On Monday I was participating in the funeral of a priest’s mother for the first time since my own Mom’s funeral last July. When I got into the car to drive down to the cemetery, I checked my email. The Diocese comes up as a VIP sender, and this message was VI.
The public celebration of Mass is canceled until further notice on account of COVID-19. Priests are allowed to keep the church open for periods of private prayer and to hear confessions (though even this the government would not recommend in the normal close quarters).
The range of feelings that accompany the reception of such news is understandable. At first I suspect very few would have been relieved, but even the earlier notice that had dispensed all Catholics in our diocese from the obligation could have relieved those who were genuinely afraid to go but were also afraid not to.
I suspect the majority feel disappointed, and a substantial minority angered by the decision. They think it betrays a lack of trust on the part of our bishops. “Wouldn’t God preserve from harm those who dared to assemble on the Lord’s Day, as is
our custom (cf. Heb 10:25)? And wouldn’t someone who got sick and died as a result of going be an instant martyr?
“The Eucharist is our food and drink, per the Lord’s own directive. Certain saints like Catharine of Siena lived on Him alone for periods of time. Now we are being starved to death, as if some corrupt government were inducing famine.”
As a priest, I feel saddened for those who have contracted COVID-19, for the increasing number of fatalities. In the daily Mass I now live-stream from my chapel, I pray for those who suffer and those who care for them. Tomorrow, on the solemnity of the Guardian of the Redeemer, I will pray for his protection on us all. I can’t imagine that the God-Man did not get colds, and that His mother or foster father didn’t dote on Him in those sad days.
God knows, whenever we are sick, we feel some measure of isolation, of not wanting to be touched or cared for. In such moments we are particularly united with our Lord upon the Cross. His sense of abandonment was infinitely greater than our own (it was more than a “sense”), even though our own is a small but meaningful share of it.
My honest feelings also include dereliction and guilt. Somebody online quoted Mary Magdalene: “They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they laid Him“ (Jn 20:13). Someone else recalled a line from the Song of Songs: “At night I sought him on my heart loves; I sought him but I did not find him” (3:1).
But here’s the thing: I know where He is – He’s in our Tabernacles, and we are not openly encouraged to open them up for public consumption. More often than not, that “public” includes groups of 10 or more! Just now I’m reminded that our Lord had the apostles seat people in groups of fifty upon the miraculous mountain (cf. Lk 9:14).
This city will be consigned to flames because fewer than ten won’t be found (cf. Gen 18:16-33).
Yes, I know where Jesus is. It feels like I’m playing a game of keepaway. Of course I would not refuse giving Holy Communion to someone in dire need, or even someone who asked. But right now we are heading for the times of tumbleweeds gracing our streets.
People have appreciated the service of live-streaming or otherwise recording Masses we say privately, "we" meaning my own bishop and many priests and bishops around the globe. Brother priests: does it feel like exhibitionism to you? Of course we have been doing this for years, because of the many shut-ins in our parishes, but now everybody is a shut-in with respect to the Sacred Synaxis! "You can look but you can’t touch."
Someone said very quickly into our quarantine that this Lent is unique. We are not just in Lent: we are in Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Tomb time.
The reports suggest this could go on for a long while, and get worse before it gets better, as things usually do. With reports of mobile confessionals, speculation about the validity of telephone confession, and who knows what about the Eucharist Himself, it may be the time for creativity. Our parishes shouldn’t become catacombs just yet. Or should they?
My reading today revealed that the appropriate measure for “social distancing” is 6 feet. Incidentally, that’s how far we’ll be from the nearest human being when we’re buried: 6 feet from their feet. Social distancing is acceptable as a health precaution, but not as a way of life.
I just saw a tweeted opinion that these weeks without widespread access to, and indiscriminate reception of, the Eucharist might increase appreciation for it. We all need to start discerning the Body better (cf. 1 Cor 11:29).
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