WHAT IS THIS?
Author: Fr. Michael Byron
July 31, 2021
The
book of Exodus tells us today that one morning in the desert of Exodus the
people of Israel awoke to find flakes like hoarfrost on the ground. And the
author tells us that, “On seeing it the Israelites asked one another, ‘What is
this?’ for they did not know what it was.” And then Moses told them it
was manna, the bread from heaven which God had given them to eat.
About
a month ago, members of our Worship Council here at Pax Christi began to plan
for a commemoration of loss and hope as the result of the COVID-19 trauma, with
which we have all been living with now for about 16 months. It was the
right thing to do. But, as we are still discovering at this moment in
time, a month is a very long space. When we first set aside this weekend
to recognize out loud at our worship the griefs and the longings which have
been touching all of us in different ways, we thought that the pandemic was
ending, at least gradually. But today we can’t even know if that is true.
There is new talk of greater infection and more masks and new
restrictions.
Perhaps
among the greatest suffering during these hard days, and weeks, and months, is
not being able to know what’s coming next, a feeling of not being in control of
our own environment and our own destiny, and maybe even of our own lives, and
the lives of our loved ones.
And
the Israelites asked, “What is this?” for they did not know what it was.
Somehow, even in great suffering, there can be some sort of consolation in
feeling that at least we understand what is happening to us, and why. But
for very many human beings, probably most of us throughout the course of human
history, they didn’t know the answers to those questions, nor do many of us
right now. What is this? Where is this going? Why won’t this stop? For what
ought we to hope? In what or in whom should I and we trust?
We
hear a lot these days of the need to trust in the scientists. And that is true,
for as far as it goes. But it now happens that the scientists tell us that what
we have on our hands here is not under control or adequately understood. So
what happens when the people who are supposed to know, tell us that what we
know, is what we don’t know?
And
the Israelites asked, “What is this?” for they did not know what it was.
Most of us who are now alive in the United States of America have been living
with a rare luxury, namely the privilege of believing that we know why
everything happens—even the very bad things. But that’s not really a privilege
at all because it is so often a delusion. Yes, we can know how viruses
spread and how vaccines can work, and thank God for that. But to the
bigger question about why this is happening at all, nobody yet knows, and maybe
we never will. There is enormous suffering that is involved with coming
to terms with that kind of uncertainty. But, there may also be an incredible
moment for reconsidering the importance of faith, for reigning in our human
pride, and for remembering how little control we have about our destiny, even
while we work so hard to deny that. This has been a season to awakening of what
is simply true.
It
can be a moment for a new hope—a hope that is rightly placed in the only person
who is worthy of that. A hope in God, rather than even the best of human
ingenuity. Science will and already has brought us very far in confronting
COVID-19, but science will not save us in the end. It never could,
although so many of us have tried so hard to believe otherwise. And that
shouldn’t be a terrible thing to know. It should be an invitation into life
with God.
And
the Israelites asked, “What is this?” for they did not know what it was.
People often have an instinct not to like or to welcome what they don’t
understand, or with whom they are unfamiliar. When we are forced to
confront such things, it can become either a moment of despair and anger and
cynicism, or it can be an occasion of transforming grace, a door to a far
deeper life than what we have yet had.
I
spent Friday evening at a celebration for one of our Pax Christi parishioners’
father. He died from COVID-19 in his native country of Cameroon.
None of his family, none of his loved ones could be there for him as he
died, or for his burial in Africa because of the restrictions. At our
gathering, I was the only white guy in the room, and the only one who couldn’t
speak or sing in French, but sing we did and pray and truly celebrate for the
life of this patriarch of the family, who was so well loved and so well
respected, and so well missed.
And
as I texted to one of my friends afterward, this was one of the happiest
gatherings I’ve ever been invited to. Because it wasn’t all about what has
been, what has been lost— though that’s surely true and that’s surely real. It
was every bit as much about gratitude, and hope, and new life, and expectation
of what is yet to be. And it’s the only time that I’ve tried to sing
the hymn “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” in French. Honestly, for
everyone’s sake, I hope it’s also the last time.
So
here we also all sit on the cusp of life and death, of loss and hope, of
knowing, and not knowing. Especially not knowing where all this is
going. And learning how to be okay with that. For every family and
person here, the losses have been very personal—with names attached to them:
those who have died; those who have been so sick, or so isolated; those who
have dropped off the radar of our relationships; those we can’t be
with.
But
for all of us the hope is the same. His name is Jesus, the Christ—Jesus, the
Christ. He did not promise us what was going to happen next, but He did promise
never to leave us: “I am the bread of life. Whoever stays with me will never
hunger or thirst, or be without companionship or solace or hope.”
So
when our hearts, like those of the ancient Israelites, torment us with
questions like, “what is this?” or “where is this going?” or “when will this
end?”, the word from Jesus is disarmingly simple and clear. I am
here. I am here.
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