An Outward and Visible Sign

I hate wearing a mask. I hate having to stay at least 6 feet away from everyone. I hate that plans to travel to visit family or to gather with dear ones have had to be cancelled. I hate the overwhelming uncertainty we have been plunged into since March of this year.

Sometimes I get so angry at our current reality that my entire body clenches tight - my teeth grind, my muscles flex to the point of hurting, my lungs almost burst - and for a moment afterward, I wonder if I've finally woken up from what has seemed like a never ending nightmare, if finally Covid19 and masks and social distancing and self quarantine and school closures and climbing death rates and astronomical unemployment rates have all disappeared. As if I can just hate this reality away and usher in a new - or, perhaps old? - one.

My anger, fear, frustration, and hate do not, however, change or improve anything.

So, I still practice social distancing. I still limit how frequently I go into town or how much time I spend in public spaces. And I still don a mask.

I have started to think of my masks as sacraments - as "outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace."

Indeed, wearing a mask - or not - and doing anything - or not - to take any precautions against contracting or spreading Covid19 have become outward and visible signs of one's politics, of one's belief system and world view.

My masks have come to mean more to me than what I believe civic duty demands, more than believing and supporting Dr. Fauci and the CDC. I'd like to wonder with you, if wearing masks might be an opportunity to practice something more than virtue signaling or the following of best practices as outlined by practical health guidelines.


First, I must acknowledge that my desire to "go back" to the time before March 2020, when things were predictable, stable, and easy for me stems from my white privilege. I wear my mask and allow the unease, the lack of safety, I feel when I am in public to be a reminder that many, many people in this nation have felt uneasy and unsafe in almost all places at almost all times for as long as - longer, even - we have been the United States of America. My mask becomes a lament - a lament not only for the feelings of unsafety people of color and LGBTQ people experience everyday, but for the reality of the unsafety they experience all the time. I wear my mask and I pray. For forgiveness. For grace. For courage. For knowledge. For strength. For guidance. For change - in myself and in the world.

Second, I put my mask in place and it covers half my face. It is a literal barrier between me and other people. It is a dehumanizing, painful reminder that we must be intentionally separate right now, from people and communities we love. But our separateness goes much, much deeper than this and is doing much more harm. I put my mask on and I think about the strained relationships in this country, in my family, in churches and schools and neighborhoods. Relationships strained over the decision whether or not to wear a mask. Relationships strained over the decision to or not to protest the murders of people of color by our police. Relationships strained by how we vote, pray, live, and love. I wear my mask and I pray. For wisdom. For patience. For love. For compassion. For clarity. For healing. For change - in myself and in the world.


I talk less when I wear a mask. I feel like I have to shout to be heard, like the whole world is muffled. So, I find myself spending the little time I am around people being quieter, more focused on completing the task at hand than making eye contact or small talk. Instead of tuning everything and everyone out, I am going to try to use the time in my mask to give thanks for my health, for the essential workers who make grocery shopping and doctor visits and filling up gas tanks possible.

I also breathe more slowly in a mask. My face gets hot and sweaty. Depending on the style my ears might start to get irritated by the elastic straps, my nose might start to feel smashed. I almost immediately look forward to getting back into my car or my home where I can take my mask off as soon as I am done with my errands. Instead of focusing on rushing through to the end, I am going to try to slow down, to breathe with intention, to pay attention to the people around me, to feel the sun or breeze on my skin as I return my cart, and to give thanks for the present moment.


My mask is like the cross of ashes on my forehead on Ash Wednesday, reminding me that I am human, but also that I am holy, that life is precious. That to care for the health and wellbeing of others is a gift and an honor. That the world, that life, is full of lament and burden, grace and hope.

My mask is an outward and visible sign that I am connected to others, that all people are my neighbors, that my wellbeing and freedom depends on theirs, and theirs depends on mine. My mask serves as a reminder that "no one is an island." That we must work together, care together, to get through this to a place that is more compassionate, safe, equal, than the one we live in today.

God is Good?

Yesterday, St. Dorothy's Rest announced that we will not be holding summer camp this year in response to the Covid19 pandemic. It feels like the last two months have been a series of disappointments and griefs all leading up to this decision. I know that I am not alone in feeling the deep, deep loss of camp and the community it offers to so many, myself included.

