The Lord protects the resident alien,
comes to the aid of the orphan and the widow,
but thwarts the way of the wicked. Ps. 146:9 (NABRE)
Beloved, remember you don’t belong in this world. You are resident aliens living in exile, so resist those desires of the flesh that battle against the soul. 1 Peter 2:11 (VOICE)
Throughout this attenuated pandemic season, the words “resident alien” have reverberated in my mind, and I’ve sought reassurance in how God views people in such straits as beloved. We are in a strange time and place, and we are loved.
Living in quarantine is foreign. It’s precarious and unprecedented. Even the magnitude and timing of the California fire season is “unprecedented” (possibly the most common word used to describe events since early spring). Like many people I feel vulnerable, much as resident aliens in the country often feel, though my circumstances are privileged. I hear friends who are similarly safe say, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m agitated a lot of the time.”
Resident aliens are vulnerable, seen as different, and not always welcomed. Creating a livelihood and learning the social ropes are arduous and can be risky tasks for the foreigner in our midst. These people are suffering acutely in this time.
In the pandemic, all of us, to some degree, are trying to discover our script for living in this unsettling season that buffets us with anxiety. Sheltering-in-place (while sometimes also sweltering-in-place) can make us more susceptible to anxiety than we might be ordinarily, and we’re bereft of common comforts, like being with friends and gathering for worship. We elbow-bump instead of hugging, and we pass the peace from one little on-screen window to the next—all good, but awkwardly distanced.
Some anxieties are related to genuine threats. People in our community have lost loved ones to the coronavirus. Many people have lost income or jobs and wonder how they will get by for another month. We register the ongoing anguish of racial inequality, call for change, and lament that injustice is so entrenched. As the fires spread, we pray for people, homes, and firefighters, wondering how many tragedies can compound at once. We have little control over any of these calamities, and too often the body politic seems unable to work together for the good of the whole.
Other anxieties are smaller, but also real. My own day-to-day vulnerability feels like the existential equivalent of going barefoot after long months in shoes. Remember that? After months of school, suddenly you shed your shoes and walk on floors, grass, and concrete with the tender soles of your feet. This year I’ve felt a similar tenderness when I venture out to a store or onto a freeway. I’m not used to being around strangers (or even friends). Their masked faces make them seem strange, and mine makes me feel like I’m underwater, my vision blurred from my warm breath on my glasses. Connections with people are buffered. I’m wary, self-protective. My social skin has thinned.
As a spiritual director, I often hear what to me sounds like a similar experience of vulnerability. People are more easily rattled by the news and irritated by inconveniences. Men and women who seldom weep find themselves suddenly doing so while reading, or when watching a movie. Anger ignites more quickly, and some people tell me about “bad” days when they can barely get out of bed by noon. The main forms of human vulnerability—physical, social, economic, and emotional—are all present in our current crisis, affecting different people in varying degrees, as we all feel like resident aliens in territory of the pandemic.
I believe there’s also a spiritual vulnerability affecting us, and it’s not all bad. As people of faith, we’ve been taught—through Scripture and elsewhere—to look for the opportunity in the crisis. We’re not told this in a minimizing, clichéd way which urges us to suppressive Stoicism, but rather by the One who calls us “Beloved.” We see this willingness to hope against hope in the disciples who, after fishing all night a few days after Jesus’ death, allow themselves to be encouraged by a kind stranger on the beach who shouts to them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. When one is despairing dashed hopes, God invites us to cast our nets on the other side of the boat.
I hear stories of that kind of faithful action in the lives of many people I listen to. One person told me of a long-held, unrequited hope which became a nearly impossible weight to carry, especially in quarantined times. To my amazement, instead of growing bitter, the person decided to take a different direction, embrace a different hope. In the darkness before dawn, the nets were cast on the other side of the boat. That person will always feel sadness about the hope not met, but also is finding true consolation in the new hope fulfilled. I’m witnessing this kind of tough hope in people I know, even—and maybe especially—in the pandemic.
We can’t gather in churches, concert halls, and sports stadiums, but gardens are benefitting from our sheltering, as are pets. There are spiritual opportunities in our vulnerability. Some of them, like gardening, are pleasurable and some, like facing our moral failures, are challenging. The pandemic has given us time to attend more carefully to our moral failures, such as that of the racism entrenched in our country and in our hearts. We see people seizing this opportunity for moral scrutiny by joining the anti-racism marches on our streets and reading more widely the writings of those different from themselves. Largely White churches are reading anti-racism books and committing to taking real action toward greater equality. Among my friends and in my heart, I witness true repentance for racial bias, coupled with the desire to be part of working for justice.
Pandemic living offers the possibility of more emotionally honest connection with God. We can bring it all to God: the vulnerability which makes us feel endangered, exposed, open, sensitive, and susceptible; the guilt for our prejudicial proclivities; the multitude of anxieties and fears which rise up so quickly; and, also, the experience of shame which at times floods us, for we’re not supposed to be vulnerable, capable of being hurt, or made to react strongly. Many of us during these quarantined days apologize for feeling irritable or sad when we’re not seriously impacted in financial or physical ways by the crisis. We feel ashamed of our anxiety when others are afflicted with the coronavirus or bankruptcy or discrimination. People who are in real jeopardy—financial, medical, or social—can feel ashamed of their despair, too, knowing that other people will view them in a better light if they tell their story as a hero’s journey of continued hope and perseverance. As a culture, we shame the vulnerable, one of the many afflictions resident aliens bear.
Shaming the vulnerable is not the Gospel message. Biblical scholars tell us that the crucifixion was not the most painful method of execution known to the Romans. It was the most shameful. God chose to be vulnerable and suffered the shaming that came with it. People who “don’t belong in this world” (1 Peter 2:11), like Jesus and ourselves, are capable of being physically or emotionally wounded—the definition of “vulnerable.”
The apostle Peter knew about being vulnerable, shamed, and not belonging, and encouraged us to resist the desires that may battle against our souls when we’re living as resident aliens (1 Peter 2:11). Fishing through that long night Peter felt discouraged. He probably felt ashamed by the failure to find fish. Jesus came to him in that darkness and encouraged him. In his vulnerability and despair, Peter took that courage to keep on fishing. At dawn, Jesus cooked him breakfast from the miraculous catch.
Just noticing what we’re tempted to think and feel in our coronavirus exilic state is helpful. If tempted to hide, we can seek out others whom we love and who love us. If we despair, we can have compassion for ourselves and pray to trust that God will protect us and come to our aid, even when we are vulnerable aliens (Ps.146:9).
What helps me notice and try to resist temptations to shame and despair brought on by my own vulnerability, is coming together with other honest, faithful souls. This coming year at New College, dozens of people and I, too, will meet in spiritual direction groups, retreats, classes, and more. It would be a joy to have you join us as we all receive God’s nourishment for our embattled souls.
The popular author and professor of social work Brené Brown has written extensively about the gift of vulnerability. In closing and by way of encouragement, I quote her: “Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our greatest measure of courage” (from Rising Strong, accessed at https://bookriot.com/brene-brown-quotes).
Susan S. Phillips (Ph.D.) is executive director of New College Berkeley, professor of Christianity and Sociology, and a member of the Graduate Theological Union’s Core Doctoral Faculty.