A note from the authors: When we began writing this piece, the murder of George Floyd had not yet taken place and protests of this tragic crime had not yet enveloped our country. We hope that readers will not take the publication of this piece as ignoring the crisis of police brutality, nor as dismissive of the legacy of systematic racism that has oppressed America’s Black community since the 17th century. Though the Black experience in America is uniquely rooted in the original evil of slavery, we call on all Copts to stand in solidarity, recalling our own people’s experience of dhimmitude and the ongoing societal ostracization which relegates us to second-class citizenship in our homeland even to this day. We pray for peace for our country and justice for the Black community. We hope to write a follow-up piece regarding recent events soon.
If on January 1, 2020, you had told a Copt that they would be forbidden from celebrating the Feast of the Resurrection in their parish, chances are that they would not have believed you. Or, their minds would have immediately wandered to concerns of physical security and terrorism —considerations we have been conditioned to expect on every major feast. But that in 2020, a single virus could upend our lives—prohibiting us from seeing loved ones and friends, depriving us of our work and incomes, and even locking us outside of our churches—is a temporary fate that no one could have foreseen.
The devastating effects of coronavirus on society have been felt by everyone living in our world, not just the Copts. However, the disease poses unique challenges for cross-cultural, global communities like us, charging us with questions pertaining to our social, cultural, and religious identities. Outside of Egypt, just what does it mean to be a Copt if you can’t attend church? At least in Egypt, Copts are easily defined by what they are not: Muslims. But in the lands of immigration, Copts individually choose how to integrate into their respective cultures of residence while maintaining a connection to their cultural and religious origin—largely through physical attendance of and participation in their local Coptic church.
As coronavirus spread beyond east Asia in mid-January and early-February, calls by the Coptic-American medical community to temporarily restrict access to our churches increased. Soon thereafter, dioceses and local parishes began limiting numbers of attendees, implementing government-mandated distancing measurements, and eventually, ordering the doors of the churches shut. The initial diocese-based response was confirmed in a decision made by the standing committee of the Holy Synod to suspend public liturgical services and other church functions in Egypt. This unprecedented choice came at no ordinary time, but rather during the most sacred week of the Coptic year: the Great Fast and Holy Week. For perhaps the first time in 2,000 years of the Coptic Patriarchate’s existence, it was Copts who had closed the churches—not oppressive leaders or foreign armies. Albeit, in many cases, these decisions were taken to comply with mandatory state and local measures.
Early in the crisis, an important and contested debate arose in Coptic communities as well as in other communities of faith: does closing the churches indicate a lack of faith? In the wake of church bombings and other threats, church attendance has been characterized as a forceful public statement of faith and boldness. Thus the question to willingly close church doors must be considered as a startling proposition within the context of our modern history. This debate in our community was an expected, and arguably reasonable response to such an unprecedented dilemma. Moreover, the matter was complicated, at least in the United States, by government mandates differing across city, county, and state lines. In some places, municipalities and state rules conflicted over the question of whether church gatherings were permitted. Many states were specifically careful to exempt religious institutions from stay-at-home orders, mindful of 1st Amendment complaints that have already created splits in federal courts across the country. But despite the legal challenges, the response of the church seems to have emerged largely out of a sense of Christian responsibility to prevent infection of others, and, as cited in Holy Synod announcement, adherence to the verse “Do not tempt the Lord your God” (Deut. 6:16).
But the hierarchs of the church have not been the sole actors guiding the Coptic community’s crisis response. The impact of COVID-19 on our community has disproportionately been shouldered by the large percentage of Copts in healthcare. Notably, one study found Copts to have the highest percentage of physicians per capita across several minority and ethnic groups, noting Coptic physician representation to be thirteen times that of the average surname in the United States.1 Among their many service activities abroad, the Coptic Medical Association of North America (CMANA) has pioneered itself as the official voice for Coptic healthcare workers in North America. A March Zoom call held by the New York & New England diocese gathered over 200 medical professionals to discuss the fallout from COVID-19. CMANA has, in addition to a number of other initiatives, begun hosting a daily hotline for coronavirus concern (1-844-442-6262). Of course, a number of dioceses and Coptic service organizations held drives for the purchase and delivery of personal protective equipment, financial support, and general COVID-19 relief. Now, as churches and dioceses across the globe (although notably, not in Egypt), slowly restart liturgical services and limited programming, we are presented with an opportunity to reflect on what it meant and means to be Coptic in the age of coronavirus, or in any situation in which we are cut off from the church.
