A Litany in Time of Plague
Stories
Contents
“A Litany in Time of Plague” by Frank Ramirez
“We Had Hoped He Was The One” by C. David McKirachan
A Litany in Time of Plague
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19
The snares of death encompassed me; the pangs of Sheol laid hold on me; I suffered distress and anguish. (Psalm 116:3-4)
The plague was a constant danger in the London of Shakespeare’s day. It was transmitted by fleas that were transported by rats. Unfortunately germ theory was not understood at all. Since cats, the natural enemy of rats, were believed to be in league with the devil they were often killed, allowing the disease to be spread even more easily.
Thomas Nashe (1567-1601) was a prolific English writer in Elizabethan times, a poet, pamphleteer, and playwright. He had a very sharp pen that sought to puncture the pompous and proud. The plague loomed over much of his writing. In the fall of 1593, after twelve months of plague had brought wrack and ruin to London, Nashe wrote:
How the Lord hath begun to leave our house desolate unto us let us enter into the consideration thereof with ourselves. At this instant is a general plague dispersed throughout our land. No voice is heard in our streets but that of Jeremy: ‘Call for the mourning women, that they may come and take up a lamentation for us, for death is come unto our windows and entered into our palaces.”
(from“Christ’s Tears over Jerusalem” – Jeremy refers to the prophet Jeremiah, and the quote is from 9:17.)
A scant year before, with the plague on the doorstep, Nashe reflected on the universality of the plague — how it can strike anyone. His play “Summer’s Last Will and Testament” contain’s the song, “Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss,” which is also known as “A Litany in Time of Plague.”
Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss,
This world uncertain is,
Fond are life’s lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys,
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Rich men, trust no in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physick himself must fade.
All things to End are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour,
Brightness falls from the air,
Queens have died young and fair,
Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Strength stoops unto the grave,
Words feed on Hector Brave,
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Wit with his wantonness,
Tasteth death’s bitterness:
Hell’s executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Haste therefore each degree,
To welcome destiny:
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player’s stage,
Mount we unto the sky,
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
(“Physick” is a word for medicine.)
Though there was much misinformation about the cause of the plague, and quackery that masqueraded as cure, one effective strategy was employed by the authorities — they enforced social distancing by, among other things, closing the public theaters. That’s where 3,000 or more people from every walk of life imaginable were close — packed together, either in the seats for those who could afford to pay a little more, or standing shoulder to shoulder on the main floor of the theater if they could not.
The plague was therefore a very hard time for actors and their ilk. They might go months without any income. An actor/playwright like the young William Shakespeare, still finding his footing on the English stage, was hard put to it, but he responded by becoming a poet. He seems to have been hired by the parents of the Earl of Southampton, to write sonnets encouraging that wayward young nobleman to settle down, get married, and have children. Shakespeare produced such sonnets. Having attracted the young earl’s attention, he went on to write and dedicate to him the only two literary documents that he personally shepherded through the press, taking time to proofread them, unlike his plays that were later published. These two poems, Venus and Adonis, and The Rape of Lucrece, were based on classic Greek and Roman stories, and gained him far more fame in his day than any play he wrote. Plays, after all, were not considered literature in his time. They were more like TV scripts. And who, after all, pays attention to who wrote what episode of their favorite show?
In today’s psalm the author cries aloud in suffering, calling upon the Lord for aid, much as people have done in every age. But it’s also incumbent upon us to make the best of the times in which we are born, a challenge to those who prayed this psalm 2,500 years ago, or who lived through the plauges of England four hundred years ago, and us as well!
* * *
We Had Hoped He Was The One…
by C. David McKirachan
Luke 24:13-35
I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotten into a lot of discussions with solid and believing people of faith that thinly veil doubt. Doubt rising from frustration at human insistence on self-destructive behavior, on sticking to priorities that dig the ruts deeper on roads toward unhappiness and sadness, on ignoring moments of possibility in favor of practicality, comfort, or fear. Cynicism seems to be a bedfellow of intelligence and a denial of idealism a partner of tradition. Such discussions are full of resignation and pain, and a deep anger. Are we angry at the perpetrators of crimes against our better selves, or the seeming distance of the one who made us and put us here and now seems to have left us to our own sad, destructive behavior? Perhaps both.
Such was the discussion of the two on their way to Emmaus from the Jerusalem. We cannot be too hard on them. Even though they had been with the disciples and the Lord through at least part of his ministry, listened to him teach and preach, watched him touch the untouchable, heal those without hope, and confront the power brokers, he was gone and the 12 were scattered. The eighteen-wheeler of normality had shattered the possibility, the dream of real honest to goodness, living power. And then it had gone down the road with business as usual. If we are willing to be honest, we are all on our own journeys from the moments of betrayal and loss toward lives lived with a bit more sadness and a bit less hope.
