Five “Lost & Found” Senses of Campus Ministry Amidst COVID-19
By: Sarah J. Lin
Tags: Prayer, College, NYC, Ministry, NYU

To minister on a college campus is to know that God could have called me anywhere for this season, yet he chose the campus as the daily context for my spiritual formation. As someone who has walked the stretch of NYU on West 4th Street a few thousand times since receiving my chaplain ID, I know that to be called to the campus is also to know, quite intimately, the distinct sights and sounds of these grounds.

What happens when the telltale sensory details of the campus experience cease to exist? What are we to make of campus ministry when the campus is closed? These questions lingered in the air as I stood outside NYU’s Kimmel Center on a Thursday evening last month, just one day after classes had officially been moved online. The answers felt as elusive then as the supposed dawn of spring.

What felt disorienting wasn’t just the sight of an empty staircase in the student center or an eerily quiet Washington Square Park — it was also the conspicuous absence of the food cart aromas outside Stern and the familiar rush of students heading to class, always insistent on crossing the street without so much of a glance at the crosswalk signals overhead. In the absence of these touchstones it suddenly felt transgressive to be in a space where I once thought I belonged.

In times like these, it feels tempting to take our cues from the trees — look at them standing there guarding the park — stoic and unmoving, patiently waiting for the seasons to change, dutifully absorbing all the pain and anguish that we humans have expelled into the air. Yet if it is their job to produce oxygen, it is my prerogative to breathe and see and feel and taste. With each breath I resist numbness and lean a little more fully into the five senses that enliven the human experience.

I: Sight

“…and the Lord turned and looked at Peter…” Luke 22:61

What a gift it is to be able to see people in the fullness of who they are. Now that our campus fellowship primarily interacts via the two-dimensional space of Zoom, I miss the sight of the clusters of students rushing every which way on the second floor of our campus center. This was my view every week as I tabled at the top of the Kimmel staircase, gazing out at the expanse of Fifth Avenue from behind the bright orange InterVarsity tablecloth that covered the table. I miss the sight of Richie, the second-floor NYU security guard who always worked that shift; the warm smiles of recognition from the students who remembered me; and the sparks of curiosity in students’ eyes as they shared about their faith backgrounds and peppered me with question after question.

I miss going on prayer walks with my students and having our eyes opened to people and corners of campus that had previously gone unnoticed. And yet I wonder, with objectively less things to fix our eyes on in quarantine, where and how might we be called to focus our vision? How might we need to rediscover what it means to simply behold and gaze upon the beauty of the Lord? And what are the new ways of seeing that my students and I are being invited to lean into in this season? Father, revive my vision. Remove anything that has been blinding me so that I might not miss what is right before my eyes.

II: Touch

“Moved with compassion, Jesus stretched out His hand and touched him, and said to him, “I am willing; be cleansed.”” Mark 1:41

If I had to describe my understanding of the NYU chaplain role in one image, it would be an open hand reaching out to touch and be present with students’ pain and suffering in its many forms. Trying to care from afar, unable to even offer tissues to those who are grieving, runs counter to what feels natural and appropriate in this time. I feel this acutely as students ask for prayer when they need to stay up all night to care for ailing grandparents; mourn the passing of professors, relatives, and friends’ parents; and grapple with an increase in anxiety, confusion, and despair — all at the hands of a virus that cannot be seen but is unmistakably felt. Helplessness creeps in when I come face to face with the vast reach of the virus and the reality of our human limits.

Students who were once a subway ride away are now eighteen-hour plane rides away. Seniors whom we would have been able to bless and send through the laying on of hands are now scattered across various time zones. This is more than just six feet of social distance. And yet through it all I am stunned by how readily tears come in times of worship these days, as I am overwhelmed by the nearness of God in the midst of this heaviness and separation. It has caused me to wonder — how has our wrestling with our human finitude been widening or narrowing my distance from God? How has the decrease in human contact revealed the areas in our lives and systems that ache for a touch from the hand of God? And in our yearning for his touch in our helplessness, where are we yet being invited to pray for presently intangible realities to come to pass? Father, renew my compassion and my longing for you. Allow me to experience the comfort of your embrace when all else feels distant.

