https://www.al.com/news/2020/05/the-coronavirus-war-prayer.html
The (Coronavirus) War Prayer
Mark Twain still has a thing or two to say (Images from "The Adventures of Mark Twain" and AP)
This opinion column is written with deepest apologies to the singular Mark Twain, and the story he allowed this world to see only after he was dead and gone from it.
It was a time of suffering and pain, for a Sickness had fallen on the land. It was a time of worry and unrest, of fear that financial ruin might truly be a fate worse than death. That was an opinion shared by many, if not the dying or the dead, who had other concerns. Great factories stood empty and great cathedrals echoed only of memory. Great chicken sandwiches were served through little holes in windows, or not at all. All the land grieved.
The land rightly grieved, for days that had passed endlessly before the plague, unappreciated and unremarkable in their moment. It grieved for jobs and shopping trips, for the lost joys of lingering over serendipitous conversation at coffee shops, or poetry slams, or mingling in the gift shop at that restaurant with rocking chairs on the porch.
The land grieved for a million reasons, each as important to the mourner as the 999,999 others that may or may not have been spoken aloud. The land grieved for dinners together and freedom to travel and days that passed as they always had. The people longed for the simple act of gathering in those cathedrals to thank God for answered prayers.
But the elders had banned such gatherings in the name of "safety," and "conscience," and "human lives." There could be no holding hands and singing, no passing of the Body and Blood, no communion of the faithful, or the like-minded, except on cold and flickering screens where images of men and women passed for flesh and blood.
In one such virtual congregation the visage of a minister of a gospel stood at his pulpit, praying a fervent prayer:
Thank you Jesus, our Savior and Lord, for all you provide. We ask for just a little this day…
But a little turned into quite a bit in a service in which there was no rush for members to beat the denomination down the street to the cafeteria. The parson pushed on. He asked Jesus to allow people to return to work, to go about their businesses as always. He asked that leaders trust in Him and allow freedom to ring in movie houses and beauty shops, in bowling alleys and used car dealerships and beaches from sea to shining sea. He asked for businesses to open and customers to stream in, and for profits to well up like a mighty spring.
It was a powerful prayer, spoken to the moment, and at home members watched it roll out in their living rooms and bedrooms – and in one deacon's case a bathroom. The people said "Amen," and "preach," and in that toilet it was whispered "damn right."
It was at that moment that the screens themselves began to flicker, and the visage of the parson burst, like a bomb, and another image zoomed in. A sad man, swarthy and barefoot stood behind the pulpit now. But his eyes glowed in a way that made those at home hold their breath.
"I have been sent by God to answer your prayer," he said. "If that is what you really want."
He said God heard the parson's words, and heard the same thoughts echo in the hearts of the members. He told them to be careful, because prayers for one's self are often curses to others.
"I have been sent to tell you the full scope of your prayer, and the words unspoken."
He bowed his head, and began to pray:
Lord our Father, we beseech Thee, declare our lives more worthy than the aged or infirm, than any who might perish so that we may return to ways that are more comfortable. Let them gasp for air, for we are afraid of losing status. Let them be martyrs, collateral damage in our campaign to dine out when we want, to cut and shampoo and bowl as we please. Let our grandmothers die alone, so our lives do not have to change. Let our neighbors and uncles and aunts and even our children succumb, so our other sons may play sports before crowds.
Let us return to normal quickly to recover our losses, Lord, even if it causes this plague to persist. Allow us to feel good about that, Lord. Let our cries of "freedom" wash our sins away.
We ask it all in love. Amen.
The mysterious figure paused then.
"You asked for it," he said. "If you still want it, say so. God awaits."
--
They decided later the man was probably crazy. Or maybe a member of the Deep State.
John Archibald, a Pulitzer Prize winner, is a columnist for AL.com. His column appears in The Birmingham News, the Huntsville Times, the Mobile Register, Birmingham Magazine and AL.com. Write him at jarchibald@al.com.
-- Sent from my Linux system.
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