“We had hoped he was the one…”
Yet I would submit that this story is not about what we shouldn’t be about, but a portrait of exactly what we need to be about.
These people were sharing, conversing with each other about the ugliness they had just lived through. Such behavior is a creative step on the journey toward healing. Most of us have a tendency to isolate ourselves when we’ve been disappointed. Rarely are we willing to share our sense of loss and burden of pain with others. We don’t want to seem weak, we don’t want to acknowledge that it actually happened, and perhaps if we don’t talk about it, the situation will resolve itself.
In stories, when those on a journey meet a stranger, it is often an indication of the presence of a spiritual power. To share one’s life with such an entity is dangerous and foolish. But the two did not circle the wagons. Instead of being defensive, they shared with the stranger. We have all seen the healing power of sharing stories in the midst of grief. It can lance the infection of isolation that infects the wounds of our lives. It is another step toward healing.
Whenever I hear this story, it always encourages me to hear them invite the stranger to share shelter and a meal with them.
Again, this is not incidental occurrence. Their willingness to invite the stranger to break bread with them made them obligated to him. They had no idea who he was. All they had to go on was an affinity for this person and the rising of their spirits toward him and his words. He lit them up. It reminded them of what the presence of their tortured and killed Lord had done for them.
Too often when we are wounded we shy away from any reminder of our pain. “I don’t like that hymn anymore; it reminds me of my mother’s funeral service.” Walking back into our pain may be agony, but it is one of the only ways through to healing.
And finally, when they are awakened by seeing the risen Lord, they turn around and they go back. Now that’s plain crazy. Jerusalem was a hot zone and anyone who could be associated with the preacher from Galilee was a candidate for a similar fate. But even among the followers, who would believe that they had walked on the road with Jesus, not recognizing him; and then saw him clearly just before he evaporated into thin air? But they went back anyway. Witnessing to the presence of the risen Lord became the new priority in their lives.
This story does not solve our pain and it does not remove the ambiguity and sadness of our human condition. But it does give us an agenda, a way to journey through the swamps of our lives. It reminds us that we are not the first to hit the walls of life. We are not the first to be desperate for the presence of our Lord. And it reminds us that on our journeys, even when we are carrying burdens of pain and world weariness, somehow the Lord wants to journey with us.
He is Risen!
Amen.
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 26, 2020, issue.
Copyright 2020 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
“A Litany in Time of Plague” by Frank Ramirez
“We Had Hoped He Was The One” by C. David McKirachan
A Litany in Time of Plague
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19
The snares of death encompassed me; the pangs of Sheol laid hold on me; I suffered distress and anguish. (Psalm 116:3-4)
The plague was a constant danger in the London of Shakespeare’s day. It was transmitted by fleas that were transported by rats. Unfortunately germ theory was not understood at all. Since cats, the natural enemy of rats, were believed to be in league with the devil they were often killed, allowing the disease to be spread even more easily.
Thomas Nashe (1567-1601) was a prolific English writer in Elizabethan times, a poet, pamphleteer, and playwright. He had a very sharp pen that sought to puncture the pompous and proud. The plague loomed over much of his writing. In the fall of 1593, after twelve months of plague had brought wrack and ruin to London, Nashe wrote:
How the Lord hath begun to leave our house desolate unto us let us enter into the consideration thereof with ourselves. At this instant is a general plague dispersed throughout our land. No voice is heard in our streets but that of Jeremy: ‘Call for the mourning women, that they may come and take up a lamentation for us, for death is come unto our windows and entered into our palaces.”
(from“Christ’s Tears over Jerusalem” – Jeremy refers to the prophet Jeremiah, and the quote is from 9:17.)
A scant year before, with the plague on the doorstep, Nashe reflected on the universality of the plague — how it can strike anyone. His play “Summer’s Last Will and Testament” contain’s the song, “Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss,” which is also known as “A Litany in Time of Plague.”
Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss,
This world uncertain is,
Fond are life’s lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys,
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Rich men, trust no in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physick himself must fade.
All things to End are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour,
Brightness falls from the air,
Queens have died young and fair,
Dust hath closed Helen’s eye.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Strength stoops unto the grave,
Words feed on Hector Brave,
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Wit with his wantonness,
Tasteth death’s bitterness:
Hell’s executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
Haste therefore each degree,
To welcome destiny:
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player’s stage,
Mount we unto the sky,
I am sick, I must die:
Lord, have mercy on us.
(“Physick” is a word for medicine.)
Though there was much misinformation about the cause of the plague, and quackery that masqueraded as cure, one effective strategy was employed by the authorities — they enforced social distancing by, among other things, closing the public theaters. That’s where 3,000 or more people from every walk of life imaginable were close — packed together, either in the seats for those who could afford to pay a little more, or standing shoulder to shoulder on the main floor of the theater if they could not.
