The Loneliness of a Faith Crisis and a Pandemic by Camden Chaffee
“Though the Christian may pray alone, he has the choir of the saints standing behind him.”
- Clement of Alexandria
As the light of the warm spring day sneaks into my living room through several large casement windows, I sit on the couch, my laptop opened on the coffee table. The recorded church service from the First Congregational UCC parish is displaced on the screen. For five weeks now, this has been the “new norm”, as congregations around the United States have suspended traditional, in-person worship services and turned to using internet applications as a medium to facilitate spiritual fulfillment. But what fulfillment, what nourishment, can come from staring at a screen with no social interaction? In the early Church, they studied theology together, lived communally, worked together, prayed together. The Church was a people. And in many ways, it still is. But during these times, where self-isolation is necessary for the safety and well-being of others, the Church is now a lonely individual.
Several months ago, I had been a nominated candidate for ordination within the United Methodist tradition; however, the Church’s recent decision on how they would address the LGBTQ community - coupled with other disagreements in theological discourse - caused me to re-evaluate my denominational affiliation. I found myself without a church home, and alone on my faith journey. After my leaving, during a lunch I had with one of my mentors, a retired member of the Church of the Brethren clergy, I told him how much pain and distress my decision had caused me. He explained to me that God works through human beings. We often see God the clearest through the works of others. During these unprecedented times, where we are faced with a global pandemic, isolation has placed me in the same predicament I was in, inhibiting me from seeing God, and recognizing his presence in the world.
Sundays, too, used to mean something to me. They used to provide me with an opportunity to fuel my spirituality and feel not so alone. My father died last year, and with a vivid clarity I can remember attending the Dunlap United Methodist Church the Sunday after, feeling a loneliness so heavy it was suffocating. But when I entered the building, I was welcomed by people who extended Christ’s love through warm embraces and just simply their physical presences. The late renowned priest and writer, Henri Nouwen, once noted that we must seek to outgrow loneliness with faith and hope; but faith and hope, I’ve found, is strengthened by community and social engagement. Nouwen himself struggled with an almost compulsive need for interpersonal connection. I often wonder how he would’ve felt during these times. Where would he have found God? What would he have done on a Sunday? How would he have coped with the loss of his beloved Church? Sundays gave me a chance to be in communion with my fellow man, with my brothers and sisters who shared with me the love of Christ. Sundays allowed me, like Nouwen, to feel God through people, and to not succumb to a terrible loneliness.
One of my dear friends, Ralph, a former Unitarian minister, sent me a note recently, detailing his life altered by the COVID-19 crisis. Now, in his 80s, he has realized that many of his friends and fellow members of that age group will die before this pandemic is over, before personal interactions can be restored. His life has been devoted to helping people, to caring for people. He once said that the sole purpose of religion is to alleviate pain and suffering, and provide hope and comfort in times of adversity. This pandemic has crippled his ability to serve others and be with them in their times of need. “It gets lonely,” he writes to me.
As I sit at home, spending my days attempting to adjust to the new normal, I often think of those who have impacted me, who lived saintly lives but died human deaths. I like to think that they are still with me - walking with me, standing with me - in my times of severe loneliness. My grandmother died several months ago, while I held her hand and sang her favorite hymns to her. The last words I heard her speak (“You mean so much to me”) continue to ring loudly in my ears. If there is such a thing as a saint, one that intercedes at the hand of God, I am sure that my grandma prays for me, prays with me. If there is a plane of existence outside that on earth, I am sure that she, along with my dad, walk with me and are present with me during these times in which I struggle, where I stumble and fall. But I don’t know if such things exist. Perhaps I am just truly alone.
A very good friend of mine, the Reverend Adam Ericksen, pastors a progressive United Church of Christ congregation in Portland, Oregon. When he was 20, he lost his mother to cancer, and began a period of questioning and discernment regarding God’s plan for his life. I asked him once how he navigated through life after such a great loss, and how he dealt with the many questions and uncertainties he had. “Through people,” he said. “And through the God I saw in people.”
Now, in my living room, the pastor on my computer screen speaks. She offers comfort and reassurance during these unprecedented times. “In Christ Jesus you will never be alone,” she says. But as tears fall down my face, I start to doubt.