interviews with people "on the front lines," kind and courageous, but sometimes desperate.

In the past three days, I've had glimpses of a coming Zombie apocalypse, fomented by purveyors of conspiracy theories calling for getting out your guns to fight social distancing. I threw away a respectable-looking faux newspaper, its contents entirely meant to whip up indignation at China and, by extension, people of Chinese descent.

I've got to believe that most of us still know that science is true regardless of who believes in it, and that most of us still carry around in our hearts Isaiah's words, part of our American DNA:

Nations will stream to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawning...

Violence will no more be heard in your land, ruin or destruction within your borders.

You will call your walls, Salvation, and all your portals, Praise.

Fear NotFr. Roger Allen, speaking in a prayer service taped before no audience in our church's small Lawrence chapel, drew our attention to a line in today's gospel that I'd overlooked. It's the story we always read in the second Sunday of Easter, when Jesus appears to the disciples and offers his wounds for doubting Thomas to touch. Fr. Roger focused on the line that set up the story: "The doors were shut." Immediately we see the relevance for us, behind our closed doors, watching Roger speak from the locked-up church.

Jesus says to the disciples, "Peace be with you." Roger takes comfort from that, but adds that we are not to be recipients of peace only.

Peace that comes from faith, and care for others, are things we can offer, even at a social distance.