Today’s my birthday.
Usually, I don’t think much about my birthday. It’s a day of celebration, absolutely, but all in all, it’s never been a “holiday” for me; another day, more fun than most. But this year, it has felt especially unique. Maybe it’s because I feel like the age I’ve hit is a bit of a milestone. Maybe it’s because the last 12 months have been unlike any I’ve ever experienced. It might be because just a few days ago, our family celebrated the one-year birthday of our son. And a day before that, our city recognized the one-year anniversary of the first confirmed case of the novel coronavirus.
Since then, there have been almost 750,000 cases of the virus here and we’re nearing 30,000 deaths. I have no idea how many businesses have shut their doors or how many neighbors have moved away. The back and forth of the education experience affects teachers, staff, administration, families, and students in such distinct, life-changing ways.
This year’s birthday is shrouded in the reality of what our world continues to face, and it has pushed me into a posture of reflection. How do we ever return to “normal” when 30,000 neighbors have perished in one single year? There is nothing that can erase the horrific realities so many families have faced. I can’t even begin to imagine the affects this past year has had on students. There’s nothing that can magically bring back shuttered restaurants and businesses.
A posture of reflection—and lament—confronts all of these things. Soong-Chan Rah notes, “Seeing injustice in the city through an abstracted lens allows the individual to disassociate from the reality of injustice. Injustice can be objectified and depersonalized. Hunger, homelessness and racism are very real injustices, but they can be misunderstood when taken in an abstracted form. One of the most effective means of disengaging the church from the work of justice is making injustice a philosophical concept.”
Thus, a posture of reflection—and lament—does not mean we simply pontificate over what we face, and it also means we do more than only dwell on these things. We don’t forget and move on; instead, we allow our lament to shape us and change us.
What does the pandemic mean for how we love our neighbors today? What does the pandemic mean for how we care for the local schools in our neighborhood tomorrow? What does the pandemic mean for how we choose to support the businesses around us? What does the pandemic mean for how we lament and grieve over death—a question my family continues to ask as we said goodbye to my wife’s father in the summer of 2020 and, on a much smaller level, our dog of 12 years earlier this year.
In his wonderful commentary on the book of Acts, Willie James Jennings writes, “We who follow Jesus are working in wounds, working with wounds, and working through wounds.” In other words, we don’t look at wounds and move on. Neither do we bandage wounds and move on.
We work in, with, and through the wounds in our lives.
My son’s birthday is a testament to the resilience of children and more than that, I believe, to the steadfastness of God’s faithfulness.
Facing innumerable global wounds, God began the work of launching a new church in Hell’s Kitchen (and Hope Hell’s Kitchen is far from the only new seed planted in our city over the last several months).
There has been so much to grieve, and yet, in the face of everything, we continue to cry out and work in, with, and through that which we lament.