“Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love.” So begins the fifth and most well-known of poems in a “little book” by Gaius Valerius Catullus, a 1st century BCE Roman poet. The poet goes on to urge his pseudonymous beloved to throw caution to the wind because “when the short light sets once and for all, we must sleep one perpetual night.” The fleeting nature of life on earth inspires Catullus to ask his mistress “Lesbia” (probably Clodia, a married woman from a prominent political family) to give him 3,300 kisses, a number that any teenager in my Latin class can tell you is too many.
By this point, you might be wondering, why is Carrie recycling an essay from 11th grade for this blog, and what can a dark and adulterous poem written a century before the birth of Christ teach us about Christian life during a global pandemic? I would argue that “Catullus 5” can help us understand the infinite nature of love. When Catullus writes, “Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then finally another thousand, then a hundred,” he asks not for precisely 3,300 kisses, but for a number so large as to be uncountable. If no one can quantify their passion, Catullus argues, he and his beloved will escape envy and censure.
In 1918, my maternal great-grandfather’s first wife died in a global pandemic. A widower with three young children, Hugh Chester Wood soon married his late wife’s eldest niece. My great grandmother, Carrie Traylor Wood, gave birth to three children in the 1920s–my grandmother, Myra, her younger brother, Royce, and a girl who did not survive infancy. Myra is now 97 years old and has outlived Royce, her older siblings, and most of her nieces and nephews. Although she remained quick-witted and independent into her 90s, a major stroke in 2015 left Myra with dementia and in need of care. She now lives in an assisted-living facility in Dallas, where loving and dedicated caregivers see to her every need. In addition to providing excellent care, her facility frequently posts uplifting messages and photos on social media. During the past few weeks, I have enjoyed seeing photos of Myra enjoying ice cream in the sunshine, being pampered in the salon at her facility, and fully living up to her nickname, “the Governor.” But as we all know, social media is not an accurate representation of reality. Myra’s conversations with her daughter, my mother Linda, are often of a different nature. When Myra says, “I don’t want to be here anymore,” she does not mean that she no longer wishes to live in her facility. She means that she wants to go home, her true home, home with Jesus. When she says, “I just want to see my mom and dad again,” she means, “I want to see Jesus.” Where is Jesus, if not in the faces of those from whom we first knew infinite love?
Myra’s immortal soul is ready to be with Jesus, but her human body, however frail, still enjoys good food, the warmth of the sun, the sweet relief of nightly sleep, and the tender touch of a caregiver. Her best caregivers are gifted in understanding the experiences of those who occupy the sacred, liminal space between this temporary, transient, fragile, mortal world of ours and the boundless love that awaits us on the other side. While we remain on this side of eternity, we experience finite time. A few months, six months, a year, or longer may seem like a very long time to us, especially when we are missing long-awaited milestones or cannot be physically present when loved ones need us.
We must accept that grief for life as we once knew it is real and allow ourselves to feel pain. It will not help to dismiss this grief or tell ourselves that the changes in our lives are insignificant. Many of us have lost loved ones and friends, and must mourn the dead while enduring many smaller losses. The pandemic is not over. Sickness continues and concern over the gravity of the illness is entirely justified. But as we grieve, rather than asking when the pandemic will end, when we will have a vaccine, or when we can go back to “normal,” let us ask ourselves, “How can we live into God’s love and love into God’s time?” In other words, how can we usher in the kingdom of God on earth by learning to love one another the way God loves us?
Compared with God’s love, the effects of this pandemic are finite. We will worship together again in Church. We will taste the body and the blood of Christ. We will drink from a common cup. We will pray, sing, clasp hands, and hug. We will gather together to experience God through the sensations of our bodies again. But not today, tomorrow, next week, or even next month. During this pandemic, we have watched winter grow into spring. Now, as we see spring grow into summer in God’s creation, we have begun to realize that the seasons may change again, and perhaps again, before we can return to some of our cherished routines.
By asking for innumerable kisses, Catullus alludes to passion that is infinite and not quantifiable. Catullus lived only thirty years, died around 54 BCE, and did not know the boundless love of Christ. We do know God’s love and must allow that love to shape our lives at all times and especially now. Let us love one another while we watch for what He has in store for us. Let us love this beautiful, fragile home He has made for us. Let us remember that the return we are waiting for, truly watching for and longing for, is our unity and oneness with Him. And we don’t have to wait! God’s time is not our time and cannot be counted in weeks or months or years. Let us live our lives fully each and every day in expectation of the glory that is to come–on earth as it is in heaven!
