In the London Underground there are signs cautioning us to “mind the gap,” calling us to attention when getting on and off the Tube. It’s a sign that should be posted in a lot of other places in our lives.
There is the gap between our public aspirations to equality and the stark realities of systemic racism, the deconstruction of voting access for millions of people, and the constant inequity between the top one percent in this country and almost everyone else.
There’s the gap between what corporations claim are their highest values of equality, service, and diversity, and the reality of discrimination, indifferent service, and a whiter shade of pale in corporate boardrooms.
There’s the gap between our personal best intentions and what we actually display to the world. And there’s the gap between what we the church claim as the kingdom and what we substitute in its place.
Show us the Father, the disciples challenged Jesus. And he replied, If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen the Father. The disciples, like us, saw only that which fit the scope of their vision. The Father was too sovereign, too remote, too terrifying to be anything less than thunder in the mountains or a mighty wind rolling back the waves of the Red Sea.
Jesus brought the Father across that gap between the human and divine, slipping the invisible footprints of the eternal God into his own along the roads of Galilee. He called his Father by an endearing name. But old habits are hard to break: we can be sure not many prayed to God as ‘Abba,’ or ‘Daddy.’ There was an unbridgeable gap there, fixed and immovable in their eyes—and ours.
How often do we think of Jesus as divine? Most of the time. How often do we see him as fully human? Far less. There is a gap. Yet, as human, he suffered all the temptations we do and more. To whom much is given, much is required.
If we really saw Jesus as human, we would not be surprised when his anger flares up, when he weeps over Jerusalem or when he pounces on the hypocrisy of the religious leaders. These are not weaknesses; they are evidence of an impassioned soul completely immersed in this world, yet constantly breathing the air of transcendence.
Within the spectrum of the visible, Jesus’ divinity ripples, fades, reappears and vanishes. I and the Father are one, Jesus claimed, infuriating the keepers of the sanctuary and bewildering the disciples. “Divinity flashed through humanity,” said Ellen White, in a metaphor as visceral as it is inadequate.
We keep trying to summarize Jesus in a thirty-second elevator pitch. It can’t be done. We want something we can carry with us, an amulet for the fingers when we are tempted or grieving. We have the images we’ve gathered from the Gospels: Jesus making his way across the waves to the terrified disciples, rubbing his thumbs across a blind man’s eyes, and enveloped in a brilliant cloud as the voice of God reverberates across the dry hills. These are part of our inner art galleries, companions to the work of artists who have stretched his likeness across their canvasses.
The senses need touch, though. Body yearns for body. We would take the Emmaus road in the late afternoon, our hearts broken, if we thought there was the slightest chance we could relive that moment with the mysterious stranger who innocently asked what happened in Jerusalem that weekend.
We are not within the same chronological trajectory as Jesus. There is a gap. He burns across the skies at light speed. When we read his story in the Gospel of Mark, the prose itself is breathless. The narrative runs to keep up with him. He emerges from the wilderness, the habitation of demons, and immediately turns his hometown synagogue upside down. Full of the Spirit, he announces the breaking in of the kingdom. “The time is ripe,” he says, “and God’s kingdom has come close. Change your purpose and trust in the good news.”1
A man tortured by possession is in the synagogue screaming in pain. Jesus reaches deep and drags the demon out, leaving the man shaken but grateful, the onlookers stunned by the authority of Jesus’ word. Across the gap between the stiff sanctity of the sacred service and the raw clawing out of the demon from its midst, the word of Jesus sizzles through the air: “Put on a muzzle and come out of him!”2
We come up against a mystery: Jesus and his mission are one and the same. To have some inkling of Jesus as a living, breathing person is to take tentative steps across the gap between this world and the kingdom. He shows us the way to God, not through a formula for successful salvation, but by being the person in whom God was most fully seen. At the risk of cliché, the way God acts in the world is through Jesus as the Way.
We get this not through a painstakingly logical progression of thought, but by a leap of trust across the gap. In Jesus we see God as God wants to be seen and known.
