Opening doors

It’s June, officially winter, and delightfully for me, the gradual easing of Covid-19 restrictions means I can once again finish my weekly food shop with a cup of coffee and, space permitting, sit down to drink it. For an oldie like me, somewhere to sit and sip and watch the passing parade is one of the small joys of life that I have missed during the last couple of months.

Everyone has an ongoing covid-19 story. Mine is tinged with guilt – I haven’t had to work from home or educate my children online as did millions of young parents. I didn’t exactly stockpile for an uncertain future, but my pantry was pretty full all the same. I don’t know anybody who was infected with the virus, and I’m not facing a future of tattered dreams or lost opportunities. This pandemic would not interrupt my education or steal my livelihood.

Opening the doorNow the world is carefully, gingerly, beginning the long journey into what we are constantly being told is an uncertain future. Most of us don’t do uncertainty very well. We’re like Martha, we worry about many things, most of them like the days on the calendar, they come and they go. Jesus took what I consider was a courageous step, and suggested she might handle her need to have everything under control by being more like her sister Mary – stick to what is important and let the rest go. It’s an interesting little snippet in Luke’s Gospel and more than once I‘ve I wished I could have been a fly on the wall and not only heard it, but watched the faces as well.

Time spent inside our homes without regular social intercourse and recreational opportunities has given us the time and space to face the fact that our peopled world, like the natural environment, is broken. There’s no them and me. We face a future where it will be up to all of us to find a common way to mend the brokenness, to lay aside the ugliness that underlies race relations, to work for a world where justice is a given.

During these closed in months, in newspapers and online I’ve read many, possibly too many, writers sharing the ups and down and twisty bits of being unable to fully control their present, let alone their future. They were reflective, occasionally humorous and consistently upbeat, but with a few exceptions, they didn’t touch the deepest part of me, the part where God gets to hear how I’m handling the shocking details that endlessly stream from the world news channels.

Christians, whatever their denomination, come from a Martha background. They spearhead peace and justice institutions, heal the sick in world-class hospitals, volunteer in op shops and food vans across the world. It’s a big job, which takes me back to Martha and her sister Mary. The Marthas of the world need Mary.

The Marys take time out to – I was going to say pray, but that sounds too wordy. It’s more like sitting, or walking in the kind of silence that pushes aside everyday worries and concerns, leaving room for the real me and God to have a moment together. Mary time is space to recognise that not everything can be fixed, that Jesus knew all about weariness, that the women and men who people the Gospels lived in a world where the there was a steep divide between the haves and the have nots

Over the next few months I’d like to revisit some of those women and men, many of them nameless. Maybe one of them will hit your ‘me too’ spot, be something of a role model in the months and years ahead as you and I struggle to live the lessons Covid-19 will leave in its wake.

And just in case the Martha and Mary story has slipped your mind, here it is:
As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” Luke 10:38-42

Judith Scully

A 2020 Easter

2020 is the first time in my long life that I have moved into a world where death and resurrection is so much bigger than the ancient words and symbols, cute rabbits and chocolate eggs and togetherness that usually define Holy Week and its culmination, Easter.

For more years than I care to remember on Holy Thursday I would go to the evening Mass and watch as the priest washed the feet of a few chosen parishioners. Then over to another altar where I spent some time trying to focus on a Man who was grieving all that had been and was to come.

In 2020 I watched the evening news and grieved silently with the women and men who have no right to Centrelink payments, who are here alone, and don’t know what to do or where to go until Covid-19 leaves our country.

Good Friday, and once again I’d listen to the Passion story before lining up to kiss the cross. I bought hot cross buns.

This year I shrank at the Covid-19 deaths recorded in Britain (881), Spain (674), the United States (2,043). I watched shrouded bodies being wheeled out of a hospital and stored in a refrigerated van and the could have wept for women and men who died alone, but loved by those they left behind.

And now it’s Saturday – Holy Saturday. Churches are closed, the beaches are empty, families are staying home, the homeless look for safe shelter, and the world waits – for the infection curve to flatten away to nothing, for scientists across the world to break the coronavirus code, for fear and insecurity to loosen its grip. We wait to step into a world that we now know will never be quite the same again. We have experienced death, and we wait for resurrection.

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Easter will be late this year. But Easter always comes.

Judith Scully