Reflection: - Silently Sharing the Same Fears

Sometimes the lyric of a song enters the mind and plays it like a virtuoso improvising on a chosen theme. So, it was for me recently with some words from the Simon and Garfunkel song "Bookends"; - "Memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears." The song is about two men who have been lifelong friends sitting on opposite ends of a park bench (like bookends), both now elderly and sharing the setting of the sun. They are silent, locked into the beauty of what is before them, and also locked into themselves. Some fears do not have to be articulated to be shared - though perhaps the world would turn easier if they were. For so many people silence is the mask of their suffering.

Although it is subject to interpretation, as I hear the lyric, I sense that the silence of the men's fear is not chosen but somehow self-imposed - for either to speak would break the taboo, the unspoken rule - take their friendship into places they would rather not go. It is not an unfamiliar scenario. All human relationships have no go areas, and actually, many of them are closely linked with fear. The fear of being thought less of or the fear of insensitivity are fears that we all share to some degree, but there are other much more profound fears that remain unexpressed. The big one, of course, is the fear of death - our shared humanity and the fact that what we have is time limited. Another is the fear of being left alone - one day, the "bookends" which today are two will be one. But it wasn't either of these that the Simon and Garfunkel lyric brought into my mind ... it was the unlocking of the country and post-Covid society.

At one level, most of us are weary of the whole thing. I wonder how many irrelevant words have been devoted to Covid-19 since it first hit the headlines early in 2020? Expert following expert, passionately expressing their opinion as the 'death-count' (still) continues to rise. Fortunately, there is an 'off' switch ... by June 2020 I had stopped watching or listening to the news entirely, not because I wasn't interested, but because it was so relentlessly depressing. At home, at work, indeed everywhere, the only topic of conversation was Covid. Thankfully, we have now returned to also talking about the weather.

It is more difficult, however, to switch off fear. For eighteen months the Government's use of the media conditioned us to believe that if we didn't disinfect every surface, wash down our shopping and stay two metres from everyone, we were at risk of succumbing to disease and becoming extremely ill or worse. The advent of a vaccination, the fact that most have had their two jabs, and the lifting of major restrictions reverses that thought world and suggests life is returning to what it was before. The problem is, if we are honest, many of us are still, in the words of the song, 'silently sharing the same fear' ... we are still afraid.

The life of faith offers some resources to call upon when fear enters the mind; but it is not an instant antidote and we should not, in spite of voices that argue to the contrary, chide ourselves for our lack of faith when fear comes. Faith and fear can co-exist; no one should be judged for being afraid. So, that said, what are resources upon which we can call?

First, faith helps us to recognise that we are not alone in our experience. As we see people going out for meals, travelling abroad and abandoning masks, because of the conspiracy of silence, it is easy to fall into the trap of believing we are alone in our fear. We are not; we share our experience with countless others, but they remain invisible.

Acknowledging that we are not alone in our experience liberates us a little. As people of faith, our touchstone in this regard is the cross, for the cross is God's way of totally identifying himself with us. Here, in Christ, he stands in solidarity with us and descends into the depths of everything we feel. Here, we unambiguously understand that there is nothing to which God remains a stranger, either physical pain, or fear, or darkness, or a sense of the divine absence, or death itself. It is a fact of faith that doesn't answer the 'why' or immediately rescue us from the fears we feel, but it does change our experience in one crucial regard - God does not abandon us to it.

Second, faith provides us with perspective. We have just been through (and to some extent, are still passing though) an experience that has undermined our confidence in one another, because we could literally 'catch our death' from people that love us. The fears we have are therefore real, born from legitimate concern, because Covid-19 is an enemy we cannot see. Yet left to run unchecked, our fears can metastasize from legitimate concern to something very different. The step between caution and paranoia is short and steep. Caution wears a seat belt. Paranoia avoids cars. Caution washes with soap regularly. Paranoia avoids human contact. Caution prepares, plans, and develops strategies to act. Paranoia panics. Caution calculates the risk and takes the plunge. Paranoia never enters the water.

The perspective that faith provides finds its clearest expression in Psalm 46, the first of our readings. Having introduced a very frightening picture of some seismic events in the world, we come at last to the words, "Be still and know that I am God" - That is the reality upon which, as people of faith, we stand, knowing that "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble". To contemplate this may not remove our fear, but it will rob it of its power.

And finally, faith places our fears into the context of eternal things. When wrestling with the perennial question of why innocent people suffer, illumined by faith, Julian of Norwich argues that suffering opens the heart to trust and hope. In the mysterious designs of providence, she says, God can draw a greater good from suffering. This is the prelude to her affirmation that "all will be well, all manner of things shall be well".

It is tempting to interpret her words as a simple (and naïve) assertion that 'it will all be alright in the end', but we would be wrong to do so. It isn't about the end but the present moment. It is an assurance, to quote from our final hymn, that we held by God - "by gracious powers so wonderfully sheltered, and confidently waiting come what may; we know that God is with us night and morning, and never fails to meet us each new day."

The world is certainly scarier than it used to be, though perhaps so much more so if we were in Afghanistan, Gaza, South Sudan or in the crowded refugee camps of the world. It is, however, still a God-given world, and we are called to find faith's way within it.