Five Years Ago

It is a truism that, when a new year begins, none of us knows how it will end. But that was more than typically true five years ago. When 2020 began, I was in a somber mood because I knew I was beginning the final months of my assignment as a pastor in Tennessee. Not only did I love being a pastor, but I was definitely not looking forward to my imminent (chronologically inevitable, but no less undesirable for being inevitable) demotion to "senior status." Meanwhile, parish life was continuing its accustomed pace, while the wider world was watching President Trump's first impeachment trial and the Democratic primary debates. Super Tuesday would come in March, by which time the Democrats' nomination contest would effectively be all finished, although that was not yet the case when I availed myself of "early voting" in the hectic weeks before Super Tuesday.

I am not sure when I first heard of the new coronavirus sweeping through China. February saw the usual winter flu epidemic - enough to close schools for a few days and for the diocese to prohibit Communion from the chalice until March 1. By the end of February, when the directive came to resume the chalice, I was already aware of the new virus from abroad and wondered whether we might do better to prolong the prohibition. Nonetheless, everything seemed normal as Lent began with the usual crowds coming for ashes on February 26 and the usual Friday Fish Fry and Stations two days later.

Unvesting after Ash Wednesday noon Mass, however, I got a call from my sister in California informing me that my mother had been taken to the hospital. At 97, she had been slowing down, but she had seemed normal enough on the phone only a few days before. We had the Rite of Sending for the Catechumens on Sunday as usual, but I spent much of the week on the phone as my mother's condition quickly worsened. By Monday, we were arranging for home hospice care, but that was cancelled on Tuesday as it suddenly became clear that she would not be leaving the hospital after all. On Thursday, March 5, my mother died. (That same day, although I probably paid insufficient attention, Tennessee conformed its first covid case.) Meanwhile, the family started planning the funeral, and I made travel plans for California. 

That weekend, we had guests at the house and went out to dinner together (for what turned out to be our last restaurant dinner together that year). On Monday I went to the doctor for a pre-scheduled appointment. I talked about my mother's death and my feelings about presiding at my mother's funeral. Unexpectedly, the doctor discouraged me from making the trip! Then, the next day, Tuesday, we had a diocesan priests' meeting, at which anxiety was beginning to be widely expressed. When I spoke privately with the Bishop about my mother's death and my imminent travel plans, he recommended that we postpone the funeral and I avoid any travel! The next day, WHO declared a pandemic. The State of California forced us, first, to cancel the lunch we were planning to host after the funeral and, then, the funeral Mass itself. On the day when I had been scheduled to travel, I watched horror scenes of panic at Chicago's airport, where I had originally expected to be changing planes that day. That same day, Monday, March 16, the Mayor declared a state of emergency.

Attendance was down at Sunday Mass on March 15, and I celebrated an abridged Scrutiny Rite. That turned out to be the last regularly attended Sunday Mass for more than two months. Life had gotten tense as the worldwide crisis quickly closed in on us. By the end of the week, Tennessee, California, and most of the rest of the country had effectively shut down, something none of us had ever experienced before.

Family grief was put on hold. (It would ultimately be 15 months before we would bury my mother.) A weird panic set in. I wore gloves when putting gas in the car, and I left the mail out on the porch for a day for the sun to kill any viruses on the envelopes! Instead of answering condolence cards, I started a daily email to keep in touch with parishioners, which I continued until my last day as pastor. Happily, my tenure as pastor was extended until December, which was good for parish stability, but also beneficial for me personally.

We were directed to "live stream" Sunday Mass, something I had no idea how to do. Fortunately, I was able to get guidance from a seminarian in Washington and much needed assistance from some parishioners. Eventually we invested in cameras and other equipment, which are still in use there today. But, for the first few weeks, it was just myself at the altar, with someone sitting in the nave "live streaming" on my laptop!

By late May, Mass resumed under constricted conditions - masks, social distancing, spraying the pews with disinfectant between Masses. All things considered, we got through it all rather well, but political polarization was setting in over contentious issues such as masking, and local divisions developed that echoed the wider national conflicts, which have only gotten worse in the years since then.

The heartache was enormous, but somehow I made it through the year without catching covid. Only one person in the house got sick. Only one parishioner died of it (on New year's Eve, literally on my last day as pastor). I got to celebrate my 25th anniversary of ordination in October with a modestly attended, live streamed Mass, with beautiful music and friendly words from the Bishop. My gratitude for 25 years of priesthood were amplified by the harrowing events of that year and the unexpected experiences and lessons learned.

The year ended with me still in Knoxville, but getting ready finally to move on. January 2021 brought me to New York and soon the first of many covid vaccinations. (Ironically, it would only be in September 2024 that I would finally get the virus - twice, in fact, as I was one of those to get a "rebound" infection from taking paxlovid.)

What happened to us in Tennessee and throughout the U.S. in mid-March 2020 was a challenging experience that ought to have brought us together and taught us how to prepare for future threats to the common good. Unfortunately, in the end, it seems to have done the opposite, as our society seems more polarized than ever since the Civil War, and our divisions have damaged out precious stock of social capital and left us traumatized and embittered. Ominously, I fear that if some "covid-25" were threatening us this March, our response would actually be significantly worse than it was five years ago.