I have been wondering recently what we will say about our pandemic experience after it is all over. When we look back on this time, with the perspective of months or years, what will we say? What stories will we tell?
I listen sometimes to Richard Rohr, a Franciscan Friar, who writes and speaks a lot about spiritual things. I heard him say that there was surprisingly little written about the great flu pandemic of 1918. The reason, he gathered, was because people were ashamed of themselves. Some people abandoned their families. Many people acted in selfishness and fear. And after it was all over, they were too ashamed to speak of it. They only wanted to forget about it.
If we are honest with ourselves, each one of us can probably identify with that in some way. There have been times in our lives that we were not our best selves – far from it. There have been chapters in our lives that we have chosen to forget, somehow – by rewriting the story; by deciding it was unimportant; by literally blocking it from our conscious memory.
We tell a lot of stories that are untrue. We learn at a young age. Many families have unwritten codes about what sorts of things can be talked about, and what topics are off-limits. Some things are just too painful to say out loud. Sometimes we cannot admit the truth because it feels like the truth will break us – shatter us into a million pieces.
Pain frightens us; fear hurts us; and it becomes hard to get out of this cycle of dishonesty.
But all over the world, in all kinds of circumstances, people find that truthful storytelling has the power to heal; that truth will, indeed, set us free.
This was so in South Africa, in the years after apartheid was dismantled. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission provided a space for both victims and oppressors to tell their stories and be heard.
This is so in every 12-Step group, where addicts practice telling their story as an essential part of their recovery.
Telling our story is a healing art, drawing a thread through the events of our lives and shedding light on them. This is why the scriptures are full of stories, especially the gospels.
Matthew tells a lot of stories about healing in his gospel. In this one he tells about two blind men who are following Jesus. They are crying out, “Have mercy on us, Son of David.” And they follow Jesus into a house, where he turns and speaks to them. He asks them if they believe. They say they do. And then he heals them. Their eyes are opened, their sight is restored. He tells them to stay quiet about this, but they promptly go out and start telling everyone they see.
I don’t know why they did that. Nor do I really understand why Jesus seemed to be always ordering people to keep his healings secret. In reality, you cannot keep these kinds of things secret – they are too awesome to hide. Possibly, the men who had received their sight simply found it impossible to be obedient. And possibly, Jesus was only trying to control the chaos that will undoubtedly follow when people learn there is a really effective miracle worker in the vicinity.
But the question that ought to be asked is why did Matthew tell the story this way? Why are these particular elements of the story important?
One detail that is easy to overlook comes at the beginning of the story: Two blind men are following Jesus. They have already latched onto him as disciples before he even speaks to them. Before they have seen him, they know who he is – Son of David, they call out to him. The Messiah.
They enter a house with him, a place where there may be some privacy, and he speaks to them. Do they believe? He asks. Yes, Lord, they say. We do believe. They come out of that house with their eyes opened.
The story tells us that, even though they had a disability they were able to believe. That even though they lacked eyesight they had a different, more powerful, kind of vision which enabled them to see Jesus as the Son of David, the Lord. In fact, maybe it was because they were blind that they could see and have faith.
Much as we might hate it, it is true that hardship can be a powerful teacher. Challenge can become opportunity for growth. Knowing – confessing – our weakness can increase our faith. Knowing who we are, in all our frailties and brokenness and scars, can help us know God. And telling our stories can help others know God.
When we are fully on the other side of this pandemic, what stories will we tell? We might choose to never talk about it – put it behind us and shut the door on it. Or we might, in some way, remain stuck in it – never letting go of the fear and anger that has been such a big part of it. But I hope we will look back at it and speak of it truthfully: speak of the great suffering we endured, the fear we felt and possibly the shame of acting not as our best selves, because we were afraid or angry.
I hope we will speak of the ways we were so interconnected, knowing that whatever way we chose to act, this would have an impact on others. For better or for worse.
I hope we will speak, too, of the beauty, the courage, the compassion we witnessed all around us.
And I hope that – even in the midst of this – we will know how God’s love and healing strength is woven through it all. There is much evil in this world – I will not deny that. But there is just as much, and more, good.
I hope when we tell our stories we tell the truth, because the truth will make us whole.
