“Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful, for I have taken refuge in you; in the shadow of your wings will I take refuge until this time of trouble has gone by.” Psalm 57:1
To take refuge in God is an utterly un-American thing to do.
I was reminded of this two weeks ago, when I found it incredibly difficult to make the decision to cancel my flight plans for a trip I was eager to take. My grown-up self knew that cancellation was the responsible action to take. After all, I co-pastor a parish with a large number of vulnerable members -- seniors and folks with preexisting conditions. These folks would be highly susceptible to the coronavirus or any of the other assorted bugs I might manage to bring back with me from airports, planes, or my destination.
Nevertheless, canceling the trip was like prying an iPad out of the hands of an infatuated toddler. My inner child was screaming, “This is MINE, you hear me? I want it, I planned it, I am going to make it happen.”
As I wrestled with whether to clip my wings, I was unsettled by the force of my emotional reaction. Put simply, it doesn’t feel good to stay grounded. I’ve grown so accustomed to flying whenever I feel like doing so. I felt frustrated, with no one towards whom to direct my frustration. It does little good to get mad at a virus, even as it painfully reveals my self-serving tendencies and childish entitlements.
As someone who regularly preaches about how we ought to take up our cross, be servants of all, and love our enemies, I would have hoped that curtailing my freedom of flight for the sake of others’ well being would have come more, well, naturally. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Like many Americans -- especially my fellow white Americans -- I’ve been nurtured my whole life to react badly to the elimination of choices.
The dominant American culture has taught me that as a middle-class white woman, I should be able to fly freely wherever I’d like to go, without a care in the world. Growing up in this society, I absorbed the message that I’d be able to go anywhere and do anything on which I set my heart. I was taught that freedom is about removing the limits and boundaries placed on my choices, regardless of the cost to others. I was taught that I was the master of my fate.
This narrative is at odds with another story that has captured my imagination since childhood. It’s the story Jesus tells about costly discipleship. This is a story about solidarity with the vulnerable, and the ultimate sacrifice which such solidarity can demand. It is a story about choosing a countercultural commitment to love our neighbors as ourselves, over the soul-crushing individualism of our world. It is a story with prophetic values: Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly with God.
It’s clear that America’s flight path isn’t characterized by justice, mercy and humility. On the contrary, our airspace is dangerously crowded by obstacles like inequity, oppression, and pride. With each decision that values the individual’s whims over the good of the whole, we careen closer to communal catastrophe.
As we face a pandemic, we might find ourselves praying for God to be merciful. Yet we are hypocrites if we pray this way while remaining passengers on the plane of self-satisfaction. The mercy of God bids us recognize our own vulnerability, and our responsibility to our fellow fragile beings. We are invited to release control and fall from soaring self-importance into mercy’s embrace.
Mother God waits for us with wings outspread, ready to gather her whole brood to her breast. In the shadow of God’s wings, we can take refuge from trouble. Here we find that each one of us is only safe insomuch as all the others take seriously the sacred charge to care for the wellbeing of the whole human family. Here, we can be still, as we cease our endless, frenetic indulgences which are hurting those who are most vulnerable.
Together in God, we can nurture the health of our communities by slowing down, staying home, only buying the food and supplies we absolutely need, and checking in on those members who are alone or especially vulnerable. We can practice interdependence as we pray for those who are sick, for medical professionals, and for those who are caring for loved ones. We can interrupt injustice as we financially support those who stand to suffer most because of the inequity in our healthcare and economic systems.
Taking refuge in God is an utterly un-American thing to do. And it is what will save us.