Bonus Issue

During the bubonic plague, Isaac Newton worked from home because he understood the gravity of the situation. David Raimundo


Christ and the Coronavirus

Journaling to Save the World

By Alice Hodgkins

A few weeks ago (now I can’t remember how long) I started to work on an article to submit to the Et Cetera. It had nothing to do with the virus. It was about habitual journaling, rereading our own journeys, and encountering Jesus in the intimate particularity of our lives.

And now, my friends, we have a particular situation on our minds and in our lives. Oh boy, do we ever. We are in the midst of a narrative. We have never been more sure of that, but we have never been less sure what exactly that narrative is and where we are going.

So I think we are called to write. Not write think pieces as if we know what we’re saying—it’s not our job to have all the answers, to see and understand everything which surrounds and bombards us, but instead to trust that we serve One who does. And as I have felt more and more powerless and uncertain over the past days, a quiet, reasonable voice somewhere in the back room of my brain (which owes something both to the Holy Spirit and to my mother) keeps suggesting that perhaps the most radical act of trust and of defiance is to journal. Now is the time to record, to commit the particulars of our lives to posterity, even—perhaps especially—if that posterity is just our own selves rereading at the kitchen table next Monday.

Sure, I am motivated to journal because I love to write—that’s why picking up a pen is innately comforting to me—but journaling is good for my soul simply because I’m human. You too (as we have become intensely aware in the past weeks) are human, so you too can journal.

Journaling can be a reliable rhythm in the midst of uncertainty, but it also doesn’t have to be regular if that seems like pressure. Just let it catch your overflow. We all have a lot of overflow right now, in the form of thoughts or feelings or some lethal combination of the two, so flush yourself out onto a page.

And while I’m being didactic, do it on paper. You will be staring at screens for just about everything else in the coming weeks and months. In journaling, allow paper to be a gift, a separate and reliable space, a room which can be as full or empty as you please, a home.

If you’re not sure where to begin, catalogue stories of normalcy (both what it used to look like and what it begins to look like now), pour out incoherent fears then teach yourself to refashion them as prayers, transcribe the inane and odd conversations of your household, make lists of people, of places, of books, of thoughts which might be brilliant or might be delusional, of chores that need doing, of the promises of God.

Journaling may calm and teach you, but even if it doesn’t do those immediately and obviously, it is still worth doing because it is a saving of things. I recently reread my current journal beginning-to-end. By design, it contained much of my emotional pus and fluids of the last nine months. Sometimes it was downright gross. But I also wasn’t aware how often my journal shifted to prayer. I didn’t know how often I was thankful. Sometimes my words were so pumped full of joy they could float off the page. Ultimately, every single scribbled fragment, when I read it back later, was a tangible reminder of God’s agency in my life. 

I am now very certain that every word I write—every sloppy, angry, grateful, unintelligible, lost word—will one day, perhaps tomorrow or perhaps in thirty years, serve as a beacon to me of God’s abiding faithfulness.

So save it all, my friends. Words are not a resource we are in danger of depleting. Do the hard work of rendering these heavy days onto the page, where I am thoroughly convinced their terror and wonder will testify to the blinding-bright goodness of God in ways we cannot begin to imagine.


The Inside

Anonymous

And as I slept, I dreamed a dream.

Water ankle deep. Scummy, muddy stuff, salted and bitter. Stretching to every horizon. Dome of slate grey sky overhead. And in every direction stones. Crumbled ruins of rocks that once, perhaps, fitted together. Half arches and toppled pillars. Moss and barnacles, pitted by time and wear.

The sky growing vaguely transparent in places. Ivory towers and gleaming pleasure domes visible. The collected, affable, smiling Outside. The devastated, eroded, unsupportable Inside.

An approaching figure. Wading boots and work clothes, short and scraggly beard. Slightly smelly.

“How you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Well, what are we gonna do?”

“Nothing. I’m done.”

“Interesting.” Wrinkled hands on pitted stone, stone on top of stone.

“They don’t go together.”

“We might make it work.”

“I doubt it.”

“I know it.”

Moss and waterlogged granite under my fingers.


Silence and Solitude

By Amos Bohoussou

My soul finds rest in silence and solitude. / The places where I can be alone with you. / You shape my attitude. / You are my fortitude. / You are my song. / With you, where can I go wrong? / You give me music. / Without you, I'm love sick. / You inspire my every tune. / And with your Spirit, I remain in tune. / May I be real, by being still. /  Quenching not thy Spirit, but ready to do thy will. / May waiting on you and expecting you be my thrill. /  So my soul why art thy nervous? Chill. / Finding rest in the Lord is the best. / So  when the storms come, this is no fable, you'll be able to handle any test. / Confidently saying to your tribulations: Checkmate. Just like in a game of chess.

*Say Numbers 6:24-26 afterwards.


Bright the Donkey

By Erica Bowler

King Balak was worried - worried and glum

He needed advice, so he went to his Mum.

“Darling boy,” she said, “I’m so glad you’ve come!

What’s wrong? Stop sucking your thumb!”

“I can’t help it,” he said, “It’s these Israelites!

They killed the Canaanites and the Amorites,

They conquered Bashan, and slaughtered King Og.”

“That porky fellow, who looked like a hog?”

“That’s him,” nodded Balak, “they killed all his sons,

Now they’re coming right here - tons of them! Tons!

Great numbers! Millions of Israelites!