Even so, there is still a gap between Jesus and ourselves — a gap that cradles history and human nature. Over the course of a lifetime we are drawn to Jesus in a multitude of ways. We may see him in art, sense him in music and poetry, revel in the Gospel stories, interpret his words for our situation.
There is always the situation and the story. A gap stretches between the two.
The situation is this moment in history, the events and structures we find ourselves within. Language, myth, and symbol are how our story creates us in this situation. Our situation and Jesus’ situation differ, not in nature but in degree.
The whole of human life consumed and transformed him in ways that we will likely not experience this side of death. We get glimpses of it, we hear the music occasionally, but the heavens will not part for us as they did for him. The gap remains. Therein lies our glory and our salvation. He has done what we cannot do that we might live through his life.
There will be a time beyond time when we shall be with him. The final gap — Death — shall be no more. We shall know as we are known. No more need to mind the gap.
Mark 1:15, The Gospels. Translated by Sarah Ruden. New York: Modern Library, 2021. ↩
Mark 1:25, The Gospels. Translated by Sarah Ruden. New York: Modern Library, 2021. ↩
Whoever looks to secure his life for himself will lose it, but whoever loses it will bring it to life.” (Luke 17:33)
Jesus’ words to his students are puzzling. The broader context of these verses is about disaster so sudden and devastating that people working in their fields must not return to their homes. Today, it would be drone strikes and rockets launched into valleys from the high places.
These events won’t be discernible beforehand. You won’t know when this will happen. When the Son of Man comes, there won’t be any confusion. He won’t be “here” or “there.” He’ll be everywhere at once.
Just before the text quoted above, Jesus says, almost as an afterthought, “Remember Lot’s wife!” He doesn’t have to explain; everyone listening knows the story.
Lot’s wife is running with her family out of Sodom, as the sky rains sulphur and brimstone. It’s nature’s equivalent of a rocket attack. Don’t look back, says God. Get out and get away. But she falters, slows, and stops. She turns. She can’t help herself. Everything she’s known and loved is blowing up. Rocks the size of houses are slamming into the city. The canals are boiling and the gardens are burning. Somewhere down there her neighbors are cowering under the relentless carpet bombing of the city. They will all die and she knows it.
So she looks back, partly in anger, partly in compassion, partly through a head-swiveling curiosity. And as the story goes, she turns to a pillar of salt. Whether this is literal or not doesn’t matter. What Jesus asserts with this story is about trust as a way of life.
It’s a radically existential message. It echoes and reinforces his “Take no thought for tomorrow,” and “It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into God’s kingdom.” This is hyperbole jacked up to make a point—without trust we’ll always be looking back, frozen in place.
It’s not easy trusting forward when the world is exploding behind us. We want to know what is gaining on us, even if it means losing a step or two. Something about hearing footsteps or growls or the thunderous explosions behind us makes us crazy. We have to look or our eyeballs will swivel around without us.
I used to run on a treadmill at my local gym. I wondered how long I could run without glancing to see when my three-minute sprint was up. The most I could manage was one minute and that took all my willpower. It seems so much longer when you’re running, especially when everything in your head is screaming at you to look.
I kept at it though. I thought it was good discipline. I thought if I could ignore the impulse to bail out and look it might improve other parts of my life. Maybe I could really listen to another person instead of rehearsing my response as they spoke. Maybe I could stifle an impulse buy before I bought something I didn’t need and would regret later. Maybe I wouldn’t obsess over things that had little chance of tripping me up.
Yet I kept thinking about those people who blew past all the signs, thinking they could figure out how to land as they were falling. I kept thinking of stories that show up as a Netflix series about people who ignored the narrow way, the one thing that might have saved them and their civilization. It could have gone another way, but nooo—Jack, here, blithely spurned wise counsel and now we’re all eating turnips and living in caves.
There’s a more ambivalent view of history, one that appeals to people who take an expansive approach to life. This one travels the broad highway rather than the narrow path. All roads, it says, lead to Rome; all paths meet at the top of the mountain. There is room for all in the Kingdom; the only ones who won’t be there are the ones who choose against it. No one decision in life determines your future. Everything we do can be salvaged in some way. There is always, always redemption.