The plague was therefore a very hard time for actors and their ilk. They might go months without any income. An actor/playwright like the young William Shakespeare, still finding his footing on the English stage, was hard put to it, but he responded by becoming a poet. He seems to have been hired by the parents of the Earl of Southampton, to write sonnets encouraging that wayward young nobleman to settle down, get married, and have children. Shakespeare produced such sonnets. Having attracted the young earl’s attention, he went on to write and dedicate to him the only two literary documents that he personally shepherded through the press, taking time to proofread them, unlike his plays that were later published. These two poems, Venus and Adonis, and The Rape of Lucrece, were based on classic Greek and Roman stories, and gained him far more fame in his day than any play he wrote. Plays, after all, were not considered literature in his time. They were more like TV scripts. And who, after all, pays attention to who wrote what episode of their favorite show?
In today’s psalm the author cries aloud in suffering, calling upon the Lord for aid, much as people have done in every age. But it’s also incumbent upon us to make the best of the times in which we are born, a challenge to those who prayed this psalm 2,500 years ago, or who lived through the plauges of England four hundred years ago, and us as well!
* * *
We Had Hoped He Was The One…
by C. David McKirachan
Luke 24:13-35
I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotten into a lot of discussions with solid and believing people of faith that thinly veil doubt. Doubt rising from frustration at human insistence on self-destructive behavior, on sticking to priorities that dig the ruts deeper on roads toward unhappiness and sadness, on ignoring moments of possibility in favor of practicality, comfort, or fear. Cynicism seems to be a bedfellow of intelligence and a denial of idealism a partner of tradition. Such discussions are full of resignation and pain, and a deep anger. Are we angry at the perpetrators of crimes against our better selves, or the seeming distance of the one who made us and put us here and now seems to have left us to our own sad, destructive behavior? Perhaps both.
Such was the discussion of the two on their way to Emmaus from the Jerusalem. We cannot be too hard on them. Even though they had been with the disciples and the Lord through at least part of his ministry, listened to him teach and preach, watched him touch the untouchable, heal those without hope, and confront the power brokers, he was gone and the 12 were scattered. The eighteen-wheeler of normality had shattered the possibility, the dream of real honest to goodness, living power. And then it had gone down the road with business as usual. If we are willing to be honest, we are all on our own journeys from the moments of betrayal and loss toward lives lived with a bit more sadness and a bit less hope.
“We had hoped he was the one…”
Yet I would submit that this story is not about what we shouldn’t be about, but a portrait of exactly what we need to be about.
These people were sharing, conversing with each other about the ugliness they had just lived through. Such behavior is a creative step on the journey toward healing. Most of us have a tendency to isolate ourselves when we’ve been disappointed. Rarely are we willing to share our sense of loss and burden of pain with others. We don’t want to seem weak, we don’t want to acknowledge that it actually happened, and perhaps if we don’t talk about it, the situation will resolve itself.
In stories, when those on a journey meet a stranger, it is often an indication of the presence of a spiritual power. To share one’s life with such an entity is dangerous and foolish. But the two did not circle the wagons. Instead of being defensive, they shared with the stranger. We have all seen the healing power of sharing stories in the midst of grief. It can lance the infection of isolation that infects the wounds of our lives. It is another step toward healing.
Whenever I hear this story, it always encourages me to hear them invite the stranger to share shelter and a meal with them.
Again, this is not incidental occurrence. Their willingness to invite the stranger to break bread with them made them obligated to him. They had no idea who he was. All they had to go on was an affinity for this person and the rising of their spirits toward him and his words. He lit them up. It reminded them of what the presence of their tortured and killed Lord had done for them.
Too often when we are wounded we shy away from any reminder of our pain. “I don’t like that hymn anymore; it reminds me of my mother’s funeral service.” Walking back into our pain may be agony, but it is one of the only ways through to healing.
And finally, when they are awakened by seeing the risen Lord, they turn around and they go back. Now that’s plain crazy. Jerusalem was a hot zone and anyone who could be associated with the preacher from Galilee was a candidate for a similar fate. But even among the followers, who would believe that they had walked on the road with Jesus, not recognizing him; and then saw him clearly just before he evaporated into thin air? But they went back anyway. Witnessing to the presence of the risen Lord became the new priority in their lives.
This story does not solve our pain and it does not remove the ambiguity and sadness of our human condition. But it does give us an agenda, a way to journey through the swamps of our lives. It reminds us that we are not the first to hit the walls of life. We are not the first to be desperate for the presence of our Lord. And it reminds us that on our journeys, even when we are carrying burdens of pain and world weariness, somehow the Lord wants to journey with us.
He is Risen!
Amen.
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 26, 2020, issue.
Copyright 2020 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
