My House is Jesus
In an exclusive “Fairy Tale News” Special Report, Prairie Dawn interviews a bright pink pig wearing a yellow hard-hat and wielding a suitcase three-times his size labeled, "Wolf Preparedness Kit." Two of his compatriots (who just completed construction of a straw and stick house respectively) are leisurely playing a game in the background. Dawn brings the microphone to the pig, "Excuse me sir, what kind of emergency are you preparing for?" The pig answers, "Haven't you read our story? The Big Bad Wolf! You never know when he'll show up and huff and puff and try to blow your house down." One of the pigs in the background stops his game, choosing this moment to shout across at his friend (in a perfect Brooklyn accent, I might add): "You worry too much! The Big Bad Wolf will never show up here, this is Sesame Street!"
You, of course, know the moral of this story (beside the fact that we're watching more than the American Academy of Pediatrics' recommended allotment of television for a child under five in our house this week). The moral is that sometimes, the Big Bad Wolf does show up, even at Sesame Street.
And while watching this above scene, seated next to my toddler at the breakfast table and trying to swallow a mouth-full of much needed coffee after a night of more anxiety than sleep--I almost spit out my carefully-brewed Parent Juice. Talk about unexpected poignancy.
You see, I'm a worrier. I always have been, and I imagine I always will be in this world of the "now, but not yet." Anxiety is my constant companion; Doubt, a known colleague. In my struggle to know and understand these two characters, I've learned they have some functional uses: they're nice to take to work with me in my job as a lawyer—the gift of forethought, planning, being able to identify contingencies, weak spots, build a tight legal argument, think through a problem all the way to its logical end so there are no loose ends, the tidy knots written in beautiful script. Thanks, Anxiety. Thanks, Doubt. But what happens when the Big Bad Wolf comes huffing and puffing to my home? I can hear him at our door. Anxiety and Doubt are crippling, brutal companions to have in my house. I want to tell them to get out.
"Haven't you read this story?" the pig asks. "This story, the one we're in?" I ask. No, none of us have! The Coronavirus is here. Social distancing is here. Loss of income is here. Way-more time-with-my-toddler-than-I'm-used-to is here. And Suffering, Death, and Grief--those Biggest Baddest Wolves of all--are huffing and puffing outside, and I'm afraid I'm that other pig, the one shouting, "But not here! This is Greenville! This is the United States! This is my home! This is Sesame Street!" And I'm worried my house is built of straw, and I've been looking around, and I can't find my over-large suitcase labeled, "Wolf-Preparedness Kit."
But then, in a moment of pause, in a moment of gripping anxiety where all I can do is breathe in, and breathe out, I remember that my house is not made of straw. It is made of brick. My house is Jesus. My suitcase: the past experience of all the saints.
So I remember, when Anxiety turns into my enemy: call a friend. Call a counselor. Read a poem. Drink a hot cup of tea. Put my face outside, and let spring remind me who the Author of Resurrection is. When Doubt about God's love for this world grips me, I remember those ancient church fathers and mothers who practiced meditative prayer: breathe in, "I believe," breathe out, "forgive my unbelief." We will all be touched by the Coronavirus pandemic, and it will bring grief. I'm going to fill up my preparedness kit with Psalms and Laments, with the voices of friends and martyrs, with new rhythms and prayer, and I'm going to remember that no matter what happens, I live in the house of Jesus. And He is Love.
"Most loving Father, you will us to give thanks for all things, to dread nothing but the loss of you, and to cast all our care on the One who cares for us. Preserve us from faithless fears and worldly anxieties, and grant that no clouds of this mortal life may hide from us the light of that love which is immortal, and which you have manifested unto us in your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." (BCP 2019, a Prayer For Trustfulness in Times of Worry and Anxiety, pg. 670)