pandemic

At Camp Canonicus with my mother

The earliest memories I have of my mother are her singing to me before bed. There are a number of songs that she sang--hymns mostly--but one was almost always in the mix, and it shaped me:

Christians often turn to the Hebrew prophets for our holy days, which has given us a rather lopsided view of their message. We relish, "Comfort, comfort my people" and all the promises of streams in the desert, mourning into dancing, a return from exile, a savior to come, and life springing from a valley of dry bones.

We all wish the times were different. Many of us are missing the comforts of sharing our rituals and traditions with others. But if you're actually mad that you can't gather for Holy Week services, let me gently suggest that you're missing the point of Holy Week. And, if you're opening your church doors and inviting people to gather, I would go as far as to say that you aren't just missing the point, you are negating it altogether.