How many people are ever ready for a pandemic? Very few, I’d guess. We’re now looking at Year 3 of living with the coronavirus and psychologically it’s really… really something.

I’m still trying to figure out my own reactions to events in the past few weeks. All I can surmise so far is that I had expectations for the holiday season and then I was very surprised by some big changes, namely the mask mandate for my city. I care far less about the mandate for the city (thanks to pickup grocery orders) than I do about the ramifications it has on my weekly plans with church where we **sing**. Let’s just say that I was planning on attending our Christmas Eve candlelight service, and then the mask requirement was dropped completely—by the city and by my church—and bam, I could not in good conscience attend a service where people right next to me would be singing maskless.

I was hurt.

Do I like to admit my hurt in public? 

No, I do not.

For the sake of reflection I’m going to include a few of my social media posts here. My first post was from a mind-boggled state, my second was written with great frustration, and the third came after several days of consideration.

From December 26:

Longtime church goers and church leaders, 

Are you okay with immunocompromised individuals simply not attending your churches in person any longer?

Would your church consider hosting a “masks-required” service so that people at risk could more safely engage in communal worship?

Real questions asked by a real human. Not up for a fight. If you know me then you know that I won’t tolerate disrespect in the comments here. I’m truly interested in your thoughts. 

From December 27:

When I see high school choir kids—singing AND dancing—100% masked and then see Christians in church choirs **not** masked at all during a pandemic… well, my head explodes. Just straight up explodes.

The high schoolers are making the rest of y’all look bad. 

For shame.

From December 28:

Important.

You and I may wildly and vehemently disagree, on a number of topics, and yet we can and should still love one another.

I hold to the exclusivity of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I believe this means that the Church should hold wide open her doors to allow everyone to hear that good news. We need that life-giving good news on a daily basis.

In the past week I have felt like some of you are wearing your nicely working autoimmune systems like armor. You aren’t aware how delightful it is that your body works well, but you’re able to go where you want to go freely and you don’t have to consider others’ welfare very often. I’m so glad your body works. But I will not remain silent about how exclusive the Church becomes when you close your doors to the infirm, to the weak, to the elderly, to the disabled. If I can speak with a bullhorn I will call out the ugliness of such a thing.

I have seen the Church do beautiful things in my lifetime. Beautiful, creative, life-giving, wonderful things.

I tasted my first bit of Covid communion from a car in a parking lot on Father’s Day. A creative pastor (or pastors more likely) decided to hold services outdoors for a season or two and it allowed me to safely take the bread and the cup again. Praise God.

I have seen deacons scroll through church directories to hand out turkeys and cranberries and gift cards to families that needed a boost at Thanksgiving time.

I’ve witnessed elders and their wives coming to tiny apartments to shepherd lonely couples, making an impact for a lifetime. And I’ve seen the same caring individuals pack up and move the umpteenth seminary couple even though it meant personal loss and sadness.

I’ve witnessed parish nurses entering homes and praying over elderly patients stuck in their four walls for far too long.

I’ve read about nurses in hospitals continually being the last faces to cry with, pray over, and witness Covid patients’ final breaths.

I’ve known of churches who sent “We Miss You” postcards to a family who only came through their doors once simply because they know that this viral pandemic has created a pandemic of loneliness.

I’ve seen church members, week after week, giving rides to license-less folks who live in group homes. They’re hungry for community and those simple acts enable them to hear the gospel over and over.

And now I’ve heard of churches still requiring masks so that a few, with chinks in their armor, may still walk safely into their pews.

I’ve heard of spaces where scientists’ opinions are valued and people care about the quality of the air.

I’ve heard story after story of CHRISTIANS WHO CARED. They’ve followed in Jesus’ very footsteps, denying their own comfort for the sake of another. This happens so often and I consider it an enormous privilege to witness and rejoice in it. 

I sometimes speak strongly for the truth, and in this moment I can see how easy it is to leave those like me, with autoimmune disorders, behind. We have a lot to lose if we’ve loved belonging to the body of Christ. We miss communion. We miss congregational singing. We miss hearing your kids in the pews behind us and seeing your family walk up the aisle for the Lord’s Supper. We don’t want to stay home because we need you, church family. We love you. Please creatively love us back.

[Locals and PCA people, please note that I don’t speak as a representative for my particular church,  Redeemer PCA. I resigned from the diaconate last May. My opinions are my own and no one else’s.]