“His prudence, patience, courage and energy made him the successful pilot of the ship of state in the unchartered waters into which she was launched.”
The person described here is John Winthrop, who was elected governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony in the 17th century. Winthrop had arrived with some 400 men, women, and children, settling around the Charles River, hoping for a better life, dreaming of establishing a “city on a hill.” They made it through those uncharted waters, but not quickly or easily: 200 of them died during the first winter and 80 more returned to England when spring mercifully arrived. Winthrop was certainly not immune from the diseases, discomforts, and disasters that killed almost half of those early colonists. The dead included his own son, 23-year-old, Henry. And Winthrop himself had to invest more and more of his own financial resources to keep the colony afloat.
During tough times, we look to those who can guide us through the uncharted waters, trusting them to avoid the rocks on the one hand and the shoals on the other.
And whether you are willing to admit it or not, someone, somewhere—a friend, a co-worker, a family member—is looking to you, for at least some degree of guidance as we navigate through uncharted waters.
Some pretend the danger is just not there, until reality is forced upon them. It was only last week that Georgia’s governor finally admitted he had discovered what he said was for him a “game-changer,” the truth that asymptomatic people can give other people coronavirus. Still, he, along with 12 other governors, (at the time of this writing) allow people to contract the virus at churches, where exceptions are made in those states for shelter-in-place orders.
On the other hand, some isolate themselves from others when forms of contact, like internet and phone, can be utilized, choosing instead to obsess over the latest news, paralyzed by fear.
How can we, like John Winthrop, respond with prudence, patience, courage, and energy? How can we engage in healthy activism and not fatalistic pessimism? How can we lead others, if only in our own household, through these uncharted waters?
Certainly, by fighting the disease where it is weakest: its inability to move on its own. We can practice social distancing; we can wash our hands; we can love others enough to stay away from them; we can stay as healthy as we are able.
But there’s an inner resource we can tap into that goes deeper than clean hands, social distancing, and healthy lifestyles. It’s the ancient practice of prayer and meditation.
Believers have said for years, “prayer is the greater work;” “prayer is our greatest power;” “prayer moves the hand that moves the world.” Perhaps it’s time for us to practice what we’ve been preaching.
If we really believe prayer does change things, why not go to our rooms, seclude ourselves for a while, and actually pray?
That doesn’t mean we are non-communicative. We can worship online, help each other over the phone, meet the urgent needs of some as we are able. But all of that is predicated upon the claim that believers have access to the very One who spoke the universe into existence. Why not commune with the creator and sustainer of all?
In so doing, we would be walking in an age old path of finding peace, wisdom, and renewed perspective by focusing on the Eternal. Jesus of Nazareth did it, for the Scriptures tell us that his habit, in the pattern of the prophets and mystics of ancient Israel, was to rise early and retreat to deserted places and pray alone.
Jesus’ example was followed by those in the burgeoning Christian movement who practiced prayer and meditation, flowering in churches and in deserted places alike, finding order centuries later through contemplatives like John Cassian, Benedict of Nursia, and Bernard of Clairvaux.
Across the centuries, thousands of these men and women have retreated and prayed, believing themselves to be a part of an activist movement that would change the world for Christ.
So today, when life is looking so very different for us all, we can do something by doing nothing, by going to our “cells,” as we stay at home. We can pray, and in the stillness, take action.
It’s humbling, I admit; but it can lead us through uncharted waters to higher ground, where we can stand together, shining like lights in a city on a hill.