I have enjoyed reading Peter Stanford’s book Martin Luther Catholic Dissident. Standford describes himself as ‘a cradle Catholic’ yet he finds much to admire in Luther and is comfortable with many of his teachings and practice. He is particularly impressed that often Luther worked through immense pressures which included periods of ill-health. In 1517 it is possible that Luther caught a virus that was sweeping through Germany. Luther was living in Wittenberg at the time and conditions became so bad that people were leaving the town in droves. Luther stayed. Standford writes: ‘Luther refused to leave the town. He was willing, in this as in other matters, to trust to God.’
There is a similar story in the life of the Swiss Reformer Ulrich Zwingli. In 1519 he took a break from his ministry in Zurich. That was disturbed when he heard that the plague was rampant in Zurich killing, it is estimated, one in three people. Zwingli returned to minister to the sick and the dying until he was stricken down himself. In time he recovered and wrote a hymn part of which explored his personal plague experience:
‘Will you, however, that death take me in the midst of my days, so let it be.
Do what you will, nothing shall be too much for me.
Your vessel am I, to make or break altogether.’
We can think too of Father Damian, the Belgian priest, who for sixteen years was pastor to the lepers quarantined on the Hawaiian peninsula of Molokai. In the course of time he contracted the disease but continued to share the consolations of the Gospel until his death in 1889.
It may have been examples like the above which led Pope Francis when addressing the present crisis to say:
‘May priests have the courage to to get out, going to the sick to being the comfort of God.’
Bearing in mind the restrictions the Italian government and others were bringing in to combat the virus this brought criticism from many quarters. Whatever you might think, his comments highlight a struggle that many involved in the pastoral work of the Church are experiencing at this time. And not just the ‘clergy’. The hearts of many Church members are going out to the sick and vulnerable at this time but are frustrated in their desire to draw near to them. Over the last year I have known that frustration. I’ve heard of people sick and bereaved and been unable to engage with them at a level to which I have been accustomed.
I’m tempted to say that in the end it is up to individuals to make up their own minds how they should show their care for others at this time. But more and more this freedom is being curtailed. Care Homes are in lockdown, crematoriums are admitting only five people for services, churches are closed even for private prayer. What we have to remember is that this is not just for our good but the good of others. The point I was making yesterday about faith involving our responsibility to others is relevant here. Everything within us wants to be with those who are suffering but what may be the consequences of those visits for others? Might the visitor become a carrier? And we have seen in so many public information broadcasts how quickly the virus spreads.
Thinking of ministers and priests in particular, we may not be able to visit but we should have some confidence in the teaching we have provided for God’s people in the past. We have preached the living Word that speaks of a God who has drawn near to suffering humanity in the person of Jesus Christ. He has promised to be working out His good purpose for all His people in every circumstance. He has shown in the sacrifice of Jesus that His love never fails even in the face of death. He has assured His people of a place in His Eternal Kingdom through the Resurrection of Jesus. We have preached this message. Do we have the faith that it has taken root in the hearts of men and women and is their consolation and inspiration in these challenging days whether we are able to visit them or not?
W.B. Yeats has a poem about an old priest called Father Gilligan. He is under great pressure: ‘For half his flock were in their beds,/Or under green sods lay.’ It sounds as if the community was in the grips of some epidemic. He receives a call to visit yet another of his people who is dying. As he wearily prays in his chair before the visit he falls asleep. Eventually he awakes in a panic. What if the poor man has died? When he arrives at the home he is greeted by the wife who is surprised to see him. Hasn’t Father Gilligan already called and eased her husbands passage into Eternity through his ministry? Father Gilligan is led to believe that some heavenly visitation has occurred:
'He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of His great angels down
To help me in my need.
'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care,
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'
I’ve often thought of that poem. Those we are unable to visit can still know the presence of ‘He who hath made the night of stars/For souls who tire and bleed’ and know the peace that only He can bring. And of great reassurance to those of us called to care but frustrated by our limitations:
'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care,
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'