Unfortunately, I can see both directions at once: up the narrow ridge that features cataclysms to the left and the right and down in the valley where the living is easy and everyone is welcome. The graduation speaker for my high school class summed up both these views in one sentence: Be conservative with yourself and liberal toward all others. He wasn’t speaking politically, but socially and spiritually. He spoke from experience, for he was one of two faculty of color at the college my prep school was affiliated with. His sons were the only Asian kids in the high school. He knew firsthand about the narrow way. He had learned to forgive the goodhearted but irrepressibly ignorant people around him.
There’s more than one way to lose your life. The way I’m most familiar with is treading the narrow path and expecting everyone else to do the same. I’ve gone through phases in my spiritual life. As a teenaged convert, my first phase was to rejoice in my salvation and annoy the hell out of my undecided friends. I felt free to impose my faith on them. The second phase immersed me in world faiths and a broader view of God in the world. I’m in the third phase now. I believe God is working with me, as God does with everyone. When I respond in trust, God is able to show me my true self. This is a constant process of dying and rising. I weary myself sometimes. But God is infinitely patient, infinitely hopeful of my prospects. And I can live with that.
My son emerges into the world gray and slick. I know he is dead. I have dreaded this day because I do not know if I can love a child. Not in the way he or she deserves.
My mother leaves when I am nine months old. My father is desperate. He cannot raise me by himself. I live with different friends. First in Canada, then with other friends in North Carolina. I am with them for several months. I am led into a darkened bedroom. Afternoon light is coming in through shutters. The mother is dying of cancer and I am to say goodbye. I think this is my first memory.
Back to Canada and my father’s parents. They are in their sixties, but they take me in with glad hearts. I am three years old. I am with them until I graduate from college. I have friends—an extended family of friends. The absence of my father leaves me with an inner coldness that I fear. I read a lot when I am alone.
I have one photo of my mother. She is smiling, blond hair falling to her shoulders, her skirt flaring around her. In the background is a house with a porch. I may have been there. I can’t be sure. There was a porch and a house and an old man and woman speaking kindly to me in French. So . . . her parents then. So she was French Canadian.
I am with my wife as she gives birth. My son is gray. I am sure he is dead. But then in seconds—hours, it seems—his robust cry transfixes me. He blossoms pink, then red. Then Love crashes in, a tsunami of feeling that narrows my vision to a single point. Reason, control, diffidence — all is dwarfed by this mighty rock of love, solid and sudden, in my soul’s desert.
Years later, my father has died three thousand miles away. My sister calls me. It was a brain tumor. I put the phone down and turn away. I have no tears.
Months later, maybe a year, I am riding at night with my love. She is driving. I slip a CD into the player and I hear Eric Clapton.
”And you begin to lean against some longing till it shifts.”1
Few people set out to be professional doubters. The most famous Western example is Descartes, who resolved to question everything he thought he knew. He arrived at one indisputable truth: Cogito, ergo sum — “I think, therefore I am.” In the method he devised for learning, humility was central, along with the tolerant observation of others and a reliance on personal experience over the theories of theologians and philosophers.
He hoped, he said, to get to heaven as much as anyone else, but when he learned that heaven was open to the ignorant as well as to the learned, and when he saw that revealed truth was beyond his understanding, he reckoned that one had to be more than human to study the ways of God successfully. About the existence of God, Descartes had no doubts, and that he was a creation of God, he was equally convinced. With that assurance he carefully went about deconstructing the system of belief and truth he had grown up with.
Descartes was an exceptionally patient person. He gently advised those who were neither born to leadership nor exhibited the traits needed not to attempt reform simply for its own sake. His metaphor of knocking the house down to its foundations and rebuilding it anew included using what could be salvaged in the reconstruction. Although his method was radical (from the Latin radix, root), he would probably be regarded today as a moderate. But perhaps the comparison pales, since he lived and served — and died — under monarchies, notably the court of Queen Christina of Sweden.
