June 1: Cleaning at Church, YMCA, Poem from "Kyrie"

In the evenings, my wife and I clean at two churches.

The pandemic has made the process of cleaning a little more complicated.  After the church is locked for the night, my wife and I sanitize the pews and bathrooms.  The process involves a spray bottle of bleach and rags.  All the high-touch surfaces are wiped down--the back rests, doors to the sanctuary, kneelers, sinks, and toilets.

Doing this cleaning is sometimes a grim reminder of how Covid-19 has changed even the way we worship.  Face masks now sit at the back of church where hymnals used to reside.  The bishop's directive for how to safely celebrate Mass is displayed prominently at the entrances.  The smell of antiseptic sits in the air like candle smoke.

To make the task a little lighter, I play music on my iPhone.  Show tunes.  Classic rock.  Old fashioned Christmas.  Star Wars soundtracks.  Bruce Springsteen.  Billy Joel.  The songs remind me to celebrate, even in the middle of a worldwide pandemic, and when my country is burning nightly with riots.  My spirit lifts, and I sing.

And isn't that what God wants us to do?  To rejoice in the world?  To lift each other up in times of strife?  That's what faith is all about.  Looking into each other's eyes and seeing beyond our differences.  Skin color.  Sexual orientation.  Religion.  Politics.  Faith is about finding what connects us all.  Makes us brothers and sisters.

Tonight, I chose a disco channel to listen to as my wife and I cleaned.  As we started wiping down the pews, the Village People started singing "YMCA."  I threw down my rag.  My wife threw down hers.  We started dancing, lifting our arms, yelling out the letters.  It was raucous and joyful and miraculous.

And then I looked up at the statue of the risen Christ hanging above the altar at the front of the sanctuary.  He had his arms raised in a "Y," looking as if he was dancing to the Village People with us.  That is the Jesus Christ I like to think about.  The one who drank wine at weddings.  Who laughed and danced, even in times of trouble.  Who probably told jokes.

Yes, the world can be dark and distressing and downright cruel.  But there are also times to raise your hands, clap, shout, and laugh, to drive out the darkness.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

. . . and a poem about celebrating in difficult times . . .

poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

Dear Mat, For the red scarf I'm much obliged.
At first I couldn't wear it--bright colors
draw fire--but now I can.  We took a shell
where three of us were washing out our socks
in a crater near my post.  Good thing
the sock was off my foot since the foot's
all to pieces now--don't you fret,
it could have been my head.  I've seen that here,
and then what use would be your pretty scarf?
The nurse bundles me up like an old man,
or a boy, and wheels me off the ward,
so many sick.  But the Enemy suffers worse,
thanks to our gawdam guns as Pug would say.
Victory will come soon but without me.