Notes from my Knapsack 4-16-20

Notes from my Knapsack 4-16-20

Jeff Gill

 

Fool myself twice, no thank you

___

 

Cynicism is not, truly, my default mode.

 

But I can still recall the column I wrote in late September of 2001, and how I was certain that after the events of 9-11, everything . . . or at least much would change.

 

So certain.

 

Now, there were things that did change. Airline travel, for instance (oh my). Metal detectors, already going up everywhere, got to everywhere even more quickly. Security culture in many ways ratcheted up for both businesses and household life.

 

But there was a spirit of community and coming together that, for a moment, seemed lasting. The first anniversary of what became "Patriot Day" was a widely participated-in communal work project day (in Hebron, we painted fire hydrants and pedestrian bridges all over town), but it faded quickly.

 

And we can rehearse wearily the debates over the how and why of invading first Afghanistan, and then Iraq, but even before the final decision to go in was made, the political unity was already well eroded. The Patriot Act left behind forms and civil liberty disputes and divisions in its wake (I still don't understand a form asking me "are you a terrorist?"), then of course the war which now looks even more of a piece of many previous American foreign policy stumbles.

 

In other words, very little changed for the good, anyhow, after 9-11. I can sift my memories for particular, personal bright spots, flecks of gold in the mounds of gravel, but it's mostly grey and more of the same.

 

Which nearly two decades later has me very hesitant to proclaim "the Great Hiatus will change us all, for the better!" Odds are excellent that by the time you read this, we will still be under a "stay-at-home" order from the governor and director of the state health department, and Ohio will still be asking people coming into the state from elsewhere to self-quarantine for fourteen days. The end of the orders, if not the restrictions, is set for May 1; if we see the far side of the peak in deaths and hospital resource use before then, we're all too likely to be asked to maintain some level of caution and care and social distancing into the month of May, a kind of multi-stage relaxation of interaction and association.

 

But I'm not talking about those restrictions not changing. They will, even if more slowly than some business owners understandably would like. As Dr. Fauci has said, "getting back to normal won't be just like flipping a switch."

 

What I fear won't change is that most of us will slide right back into our previous patterns and preferences and assumptions. I'd love to say (again) that this difficult period which has brought us "#AloneTogether" will teach us lasting lessons about the value of family, the joys of cooking at home, and the importance of working together as a community.

 

Except with or without a "Great Hiatus" I don't think any of those changes take place without mindful, intentional work, even if we are forced for months, let alone weeks, into the form of such a change. We can spring back out of such a form all too easily.

 

If there's anything we've found to be of value during this long Lent, our extended time-out, it will require us to put some time and attention to preserving them once we get to whatever our new normal will be. Very little other than eating and sleeping comes automatically to us human creatures, and sometimes not even that.

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's not sure how long his coffee supply will hold out, but he has plenty of filters. Tell him how the confinement is going for you at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 4-11-20

Faith Works 4-11-20

Jeff Gill

 

Silence in the streets

___

 

It is the night after the crucifixion of Jesus, or maybe the next night. It's hard to tell.

 

There had been a vast darkness over Jerusalem, whether an eclipse as some said, a storm front suddenly overwhelming the city shrouding the sun, a rumbling that might have been a huge thunderstorm, or some felt as an earthquake.

 

Whatever shook the city, it threw everyone off, from Romans right down to the stones. Pilate suddenly was throwing clemency to petitioners, Passover being a few hours away, the Temple in chaos with strange rumors leaving the courtyards and echoing around the slowly stilling city, and the dark and rain and rumbles deep beneath the earth settling into their old familiar places, after a day of upheaval.

 

You know that the Sanhedrin and the procurator's staff in the praetorium had to like the stillness. Many still remembered the chaos of rioting and revolt that was so brutally put down by Pontius Pilate on a Passover week just a few years earlier. Doubtless this was why he was so harsh at the first signs of popular unrest, why Jesus and a few other usual suspects were rounded up and executed. A few must die, so the crowd may live, and life might get back to what we're all used to, Hebrews and Romans alike.

 

So quiet, now. Cats, perhaps, silently slinking along the gutters in search of prey, and always the mice and rats. The occasional cooing of a dove perched on a stone wall or cornice.

 

Everyone is inside. Safe, if there is such a place. Doors barred, windows latched. As night falls, the end of Sabbath would not be greeted with strolling families in the streets. Tomorrow, the first day of the week would dawn cautiously, fearfully, anxiously. Few would venture out early, and none would challenge the soldiers guarding everything from the Mount of Olives in the east to the cemeteries west of the city gates.

 

Dark, and silent, but the stars were coming out. The storms and earthquakes had passed, and the cooling pavement stretched out below, empty. But if you were staying in a rented room, up above the family quarters at street level, you could look out more safely than they. You could crane your neck around to see the last light on the rear of the Temple, reflecting the setting sun, the rosy glow of Jerusalem limestone.

 

Above, the deep blue of twilight spread from east to west, and the first two or three stars twinkled into view. Beyond them, God, who had done nothing to interfere with the sorrows of . . . yesterday? The day before? When the power of empire and the connivance of the religious authorities had intersected at the cross itself, two timbers hauled into place so a victim could be nailed and held up for public display and be seen to die. This the fate of any opponent of Rome, this the hazard of any resistance, even without weapons. A cruel death, and no one, nothing would stop it.

 

So you look back out across the still damp, silent, aching streets. All around the edges of shuttered windows show a faint yellow line of light within, but outside is darkness growing, and the chill light of stars. It seems as if the darkness will overcome all light, all hope, all freedom to seek God in any way other than what's officially approved. A darkness and silence that Rome surely will find satisfactory.

 

For you, looking out across the city, a question. Where does your hope, your help come from? You know the teaching of the psalm book. It is hard, though, in the present moment. But you recall and whisper the words of the one that tells you "My help comes from the Lord, who made the heavens and the earth," and the one after that: pray for the peace of Jerusalem. You whisper the psalms you can remember as prayers, until you fall asleep, to greet the next day.

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he knows he should have more psalms memorized than he does. They can come in handy. Tell him what passages of scripture you have committed to memory at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.