Today, when I read Descartes’ Discourse on Methods or his Meditations, I feel myself in the presence of a kindly and sagacious tortoise. If nothing will accelerate him toward the finish line, it’s not for lack of mental speed. Unlike the innumerable hares among us, Descartes the Tortoise need not hurry because he’s already seen the end. He ambles along without resentment or competitiveness. He declares himself a happy man, secure in the God he knows, yet incapable of conforming to an ignorant authoritarianism. You won’t find him at a Black Lives Matter protest or demonstrating against Roe v. Wade in front of the Supreme Court. He is a universe of one.
Those of us who admire and envy Descartes his intellectual rigor and equanimity still would not follow him in matters of the soul. He became famous for his distinction between matter and mind, body and soul, as two completely different substances.
The soul was a spiritual substance somehow united with a body governed by purely physical laws. Descartes struggled with this distinction, trying to find a mechanistic explanation for the invisible spirit we call mind. He thought it harmful to spend much time on metaphysical questions about God and the soul, questions that could only be answered through the imagination and the senses. Better to come to terms early with one’s relation to God as that of an inferior to a superior, and then set that aside to deal with laws that could be tested and reasoned out.
What I know of God has come through the myths and stories of religious scriptures; through literature, art, music, poetry, and drama; and through the works of theologians and philosophers who speak from hearts in tandem with their heads. That, together with my own experience and what I have learned from my religious community, is synthesized through imagination and the senses. Thanks to Abraham Joshua Heschel, my faith and trust now begin with wonder and awe. It was not always this way.
Like many of my generation, my religious education began with the certainty that heaven was the prize for the diligent perfectionist. I don’t fault those who led us in those paths; they knew not what they did. But what they did when we were children stamped down the possibility of entering the kingdom like a child—that is, with wonder and with awe.
Wonder and awe are signs of innocence, the unmarked snow of childhood. It may seem odd, even perverse, to seek innocence after six decades of life. After all, we cannot unring the bell or unsee what has been burned into our retinas. Most times, we cannot even forget what we have forgiven. But we can be born again.
Innocence here does not mean naiveté or a deliberate denial of contrary evidence. Rather, it is the deepest, most intimate, most honest core of oneself, the “still, small voice” that we hear as an undertone among the clanging cymbals and sounding brass of the spiritual marketplace.
It is our willingness to give up second-guessing God and building in every fail-safe we can think of for our lives. “You must protect this space,” says Christian Wiman, “so that it can protect you . . . Something in you must remain in you, voiceless even as you voice your deepest faith, doubt, fear, dreams . . .”2
To me now, wonder and awe are the necessary candles for our nights of darkness. They prepare us for the sudden reversals of fortune, the ordinances of humility as well as the modest epiphanies and glimpses of understanding. Through them we find what we can give back to God — our spiritual innocence.
This is my final regular column for Spectrum. In the past three-and-a-half years I’ve sought to give expression to one journey of faith, doubt, and mystery. It’s time, as U2 said, “To go away and dream it all up again.” I feel myself to have been on the road to Emmaus, recognizing the Stranger only after he disappeared. Thanks for sharing the road. Not all who wander are lost.
Elson, Rebecca. “After” in A Responsibility to Awe. Manchester, UK: Carcanet Press, Ltd., 2001, p. 40. ↩
Wiman, Christian. My Bright Abyss. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013, p. 64. ↩
“But to come to some understanding of God, we must let the story question us . . . When we write, we should become a question to ourselves.”1
Part way through the thirtieth semester he rebelled. Quietly. He wondered who he thought he was and why he was advising students how to live their lives. He wondered if they believed him. When they bent over their notes or looked at him quizzically were they listening or were they merely hearing the noises he made with his mouth?
He’d lost any clear picture of his own life, obscured as it was by the constant intrusion of doubts and sleight of hand. What gave him the right — or duty — to tell other people what they should do?
He didn’t lie to others; that just wasn’t right. But he’d convinced himself he was invisible to most people and that when he left the room people forgot about him. Occasionally he doubted he could be found. And there was the stuttering moment when all his choices held an acorn of truth, every one a potential oak and no foretelling which of them would flourish.
