There’s a wonderful country and western song entitled “How Can I Miss You If You Won’t Go Away?” The sentiments expressed in that one are similar to Jimmy Buffet’s “If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me.” These are musical ways of negatively expressing that marvelous maxim about absence making the heart grow fonder. Over the past year or so, absence has become quite commonplace.
During the depths of Covid time, I remember how much I missed seeing the people who would otherwise gather every Sunday in the sanctuary for worship if the medical establishment and the responsible government agencies had not brought down the curtain on such public gatherings. While congregations are once again congregating, I was reminded of a particular and sinful nuance, and I must admit to some guilt for not feeling guilty about missing church for at least two months [60+] of Sundays.
Way back in pre-pandemic days some of us might not have remembered the last time we went to worship or church school. When you showed up on any given Sunday, you might get a “where‑in‑the‑world‑have‑you‑been?’ look from the minister or a friend might make some snide comment about renting your pew to someone else. The excuses for absence were probably valid ones: trips to the beach or to grandmas; the golf tournament; unexpected company; a day to be with the family; too cold, too hot, too wet, too tired. And the summertime was that season of the year when these occasions for no‑show seem to multiply. Whatever the reasons or the seasons and no matter the length of absences, church folk felt a little guilty for being AWOL. It was a good guilt, but guilt to be exploited nonetheless.
Further back in the good ol’ days, the public library used to declare an amnesty on all overdue books to allow delinquents to return their goods without fear of fine or public humiliation. Others published “shame sheets” of the names of those who had books which should have been returned over a year ago. The book keepers were scared to go in the library for fear of seeing their mug shots plastered on the bulletin boards. For many a reason, proper excuses can be made by the defendants. But, when all was said and done, they were guilty as charged and felt that slight sense of shame.
When I used to serve as a pastor under normal conditions, I felt we ought to have one or two “Amnesty Sundays” in the year, when absentee members could come back to the fold and not feel nervous or bothered about the consequences of their delinquencies. A day when they would have the sworn word of the minister that he or she would not call them by name, ask them to stand up and demand that they give a strict accounting of their whereabouts these past Sundays. And all the “faithful” members [who, of course, have perfect attendance records!] would not make abusive nor snide remarks or even think evil of their vagrant ways or indulgent Sabbaths.
Absence does make our hearts grow fonder while offering us a chance to welcome home all our sisters and brothers of the faith who have been “doing time” in their own far countries and are ready to head toward the house of the Lord. Rather than wondering about how much we missed them while they were away, let’s open our arms and minds and hearts to welcome them home in the best tradition of that term. Sure beats sending them away on some absentee purgatory or an endless guilt trip to nowhere.