A Most Necessary Easter
Atlanta, GA
April 12, 2020
Back in the Mesozoic Era…about six weeks ago…we entered Lent, and have since wandered in a hell of a wilderness.
Satan seemed everywhere, but even he could offer little to tempt God’s children…or to compete with government largesse
Bread? That’s fine. But what we really needed was toilet paper, fake money, and corporate bailouts.
All the world’s kingdoms? We’ve had our fill of those. And as we’ve learned, there’s no calamity a government can’t make worse.
To be lifted by angels? That sounds appealing, but would violate social distancing ordinances.
This is the second consecutive Easter we’ve endured trial by fire. A year ago, Nôtre Dame was in flames. This year, the whole world is going up in smoke. Liberty smolders. Rights are incinerated. The Constitution is in ashes.
Only Easter candles are unlit. Churches are closed. Masses are relegated to online services. We have no Communion. Confession is reserved to those on the verge of death…which is small consolation to those of us who know not the hour.
So we huddle in our homes like apostles in the upper room. They anxiously avoided authorities. We obsequiously obey them. In both cases, apprehension abounded. But eventually, good news appeared.
In our viral crisis, we have begun to hear encouraging words. Entering the fray, as if on the back of a donkey, are hints of reduced incidence and fewer deaths. Yet authorities continue to rend their garments. They admonish us to remain panicked and scared. Skepticism is blasphemy.
But why? What is really going on? Cui bono?
As Pilate asked, “What is Truth?”
We don’t know. We’d even forgive our masters their “mistakes”…if we could be certain they know not what they do.
Cliché has it that the Chinese symbol for crisis is the same as for opportunity. We suspect our Scribes and Sanhedrin want us to view this situation as the former, so they can use it as the latter…while we naively fall asleep in the garden.
Some fear is warranted. Not only of the bug, but particularly of our rulers’ reaction. And not just our rulers’ reaction to the virus, which in retrospect we will probably perceive as overkill…like sacrificing the village in order to save it, or slaughtering doughboys on the Marne to preserve Democracy in America.
What is of most concern, like the Treaty of Versailles, is our rulers’ reaction to the calamity that was caused by their first response. That risks a far bigger catastrophe than the initial affliction.
The contagion’s carafe will eventually run dry. But quack cures and snake-oil remedies are in perpetual harvest. Idiocy hangs heavy on the vine, and the vintners are drunk with power.
The problem Margaret Thatcher ascribed to standard socialism also applies to crony corporatism: at some point, you run out of other people’s money. Then, as a more subtle way to loot them, you print your own. At that point, we all wish we had thirty pieces of silver.
The top medical centurion overseeing this fiasco advised that we remain ensconced till all new cases and deaths are eliminated. That is obviously insane. But perhaps not to whoever is paying the shrink.
Our betters have decided for us that our only worthwhile goal is that of not getting sick. The pleasures and aspirations of life are now subservient to avoiding a germ at all costs. Even shaking hands is to be forever forbidden. If only we could wash them of these self-important pests.
These vermin would have ordered Christ to let the cup pass. After all, who knows where it had been? If nothing else, they’d have had Romans wear gloves and disinfect the nails. Fortunately, by all accounts, St Dismas hung more than six feet away.
But buds of hope strive to bloom amid these crowns of thorns…even as our leaders stand guard, clippers at the ready.
Like a tourist among Roman Gypsies, we keep one ear on the chattering classes…and both hands on our wallet. But thru this Triduum, our attention has shifted inward, and upward.
Till today, Holy Week offered heavenly weather. Sweaters on in the morning, and shed by lunch. Clouds vanished and humidity hibernated. The sun monopolized the afternoon sky. At night, a brilliant Easter moon dimmed the light of a billion stars.
This week was also our sons’ Easter Break. I originally planned to take it with them, but quarantine caused me to re-consider. With nothing open and nowhere to go, what was the point?
I then realized that was the point. Alexander and David have no place to go and no one to see. And opportunities for us to share time are dwindling. I re-considered my re-consideration, and took the week off.
This was Alexander’s last Easter Break of high school, tho’ at this rate it may continue all summer. Because we can’t go anywhere doesn’t mean we can’t do anything. If nothing else, we have seeds to plant, meals to share, games to play. And time to talk.
While we despair that it is forced, our isolation is a blessing. We are truly alone. Cardinals, Jays, and Goldfinch fly and perch among the maple, birch, and hickory whose refurbished foliage shields all neighbors from view. We can focus on each other, share laughs, and exchange thoughts.
We will try to make this Easter as normal as possible. Inclement weather is expected thru the day, but our cellar is full, the table is set, and our bunker is secure.
We ordered food from Table & Main, one of our favorite restaurants in Old Roswell. Our Walla Walla contingent has supplied us with fine wine, and rest of our extended family will furnish ample grist for our conversational mill. We will speak nothing of them we wouldn’t say if they were here. We only wish that they were.
Somewhere, a Bunny may roll away a stone, pop from his hole…and let us know whether to expect six more weeks of internment. Whatever the answer, we’ll manage.
The world may be going to Hell, with elected lunatics and bureaucratic tyrants pushing the handcart. But this Easter morning, behind ominous storm clouds, the sun is rising. As with any silver lining or ray of hope, just because we can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
Blessed are those who believe, yet do not see.
JD
