As best as I can figure, I was probably the first person ordained after the CDC declared that the novel coronavirus was a pandemic. The world started to shut down in earnest the day before my ordination. Plans changed by the minute. We had Easter Sunday levels of expected guests, but then one-by-one my loved ones decided (rightly) that it was safer to stay home. Even while I was on my 6-hour pre-ordination retreat, plans were ever changing and the list of people dwindled further. We still sang, because we didn’t know yet that we shouldn’t – the Veni Creator reverberates differently with only 10 untrained voices. I felt only the weight of my bishop's hands, not all of my colleagues, although I felt him  press extra hard to compensate. It was still a joyful and long-awaited day. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, even during crisis.

Before the overwhelm could pass, I was asked by my friend to participate as one of “the ten” in the next diaconal ordination in my diocese. I reached down my hand to pull up the next person into this “special club,” the #PandemicDeacons. #Quardained #LayingonofSanitizedHands. We will always be the unique group clergy ordained in the middle of all this nonsense, whose ministries will be permanently shaped by these strange early days. It wasn’t until listening to the words of his ordination that I finally really reflected on my own. But I was particularly struck by what I didn’t hear. 

I noticed the silence that ended his ordination, a silence that ended my ordination as well. Such, I guess, is the way of livestreamed masses. When you’re livestreaming a service, there’s not really a “recessional.” (Yes, I’m sorry Church musicians, I know that “recessional” isn’t a thing). There’s no raucous hymn that ushers everyone to the bubbly and cake. (There isn’t cake in a pandemic). There’s no congregation of loving lay folk who start a loud round of applause, rubrics be damned. After the final “Amen” there’s just…nothing. Silence. The stream ends and there’s a great big “what next” that silently bounces among the few attendees physically present. 

Now what?

Do we just... unrobe and go home now?

Now what?

Now what is this deacon supposed to go do in this world?

Now what, in a state that has literally made headlines because of the wave of evictions that are expected to happen during and after this pandemic? 

Now what when so many more folks are hungry? 

Now what when so many of our people are unemployed?

Now what are we supposed to do, as deacons when the need of our people in the world is so great?

Of course, a brand new baby deacon isn’t going to single handedly fix all of the world’s problems, even in a good year. And I wouldn’t have the ego or confidence to ever think that I could. But I want to do my piece of it faithfully. Effectively. But what are we supposed to do when stepping out into this new ministry puts us face to face with a tsunami and equips us with a bucket that seems so little and futile? 

These feelings, I suspect, are true of brand new priests as well. When in times like these our people need sure signs of grace, and when even priestly tasks take on the diaconal current imprinted in us because the needs of our people are so unremittingly and incessantly material as well as spiritual.

Several weeks ago now in the Sunday Lectionary in church, Jesus appears to the disciples in the middle of a fearful storm. He’s walking on unsteady waters, cool as a cucumber. The disciples think they see a ghost and a crew of grown men (including a couple salty fishermen) shriek in fear. Jesus replies, “Whoa guys, it’s me. Don’t be afraid. Please stop yelling.” (Paraphrased.) But Peter, being extremely himself, challenges Jesus and says, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come out there with you.” A bizarre little statement of faith, but faithful nonetheless. Jesus says, “Alright, c’mon then.” (Southernized.) And Peter steps out on the water. He takes a few miraculous steps on the waves. I imagine the screams of his friends subsided if only because he was so focused on the task at hand that the noise faded into the background. Then an even stronger wind picks up and gusts past him. Maybe the strong wind made it into that kind of deafening silence, like a noise machine turned up too high. He begins to flail. He starts to sink. The storm, it’s just, so much. Jesus!

Jesus immediately reaches out. Immediately Peter is saved by Jesus’ outstretched hand. 

Every once in a while, in my ministry so far, Jesus’ voice slices through the anxiety about whether I am doing enough to be worthy of the mantle on my shoulder. And he immediately reaches out and says, “Why are you so afraid? It’s me. I’m here. C’mon then.”

Cheeky hashtags aside, this pandemic stinks. A lot. I don’t need to tell you that. But I know that it will end. The wind will stop blowing, the waters will calm, and we’ll be back in the familiar boat.

Because truly, God is with us.