Believing what we cannot see

When hostilities began in World War ll, people living in London England had their lives changed in major ways. They had to learn how to keep themselves safe when the bombs were falling. They rationed food. They conserved fuel and everything else. They helped each other.

The behaviour changes were the result of being told about the immense danger they were facing. They had no trouble believing this when the sirens sounded and the explosions occurred shortly after.

Today in Ontario - for that matter throughout the entire world - we are facing an immense danger to our lives from an enemy we cannot see. We can only know its effects. And based on what we are hearing about those effects, we are in the process of making significant changes in our daily living patterns. At time of writing, public venues are closing and a state of emergency has been declared in the Province. People have become ill, people have died. People are very anxious. People are stocking up on supplies in panic buying.

We still haven’t seen the enemy. But we know it is there. Because we have been told it is.

Humans are capable of mobilizing tremendous energy, making huge changes, in circumstances like this. And so we should.

It hit me as I was reflecting on the dynamics of all this, that I am not old enough for the WW ll experience. But something felt familiar about the change process resulting from an occurrence whose elements I did not see. In which I was left to believe without seeing what was making it happen.

And it came to me. Chemotherapy, December 2015 through July 2016. I knew that element. I could see it. I will never forget the bags of high octane cocktail going into my arm through the PICC line, or the kindness and professionalism of the nurses, doctors and technicians. But when it was over, I knew there was an element I could not see but that I believed was also responsible not only for the ultimate news of remission, but for what else happened inside of me. That element was the constant message of ‘we are praying for you’, ‘I am praying for you,’ that came from the parish community of St. Paul’s where I have been Deacon for 23 years. The message came both from groups and from individuals. Over and over and over. Continuing to this day, and I always plead, please don’t stop!

I have always prayed. For myself and for other people. I have always believed in the power of prayer. But that belief used to wax and wane by times. Not now.

Believing in what I cannot see. Isn’t it interesting? We humans are demonstrably so capable of that. And yet.... and yet.

I did not know how my treatment was going to turn out. But from very early on, that became less of the point than the ability to trust that it was in good hands, that it was in God’s hands - most importantly that I was in God’s hands. Because that is where those wonderful, marvelous parishioners and friends put me. In a way I could not put myself.

I guess the point of all this is that Covid-19 has put us a little bit in the position of those brave people in WWll London. And a little bit in the position of a person hearing a serious diagnosis. But it has also put us in the position of responding to something else we cannot see, and that is the power of prayer. This is an interesting power. Because it does not cause us to go panic buying. It may not lead to Covid-19 disappearing tomorrow or the next day. Rather, even in the midst of our taking all necessary precautions, it acts on us the way we need it to when that PICC line is in there doing what it does with an outcome we do not know. It settles us. It lets us know that there is something - some One - that is bigger than all of this and who holds us in his hands no matter how this turns out. We know this as the Good News. Our world has desperately needed this News and we know that too. But it waxes and wanes, our ability to mobilize around it, doesn’t it? Well now is the time to reaffirm. We will be ok. If you are reading this, know that I am praying for you. Believe what we don’t see.

I’m in, hope you are too.