I was up north at our beloved seminary in Wisconsin. Daily we met, maybe 25 of us, for Morning and Evening Prayer. It was on the grass, with graceful tall trees around us. The authorities had done well: putting out plastic markers and chairs in a grid, “socially distant” from each other. We wore masks. We sometimes chanted and sang. Students led the liturgies.
They were from Rite Two, done with dignity. Two lessons both morning and evening, each time Old Testament and New, were read.
The sunlight is longer up there, the orb rising at 5:30 and setting about 8:30. (Here in Dallas, it’s about 6:30 to 8:30.) By the time of Morning Prayer, we had already had more than two hours of sunlight.
Despite being outside, the services were slightly formal, proper and plain. We had a booklet for the week (which we were asked to keep and bring with us, rather than risk the paper becoming a locus of transmission of the Nasty V) (no, the Nasty V was not yours truly). The booklet laid out the services. A cork bulletin board, resting against the lectern, had Psalm and hymn numbers. So there were no announcements about sitting or standing or which page to turn to. Without oral instructions, we just did what we did, simply. When I didn’t know what to do, I looked around. All was well.
Simplicity was the key. Nothing fussy. Nothing to draw attention to oneself. God’s Word, spoken prayers, a slight breeze, sky, no stained glass, no musty church smell, the beauty of nature, the occasional bird cry . . .
. . . and mosquitoes.
I had forgotten how that part of our country is full of them. I think I must have faced the blood suckers on a childhood vacation, but if so it was followed by a diagnosable Suppression of Memory. All of which came back. We would be at a place in the service where it was time to cross oneself, and one’s hand slapped one’s neck, reached to the middle forehead, strayed over the left forearm for a quick brush, circled around one’s hair, returned to one’s chest, went down to brush one’s leg, and returned for the two points of the cross. There was a sign of the cross in there, honest.
Garrison Keillor once spoke of the ferocity of summer mosquitoes in Lake Wobegon. “Sometimes a crucifix helps,” he said, “but you have to hit them hard with it.”
People at times ask me if there will be animals in heaven. I try to cover my bets on that one, saying something vague like, if your own being has been tied up with your pets, then we might think of your resurrection as bringing them along with you.
No one has ever asked me if there will be mosquitoes in heaven.
I suppose, to be honest, I do think they might be there (perhaps along with cats). The Bible pictures the consummation of God’s rule as being marked by the lion lying down with the lamb. This seems to indicate that blood will not be shed in the world to come.
So: why not mosquitoes? Just remember, guys: no digging in my flesh for blood.
Out & about without going out yet. My book Friendship: The Heart of Being Human is now available. Amazon (a.k.a. Behemoth) has it and lists the author, helpfully, as “Austin.” You can get it other places too, for instance ChristianBook.com (which knows my Christian name, and where a new copy of Losing Susan is a dollar).
I’m eager to talk about friendship (or any other theological topic) to church groups and so forth, and glad to do so Zoomily during this time of the Nasty V. Just drop me a line if you’d like to schedule something.