Teaching was the vocation: to free the truth was its compelling subversion. At first it was simply teaching as he had been taught. Later, with more experience, there was something else — call it true north — needle quivering on the compass, pointing to Truth and Beauty. The goal, he thought, was to reach that which must be believed to be seen. “Faith seeking understanding,” said old Saint Anselm. But should we trust ourselves in the seeking?
There was the pebble he’d touched in his pocket all those years when the ethical and theological theories he presented became lighter than air. The pebble carried weight, had balance and smoothness, a reality that could not be kicked away. It represented the solid earthiness of humanity. It asked, “What are you going to do?”
He’d become a teacher because there was nothing he’d rather do than learn and to share what he’d learned and to bring others to the door of their own learning. All those years later he smiled, remembering that young man entering the classroom for the first time. He had seen himself part of a great stream of educators, the people who ‘lead others out’ into new places and new ideas.
He’d discovered along the way that people wouldn’t travel to places they didn’t think existed. Or turn aside for a burning bush. Yet there were days when curiosity and imagination flared up in the classroom and the breath of the Spirit could be felt. When the light flicked up in a student’s eyes, he felt he was on holy ground.
Every day he carried the tools into the classroom where the students and he were building their boat of common learning. Everything they brought to the classroom went into building the boat: the scrap bits left over from previous boats, the new pieces cut and shaped for this one, parts they discovered that no one had known were there.
What they learned together would create the boat and the boat would carry them across the river at the end of the semester, and what they had learned about themselves in the building of it would help them find their paths on the other side.
There was always a river to cross in life. This would not be their last. Crossing rivers was sometimes an escape, sometimes a transition to a new life, sometimes just what had to be done at the time. What happened at the riverbank was always about making a decision.
The story of Jacob wrestling with the angel of the Lord at the River Jabbok had always transfixed him. He’d been wrestling with God for years. ‘Where are you?’ he’d ask at four a.m. “I’m at the end of my world.”
Then he’d put a brave face on it, stride into class, and mask his fear with a discussion of God-among-us — Jesus. The same Jesus who, struggling to know himself, asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?”
And then, “Who do you say that I am?”
He knew this was the most important question in his life, but at four a.m. he had no clear answers. He thought he knew who he was — “I am a teacher” — but that was collapsing like a riverbank undercut by the torrent. Eventually, everything he said in the classroom sounded to him like clanging cymbals. He wondered if the corrosion within showed on his face. If doubt and hope had finally fought each other to a standstill.
Some thought Jacob’s angel was really God. That God had come to strip Jacob down to his true self and whatever transpired on the riverbank that night could only be done by God himself, face to face with Jacob.
In the darkness a figure touched him on the shoulder. He spun around, almost screamed. He was outmatched, overwhelmed. Desperation gave him tenacity. As he fought, his determination surged as his strength diminished. He’d lost himself back there, but he was ready to find himself again, even if it cost him his life.
Cording, Robert. Finding the World’s Fullness: On Poetry, Metaphor, and Mystery. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2019, p. 66. ↩
“All prayer is social. We discover this when we pray for others.”1
I have a friend who has endured many operations. He bears the scars of the expeditions surgeons have made deep within his body. A liver transplanted, heart valves repaired, cleaned, and adjusted, ducts cleansed, fevers abated, numbness cancelled and, on top of everything else, a conflagration of COVID. He has survived it all with a degree of cheerfulness that is astounding.
I pray for him every day, despite my puzzlement over the geometric triangulations between my friend, the Lord, and myself. God knows my friend’s needs infinitely better than I. God does not need my reminders. God does not need my prayers. I believe God would care for my friend even if he were friendless and isolated, say, a prisoner on death row.
I could imagine—putting myself in his place—that believing others were praying for me would be a comfort, a point of light in the darkness, a step toward healing. But what if it weren’t strictly true? Supposing no one bothered to pray: would my belief that they were function as a prayer placebo?
Perhaps “prayer for others” is not entirely about those prayed for.
I try to determine the process of causality (break glass in case of emergency). Can it produce the desired result: the full healing and restoration of my friend? Immediately, I am hit with a flood of variables to consider. Left alone, I can helplessly argue myself out of any hope in the effectiveness of prayer on behalf of other people.
