2020.05.24 Ascend?

I heard a sermon once, delivered boisterously from a skyscraper pulpit by a preacher of great surety and voice who announced to the congregation of neck-craning hopefuls below: Christ is the one God and all our prayers go through Him—and Him alone.

And there you have it, I thought.

This was an Ascension Day Eucharist at an Episcopal parish. There was time after the service for comments or questions. I had a sinking feeling. This preacher was not the type to be questioned. Still, one timid soul (not me) asked: “Well, must Christians always pray through Christ?”

The answer came quickly back: “Well, you could try to access God in other ways, of course, but your prayers won’t be valid.”

Guillotined!

Besides thinking the guy was an arrogant Christian jerk and a spiritual egomaniac, I gnashed my teeth. I wanted to rip this preacher’s face off, or at least have a snatch at his clerical stole. Who was he to set limits on God?  I thought to argue with him or send him a curt note about his pastoral bullying, not to mention his bad theology. Instead, I stuffed my face at the spread of sweets—and more sweets—offered for guests in the parish house, and later let fly at my priest-spouse who responded (expletives deleted) and cracked the old Ascension joke about Jesus still in orbit in outer space. 

But I wasn’t satisfied. I prayed, wondered, and re-read the Ascension story in Acts. I knew it wasn’t factual, yet, once I quieted my snarky dismissal of Christian excess, I found the visual image compelling—Jesus’s last recorded act, a full-bodied rising, his feet hidden in clouds and his arms extended in blessing, or farewell.

The image pursued me, dragged me into a Pauline net of awakening—unforgettable blow to the soul, which is the point. Would I be, or am I, one of the goggle-eyed hopefuls gathered here below gawking at the disappearing savior? Historically, perhaps, but now? I’m not a clinger. Or am I?—secretly of course. I could never pray to such a Christ image, I thought. And then tears filled my eyes, followed by these words: Don’t leave me.

I’ll spare you a boring rehearsal of my abandonment issues, and all the reasons why I trained to be a bereavement counselor. If I were one of those people who were alive when Jesus was I would have holed up in terror and confusion in the little room to which his followers fled in Jerusalem. What now? I have often invited retreatants to sit quietly together and envision themselves in that upper room. What would they feel or think or say?  A few quickly spoke of the Resurrection—too quickly. One once said, “Holy shit!. Most stayed silent, and some cried their way through a halting conversation.

The writer and pastor, Frederick Buechner  came to mind. His wisdom was always to follow your tears, for you never know where they will lead. In his book, Listen to Your Life, he wrote: “See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”

I’d always thought: If only I could just swallow my distaste for the ecstatic grandeur and glory imagery for Christ, I’d be closer to God-in-Christ. I’d accept the almighty, king, judge, son nomenclature. But the words get in the way. I can't see through them. So I follow my tears, knowing they are for the historical Jesus who would agree and who often shunned glorification. But he is gone—risen and ascended.

I pray: Jesus, I know you’re risen and it’s all good. I know you’re here spiritually, but I need you in the flesh NOW. To hell with all the Christology. I need you to descend again, to shed your transcendent almighty masculinity—here and now.  If there is a Second Coming, I need it NOW.  Amen.

This is probably one of the dumbest prayers I’ve ever uttered. I know better. But so what? I laughed, which broke through my doldrums.

I thought back to the offensive preacher and decided he would invalidate all my prayers, not to mention my tears. I knew he would think of himself in the ascending posture—above-it-all, knowing it all, just like all that imagery. I could not follow him.

I stared at the the Ascension image until it got blurry and I saw through it. I had to stare at a Crucifix a long time to see through it to resurrection. Oh, I can easily do it with my mind, but my heart only sees cruel injustice and  sorrow—even on the empty cross, which only dodges the horror of crucifixion—unless you see through it. Looking at is not the same as seeing through.

So it is with the Ascension image. My mind sees all the obvious Glory of magnificent divine overcoming, but when I stare deeply my heart sees through the glory to the pain of soul-binding loss—an image of soaring joy and plunging sorrow. 

Can I love both and find in both my life, my own full and fragile life?  I will try.