Take a breath

I realize that's an insensitive title, since so many people need machinery to breathe right now, but I mean to reflect and ramble a little.  It's Holy Saturday and in the church I was raised in -- yes, I'm a recovering Catholic, thanks for your support -- it's the day when nothing happens.  The altar is stripped as if painters are expected, the candles are extinguished, a few people stop by to pray in normal years but nobody is home.  Because for one full day, Jesus is dead and buried.  Think of that.  Of course the whole story derives from the dying and reviving gods of the even-more-ancient Middle East, who sacrifice themselves for the tribe's continued fertility -- think John Barleycorn going into the ground and returning as wheat.  Think of the Fisher King restoring life to the waste land.  It's a day for retreating into your own mind, especially after the last three horrific months.

I think about family separation.  The extremely contagious nature of coronavirus means that thousands have died alone, lacking whatever comfort the hand of a parent, child or spouse could give them.  There were no parting glances or words.  It's as if they died on some distant battlefield, surrounded by strangers, barely noticed in the chaos, and only later reported to survivors who will always feel that emptiness.  After the First World War people turned by the thousands to mediums and spiritualists who pretended to restore the lost connection for a minute.  I'm not sure debunkers like Houdini did them any favors by revealing how it was worked.

When this year began, family separation still meant the policy of cruelty for cruelty's sake as implemented by the American government, teaching the harsh lesson that if you flee terror for the sake of your children and survive the trek to the border, you will lose those very children possibly forever, not because there is no work for you here but to appease a certain class of voter.  The political arithmetic was done and you came out zero.  The camps -- after the 1940s we should shudder at the word -- have been forgotten as we tend to our own disaster.  The hospitals, the nursing homes, the prisons, all take precedence.  If they die in the border camps, they don't have to be counted in the total.  Not Americans.

I wasn't this gloomy all day.  I actually woke up thinking of how the Leader has hijacked Easter.  First it was his wish to see the churches "packed" with asymptomatic carriers tomorrow.  Then he shared plans for Palm Sunday, downloading the service of some homophobic preacher.  Then it was the staggeringly cheerful "HAPPY GOOD FRIDAY TO ALL!"  Two minutes after that hit, Pence ran into the Oval for damage control and ordered the official photographer to get a shot of the two of them "praying."  At that point I decided that this is a job for Jon McNaughton.  Like Holbein depicting the gross, diseased, vile-smelling Henry VIII as an imperial dazzler, McNaughton specializes in making Trump appear vital and charismatic.  A triptych, I think.  Panel one:  Trump in the (Rose) Garden at night, his Cabinet sleeping around him as he bargains with God:  "I'll redeem mankind but I'm going to need a favor."  Unnoticed, the Two Corinthians approach with a very Semitic-looking Adam Schiff.   Panel two:  Trump on trial before Pontius Pelosi.  Well, you can see where this is going.   For the most despised and rejected (by the press) president of all time, maybe the Stations of the Trump.  At least it should cheer up the Pope.

I have a lot of problems with Pope Francis, but they can wait for Festivus.  Meanwhile, he looks so forlorn outside St. Peter's by himself.  Usually when he says mass there's a young priest who has to hold that big book in front of him.  (The man's been a priest for sixty years, he should be off-book by now.)  I guess they'll use a lectern.

Peace, and may the Fauci be with you.