The summed experience can be broken into an infinite number of equally valuable parts: the experience of medical professionals—some of whom fell sick or even passed away in the fight against COVID-19, or small-business owners—whose years of labor and investment have perished, or as clergymen who have fallen in the fight against coronavirus themselves. Among many losses, this period has forced us all to at least indirectly consider what it means to be a Copt. Surely none or very few of us have completely reneged on our cultural and religious identity in the last three months; but simultaneously, the links we feel to our community have no doubt been tested to their core. As we gathered in our homes to participate in the livestreams graciously broadcasted by the American monasteries and Pope Tawadros, we all longed for the joy of community, the smell of incense and the joyous sounds of the resurrection hymns.
Still, some things went on as normal, or as close to normal as possible: sermons by the bishops were streamed on Facebook and YouTube as they generally were before; Sunday school teachers continued to check in on their students; Jonathan Adly’s History of the Copts podcast proceeded despite a short hiatus; Webinars and Zoom meetings replaced weekly Bible studies and organizational events. And against the odds, a number of initiatives were begun during this period that, God willing, will serve the Coptic community for generations to come: HG Bishop Suriel announced the beginning of a new podcast series that will cover “All things Coptic,” the Coptic Educational Foundation reviewed another round of applications for its scholarship programs, and the Coptic Lawyers – Student Bar Association was launched. Global Coptic Day took place just over week ago. While perhaps an initial adjustment, it seems the ⲣⲓϫⲓⲛⲙⲓⲥⲓ (the Coptic “Renaissance”) is alive and well.
As a whole, our community met the seemingly insurmountable challenges of coronavirus with an equal level of resiliency, innovativeness, and faithfulness. Indeed for Copts, the bitterness of separation from the church is not new. The first emigrants depended on semi-annual (or even rarer) visits from Egyptian clergy, such as the late Bishop Samuel for liturgy. Others assimilated into other Orthodox or non-Orthodox churches. Others left the community. Even today, a vast number of Coptic Orthodox communities exist and can be found by a simple Google search: places where Copts continue to be modern pioneers, planting seeds for future generations outside of major American population centers, waiting for the next pastoral visit, where they will celebrate the liturgy in a person’s home or in a rented space. And yet, there is a distinct pain in the suddenness and lack of real choice in the matter at hand. There wasn’t a chosen emigration or temporary displacement or something to look forward to in exchange for this sacrifice. On the contrary, the sudden onset of a virus blindsided us as our churches sat empty, down the street or a short drive away—for what, we wonder?
Theologically, the church’s essential function is to be united as the Body of Christ. But what does it mean if we cannot participate physically, together, in our liturgical and sacramental lives? These theological considerations are naturally of greatest importance. But for the Copts, the church is also a sociocultural nucleus in which we participate from cradle to coffin. It is a place to see others who understand our values, speak our language (figuratively and literally), and share our cultural background. From a practical viewpoint, it is the place where critical immigration advice is sought and newly-arrived families make their first social connections. Networking occurs and job leads are shared. Tutors and pupils meet, and youth socialize. And as we well-know, it is a place where young people meet and future families are forged. In sum, the hurt comes not just from separation from Holy communion and the liturgy, but from the abrupt excision of an experience that acts as a foundational platform for all our other life experiences as Copts.
As we continue to emerge from a period that none of us will ever forget, we would do well to take some time to consider how this virus affected us personally, how it tested our faith and ties to our community, and how that informs our conception of ourselves. How did we preserve our Coptic identity in this period? And how do we safeguard our community for when the next life disruption happens upon us? How plugged in are we personally to our community—and were we there for others when we were needed the most? Undoubtedly, the long-term effects of this disease will affect our community and the globe for decades to come as we return to our former lives and readjust. As we undertake this, let us also remember our transnational first-home, our Coptic heritage, as we again move forward.
William Zakhary is a third year law student at The University of Texas in Austin. He is interested in strengthening the Coptic community and, in conjunction with other Coptic law students, recently began an organization to connect the Coptic-American legal community. He can be reached at william.zakhary@gmail.com.
Luke Soliman is a second year medical student at Brown University. He completed his Master’s in Theological Studies at St. Athanasius and St. Cyril Theological School. He can be reached at soliman.luke@gmail.com.