As we worked to share this decision publicly - prepping for a zoom call with our 2020 camp staff, crafting various e-mails, social media posts, and website updates - I have been crying on and off for what feels like a week. Grief comes in waves and sometimes it catches me off guard, takes my breath away, drags me under.

St. Dorothy's Rest decided to start cancelling our spring retreats on Mach 13. We have been holding our breaths, waiting, wondering, and hoping. Our facilities have sat empty and quiet as the days and weeks have ticked by. In March, things were changing so rapidly that it seemed as if every morning I would wake up to new information, regulations, and restrictions. Yesterday's news quickly became old and irrelevant. At the time, hope was alive and present for me. If we could just hold out, practice social distancing, wash our hands regularly, and flatten the curve, by June things would settle enough for us to wrap our minds around safely offering camp.

Sure, maybe we'd have to adjust the schedule, shorten our season, shrink the sessions, and certainly institute new safety and hygiene protocols. But, campers and staff would be here. This place would be filled with songs and laughter. We'd find our purpose again, and get to do what we love so dearly.

It did not take long for that hope to wane and then all but disappear. All too soon, it was no longer a matter of if we would have to cancel but when.

This week, the decision not to have camp this summer became real and concrete and eventually public. I have wondered a lot about what hope looks like in this time. Does it even make sense to try and hope? What should I, or can I, hope for right now?

I'd much rather wallow in the sticky, uncomfortable waters of "everything is terrible."

Hope has felt too risky recently. Hope requires vulnerability, an opening oneself up to disappointment and grief. If "everything is terrible" is my end point, then I can't be surprised or hurt when it proves true. "See? I knew it. Everything is terrible!"

My problem is, I don't think I'm hard wired to stay in that space. In many ways, my default is hope.

So, I am finding myself floundering a bit as I grapple with a new kind, a new understanding, of hope. Perhaps even a more mature hope.

I have often practiced a hope tied to a specific outcome. I hope for things I want. It is a hope that has an end goal, that is clear and concrete. It is a hope with a check-box next to it that can eventually be marked as "finished" or "achieved."

Today, I cannot hope like that. Certainly, I hope that we will be able to successfully flatten the curve, that we will safely be able to ease restrictions on public spaces and local businesses. I hope that those protesting ongoing shelter-in-place orders stay healthy, safe, and peaceful - even as they show up to gather armed. I hope that we will be able to offer meaningful opportunities for community and connection this summer, even if we can't physically be together at St. Dorothy's Rest.

More, though, I am leaning into the hope of the Risen Christ - how odd to remember that we are in the season of Easter! I am turning to the hope that God is Love, that I am loved. I find myself running through the very camp-y refrain "God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good." Things do not feel good right now. Instead, things are scary, uncertain, confusing. What does it mean, then, to claim as truth "God is good?"

Honestly, I do not know. I am still wrestling with that. My uncertainty about what that means, though, does not change my belief that it is true.

God is good. For now, I will rest in that knowledge.

We may be going through hell right now. We may not know when this will end or what things will be like when it finally does. I do not believe God caused this or willed this, but I do believe God is present in it and that God will remain after.

On Mandy-Thursday this year many worshipped from home, washing our own feet if we live alone. It was weird, a little lonely, and incredibly moving. I remembered all the times I have sat while a fellow parishioner knelt in front of me and washed my feet. I never loved this moment, thoroughly uncomfortable. What I do love is taking my turn to wash another's feet. Not because I love kneeling on a stone floor, not because I love to touch feet, not because that kind of intimacy comes easily to me. But because it feels like my "rightful" place. I do not quite believe myself deserving to be served, to be treated so lavishly. But I will readily seize the opportunity to make sure others know they are worthy.

It does not escape me that this practice of washing one another's feet is an invitation to both be Jesus to others and to allow others to be Jesus to us. So, washing my own feet meant that I had to allow myself to be Jesus, to see Jesus in me, for me.

And perhaps, right now, this is where my hope lies. In the invitation to be Jesus to ourselves and to others in this hurting, grieving world. My hope, today, is to truly know myself as loved by the One who is Love and to turn around and love myself and others the way I believe God loves us all. To find new, creative, and bold ways to be extravagantly kind and generous to myself and to others. And to allow myself the risk and vulnerability to explore new opportunities and ways of being in this changing world.