I realize I am overthinking this, but it’s a path I’ve trodden so many times I no longer look where my feet are walking.
Again, suffering comes in a variety of colors. I might not see yours within the spectrum of light available to me. What I see now is learned: what I am educated into, persuaded out of, brought up within, and have imitated.
This is second-order reflection, that which I benefit from when given an opening to someone else’s experience.
For example, what I know of racism I have learned from James Baldwin, Eldridge Cleaver, Toni Morrison, and many other writers. From my friends: Randy, Colleen, Camille, Judy, Roz, Mo, Inez, and Yi. From the relentless cascade of images and names. The profiled, the detained, the handcuffed, slammed, and throttled. It’s the color of suffering in a spectrum I have learned to see through special lenses. But always at a distance.
When it comes to praying for others, I can easily talk myself out of it. Perhaps my own answers to prayer were retro-fitted rationalizations. Perhaps I created connections where none existed. The ghost of Hume beckons; there is no way to prove that one thing causes another, especially not in the realm of prayer to an invisible and apparently absent God. Or the old sword-thrust of the religiously smug: “You don’t have enough faith. If you did, you could move mountains.” As if prayer was an up-brand form of telekinesis.
First-order reflection is what I do when I experience something myself and think about it after. Thoreau says in his journals we first scale the mountain, then we climb it again at home as we remember each step on the route to the summit.
What I know without a doubt is that I owe more than I can repay to others. And the fact they do not regard it as a debt opens before me a path of wonder and gratitude. I have experienced this freely given form of prayer all my life. It is the unspoken prayer of generosity, felt but not heard, a swelling force-field that surrounds me.
The whole question of causality (did my prayer accomplish anything?) fades and drops away as we see ourselves joining with others—and with God—in our prayers of care. We gradually come to see others and ourselves from the vantage point of God. We see our interconnectedness with all others and with the world under and through God. Because of friendship, because of love, we must hold them up to God in prayer. That is the need we have.
We are encouraged to “pray without ceasing” because prayer is unceasingly needed. Needs that both the pray-ers and the prayed-for have. It’s about constant needs through time, not about unending prayers.
We cannot protect those we love from random violence, evil, disease or death. We may not even be able to shield them from decisions gone awry. These are the contradictions within which we live. We should not imagine these contradictions will easily dissolve. God is not in the magic racket.
We are here in a world as beautiful as it is broken. Our fractures break up the smooth planes and surfaces of our lives. Their edges are jagged angles. Our prayers drop like healing balm and settle, filling the spaces between them, smoothing them with time, blending the breaks into a body that bears its scars with patience and nobility.
Ulanov, Ann and Barry. Primary Speech: A Psychology of Prayer. Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1982, p. 85. ↩
”A person exists to be the agent of creative goodness. When we thus create goodness we are both ourselves raised from the dead and also the agents to others of resurrection.”1
My memory of the resurrection of the dead cannot be separated from paintings I saw as a child. Whole families were climbing out of their graves together. They were dressed like they were going to church and all of them had smiles on their faces. Some of the little ones were still standing in their graves, transfixed by the apocalyptic maelstrom swirling around them. Many other people were already drifting skyward, arms upraised, legs trailing, drawn like iron filings to a magnet.
The sky above them was all towering clouds of blackness shot through with bolts of lightning. In the far background were the hapless wicked, lashed by meteors of fire and stampeding from gaping fissures opening in the ground beneath them. Skyscrapers were toppling and bridges snapping, but in the center of the sky, encircled by clouds of angels, was Jesus — crowned, sceptered, and majestic.
Let us say here that no artist can come close to what Resurrection Day will look like, although you can’t fault one for trying. The illustrations I saw were from the fifties and early sixties, and they faithfully preserved glimpses of that era. There’s a poignancy in such depictions: the artist paints his own longings for an ascension in his lifetime, with his friends and neighbors all aboard, most every one White, genteel, and self-assured.