They’ll gobble us up like giant termites!

Everyone is scared stiff of this crew.

What’s to be done? What should I do?”

“Dearest, don’t get in a flap.

I know a fellow, a wonderful chap.

Your father used to call on him

To curse people when times were grim.

He’s a diviner of the dark arts

From Pethor, in the northern parts.

He’s a bit odd - a sort of ‘black sheep’

His curses are good, but they don’t come cheap.”

“Never mind!” Cried Balak, “I’ll happily pay!”

I’ll send envoys out to him right away!”

So diplomats were sent to deliver

A summons to Balaam, who lived upriver.

They found the diviner and gave him a purse

Of gold to buy his finest curse.

“I’d like to sleep on it for a night,”

Balaam replied, but then at first light

He told them: “I’m sorry, I cannot go.

I’ve spoken with God, and he has said ‘No.’”

When his consuls returned, the king stamped his feet

Then he sent more ministers back tout-de-suite,

Ministers even more fine than the first -

He really wanted the Jews to be cursed.

“Please come with us,” they told him, “we’ll pay!

And our king will do whatever you say.

Just come and curse this Jewish horde,

And we’ll give you a rich reward.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I must do as I’m told

The Lord has said no - not for silver or gold.

But stay the night, and I’ll ask him again.”

Then he turned on his heel and left the fine men.

That night, the Lord God spoke in his ear

“Since these royal consuls are here,

Go with them, but make sure when you do

That you only act as I tell you to.”

The very next day, Balaam saddled his steed

Then he went with the envoys as God had decreed.

“Maybe now God will let me curse all the Jews,”

Thought Balaam as he tied up his shoes.

God was angry with Balaam, so later that day,

He sent an angel to block Balaam’s way.

Around noon, the angel of the One Lord,

Stood in the road and drew out his sword.

Balaam’s donkey, a female called Bright,

Saw the fierce figure and bolted in fright,

She ran off the road to a field of wheat,

And the Seer, shocked, nearly lost his seat!

He turned her around with an angry kick

And beat his mount with his riding stick.

Balaam urged his steed on with whips and wrath

Up ahead, the angel stood on a path

Walled on both sides near grapevines and rye.

Bright the donkey tried to squeeze by,

Keeping close to the walls, she crushed Balaam’s toes.

Her master was angry; he struck her with blows

Balaam’s eyes blazed, his cheeks were brick red

Meanwhile the angel moved on ahead.

To a narrow place that Bright could not pass.

She lay down, and Balaam beat the poor ass.

Then the Lord opened the donkey’s lips

“Why do you beat me with rods and with whips?”

“Because you’ve been making a fool out of me!

See how my servants giggle with glee?”

And that,” said Balaam, “I cannot allow”

“If I had a sword, I would kill you right now!”

“You’ve ridden me since you were four,”

She said, “Have I ever done this before?”

“No,” he replied, a trifle surprised.

Then the Lord God opened his eyes.

He saw the angel and promptly fell down

He muddied his coat and sullied his gown.

“Why have you beaten your donkey with blows?”

A voice boomed out, “I’ve come to oppose

You because you’ve chosen a reckless way.

I would have killed you by now today

If your donkey had not avoided me,

And then I would have set her free.”

“I have sinned,” said Balaam, “I did not see

That you had come today to oppose me.

If my journey to Moab offends you today

I will turn back to my home right away.”

The figure frowned at the man on the ground,

Who quivered and shivered but made not a sound.

“Go!” Said the angel, “But say what I tell you,”

So the ass went on (and his donkey went too).

When Balaam arrived, the king (who was bald)

Asked: “Why didn’t you come when first called?

Why did you stall? Why the delay?

Did you think that I could not pay?”

“Well, I’ve come to you now - down to the south

But I can only say what God puts in my mouth.”

“Whatever,” said Balak, “Come with me, champ!”

They climbed a large hill, and below was a camp

Of Israelite folk, all sound asleep.

Balaam took seven bulls and he took seven sheep,

He made seven altars, and then with a sword

He sacrificed them all to the Lord.

Then Balaam declared, in a speech unrehearsed,

“I cannot curse those whom God has not cursed!”

I can’t contradict what Yahweh has said.”

So Balaam cursed not, but blessed them instead.

“What have you done?” Yelled the king in surprise.

“I asked you to curse them, not bless those guys!”

Balak took Balaam to two other views,

Hill tops where he could examine the Jews.

Old Balaam felt trapped by the king’s demand,

Who asked him to do what Yahweh had banned.

But Balaam kept blessing the Jewish bands.

This angered the king, who clapped his loud hands

To shut Balaam up, but the man at his side

Wouldn’t stop! Balaam kept blessing them far and wide

He bellowed the blessings God would bestow

On his people, and the foul fate of their foe.

The king was outraged, but sadly he knew

There was nothing at all that he could do.

The seer Balaam returned to his land,

Having done all that the Lord God had planned.

Epilogue

Although Balaam obeyed God that day

Later on, the man turned away.

He opposed the people of the Lord

And died in battle by the sword.

The donkey’s tale has a happier tone,

(Although her fate is not well known).

Bright the brave donkey lived a long life,

Cared for by Balaam’s children and wife,

Many years later, one of her heirs

Carried God’s servant up several stairs,

In Jerusalem, where the humble Christ

Brought blessings and peace through his sacrifice.

RCSA