III: Sound

“While he was still speaking, there came from the ruler’s house some who said, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?” But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the ruler of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.”” Mark 5:35–36

I love this scene in Mark 5. I imagine the people with backs turned and voices hushed, chiding the synagogue ruler for his audacity to hope, and urging him to leave before anyone else, especially Jesus, can hear. In spite of their best efforts, Jesus overhears everything. He isn’t inconvenienced. His voice cuts through the clamor with authority, reaching the ears of the one most in need of a word of life, when everyone else believed that death already had the final word.

As we settle into a longer quarantine, I know there are distinct sounds of life that I won’t hear for a while. This year, the fellowship that I staff won’t gather to worship together with a full band at Basileia, our annual summer conference in the Adirondacks. We will miss the sort of resonance that comes with finding yourself surrounded by individuals singing or crying out to God with all of their being. As news continues to pour in, I’m noticing that my ears aren’t used to hearing the voices of this many pundits and commentators, each one louder than the first, until it all starts to sound more like a noisy gong or clanging cymbal. In the whir, I need to hear the gentle whisper of God. I need to hear more than vague reassurances and hollow platitudes, and I need to hear from the one who is Love. Which words or voices will I make room for in this season and allow to have full authority in my life? How can I cultivate new patterns of worship and prayer that produce the same kinds of joyful noise that I miss hearing in community? How can I join my voice to the chorus of those honoring and embodying a sacrificial love that’s filled with faith rather than fear? Father, tune my ears to rightly hear your voice. Let me worship, pray, and love in response to your voice.

IV: Smell

“Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” John 12:3

It’s been said that our sense of smell is the one most closely linked to memory. When I smell my mom’s coffee brewing in the mornings now, I remember the aroma of New York City’s coffee shops — a distinct blend of concentration, companionship, and caffeine. The scent of roasted coffee reminds me of the moments I spent in Irving Farm, the coffee shop on West 3rd, seated across from freshmen sorting through questions of faith during their very first week of college. The smell of fries baking in the oven reminds me of the meals I shared with students in the NYU dining halls as they considered stepping into first-time leadership roles within our fellowship. While these discipleship conversations are still happening, they are now playing out against the backdrop of a global pandemic that has brought with it grief and a whole new set of questions that demand attention. I am grateful to still be able to sit remotely with students as they explore what it looks to be whole-hearted disciples in this season.

Speaking of disciples, I wonder — did the disciples in the John 12 passage remember the extravagance of Mary’s offering every time they caught a whiff of perfume for the rest of their lives? What, then, are the enduring smells and memories of this season that will carry over into the next? Are they aromas that bring life to a dying world and uphold devotion over indifference? Father, may each memory and smell that floats in the air draw me closer to your heart. Let my entire life be filled with the fragrance of devotion to you.

V: Taste

“They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over.” Matthew 14:20

Sometimes it feels like a miracle of its own to have food left over after sharing dinner with a group of college students. Perhaps what is more remarkable, though, is how such small group gatherings — filled with good food, hearty laughter, and rich conversation — can feel like a feast. As I hunger for those experiences of being able to break bread together, whether with students at FIT or with my staff team in Midtown Manhattan, I recognize that I am not, and have never been, entitled to these blessings. They are gifts of grace that have filled and nourished me in more ways than I know.

I want my students to enjoy these gifts again soon, but even more than that, I want them to hunger and thirst for the living God. When spiritual hunger pangs arise all around me, am I directing them to the One who alone satiates these aches and delights our souls with the richest of fare? As I marvel at the ways the Lord has gifted grace upon grace out of his fullness, how can I more generously feed and give to those in need? And whether it’s reading Scripture aloud in the mornings or digesting passages together in the evenings, what are the new ways we can all feast together in the presence of our Father? Father, you alone can satisfy my deepest hunger. Remind me of the miraculous nature of your abundant provision.

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I long for the day when my ministry updates will no longer consist of Zoom screenshots with mere faces on a screen. I long to share photos again of full, embodied beings delighting in each other’s presence — hands held in prayer, heads thrown back in laughter, hearts savoring the aromas and flavors of a nourishing meal — a visible, audible, and palpable joy. And yet in the waiting, would you, O Father, revive our senses. We need you. Amen.