But where can wisdom be found? Where does understanding dwell? No mortal comprehends its worth; it cannot be found in the land of the living. The deep says, ‘It is not in me’; the sea says, ‘It is not with me.’ It cannot be bought with the finest gold, nor can its price be weighed out in silver.
Job 28.12-15
A common question over the span of the Coronavirus has been whether or not you have acquired any new COVID skills. I am a Chaplain and teacher at Casady School, one of our Episcopal schools in Oklahoma City. I can tell you without hesitation that Casady made the intentional decision to ‘not let a good crisis go to waste’, and we’ve been trying to accrue new skills—mostly around education and technology. For instance, we’ve been seating only a fourth of our students in the Chapel and streaming to the other three-fourths. That’s been one of the skills I’ve been forming; I’m a TV preacher now! I have become more naturally aware of both audiences: the ones present in the room; and the ones watching via ‘the stream’. I comfortably talk to both, but it wasn’t always that way.
When it all started, I was angry about it. I felt vulnerable. I like a live audience—it’s the performer in me. I like the ability to read the room and make micro-adjustments to my tone and content, as might warrant. When I’m speaking to people with masks on and into a camera lens, it robs me of that tool and the ability to have some modicum of control. I felt more alone and vulnerable.
My paying gig aside, I also unwittingly learned to play the Irish Tenor Banjo during the last twelve months. I was tinkering when this whole mess started. But I was on the fence about whether or not to give it up. There’s an Irish Music Session that meets at The Patriarch Pub in Edmond on Monday nights, and I had been sitting-in on some of those sessions. The way those work is in concentric circles: the more accomplished players sit in the middle and lead; the lesser players sit on the outer circles and play more quietly, in accordance with one’s skill level. When a song comes up that you are confident playing louder, you do. And when you’re successful the ‘session’ celebrates it. Adversely, when you are playing beyond your skill level, they’ll let you know, typically with grace and kindness.
During COVID I did not attend those Sessions because it was too hard to socially distance. Instead, I practiced at home. In fact—and you all are going to LOVE this—I often played during those interminable Zoom sessions we’ve all been learning to endure. I put my computer on an adjustable stand, banjo in my lap, muted the sound, and practiced. And lo’ and behold, I got better. I’m by no stretch proficient, but I’m not too shabby. I’m eager to re-emerge at The Patriarch this summer and ‘play-out’ just a smidge louder than before.
Spiritual growth has a similar calculus. There is a manner of comfortable living, and our skill sets conform to those familiar pathways. Lent reminds us that disruption is one of the things that forces us to recalibrate, introducing new vulnerabilities that hopefully lead to growth. I’m still unsure as to whether one can really schedule spiritual growth; but that’s another reflection, altogether. Suffice it to say that we should never let a good crisis go to waste, even the metaphorical ones that wait for us at the end of Epiphany.
—The Rev. Canon Tim Sean Youmans
Casady School and St. Paul’s Cathedral, OKC