Now I am comfortably agnostic about the details of Resurrection Day. Even St. Paul is vague about it. He spends more time warning about the suddenness of its coming than he does on what will then transpire. Those of us who are alive, he says, will be caught up in the air to meet the Lord. First the righteous dead, then us. And we’ll be with God forever from then on. It’s a message of encouragement. That was over two thousand years ago.
But I’m more interested in how people live after Easter. Emotionally speaking, for the disciples Easter weekend had all the charm of terminal cancer followed by a massive heart attack. And then, just when numbness turned to mourning and they could not finish any sentence that began, “Let’s ask the Lord . . .”, just then they were thrown into a new world where the air was so crisp and clean they were left gasping and their views of reality clearly had to be reverse-engineered.
The death and bodily resurrection of the one you love most in the world pretty much runs you through the gamut from fear to tears to awe and then tears again.
The reason this matters is that we see the disciples having time to get to know the post-resurrection Jesus. There was the report, duly discounted, by the women who met him at the tomb. There was the encounter by two disciples with the stranger on the road to Emmaus. Then his appearance in the locked upper room. Then later, meeting him on the beach in the early morning, after a long night of futile fishing. There was time, in other words, to remind yourself that everything about your life had changed because the Lord had risen from death. And he was right here, in the flesh.
For us, it’s different. Come Monday morning, we’re staring at the computer screen between meetings and wondering when our parents will get their COVID shots. The joy of Easter morning has faded and we’re feeling like the whole thing might have been a sacred ritual that has lost its meaning. Or even a beautiful, dark, tragic illusion. How do we live forward in the reality of a future two thousand years in the past?
The resurrection of our lives here and now does not lift us out of the daily grind or magically thwart all pain and disease. We won’t live in a bubble henceforth that reroutes hurricanes or turns floods aside. Those things may still happen to us; what matters is what we perceive and how we respond to the grit and the blows.
Let’s set aside the practical mechanics of bodily resurrection after death. God knows, whatever such resurrection is, molecular biology and neurophysiology won’t penetrate the mystery. If that is what’s ultimately preventing our trust in God it would be better to pluck out that eye than to continue blind to all that transcends the empirical.
What, then, is resurrection? Given our skepticism and our fear of being scammed, how do we recognize resurrection after Easter? Because there is no resurrection without a crucifixion, those who are daily resurrected are well acquainted with crucifixion. And if, like St. Paul, we find ourselves dying daily we are yet assured of a daily resurrection.
It may come to us quietly and without warning. Like much of our experience with God, we’ll be a step behind in recognizing the green shoots of new growth in our lives.
When we have burned our bridges before we get to them, and yet find in the destruction the soft breeze of forgiveness, that is resurrection. When we have focused all our efforts to achieve a goal and still have fallen short, but a wider range of possibilities opens to us, that is resurrection. When an artist tries to create a thing of beauty and cannot translate the image in her head to the canvas before her, she feels a failure. But then a new courage arises in her from somewhere and the old inhibitions fall away. She wields her brush with confidence and the image emerges. That’s resurrection. When a person has agonized about the forced options he is faced with and then inexplicably finds peace no matter the outcome, that is resurrection.
Resurrection in this life raises us above our fears and creates in us channels of goodness to others. When Jesus cries out that “streams of living water” will flow out from those who trust him, that is resurrection in action. When he promises us life and that more abundantly, that is resurrection in defiance of crucifixion.
Lent leads us prayerfully through a thoughtful self-examination up to Easter. And Easter gathers up the shards of brokenness that result and points us toward a new wholeness. It’s not dependent on whether we summit the emotional peaks, but on how we traverse the valleys below. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”
On Easter morning the women make their way through the streets before dawn. They are going to the tomb to do for Christ’s body what could not be done in the haste to get him down from the cross. Even though they have no way to roll the stone away, they trust that something will work out, that someone will help them. They know that doing so will put them in danger. But they go ahead. Respect, courage, love—all those combine to compel them forward. Resurrection has already begun in their hearts, although they have no name for it yet.
Williams, H. A. The True Wilderness. Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse Publishing, 1965, p. 12 ↩
“Religious insights have to be carried over a long distance to reach expression, and they may easily shrivel or even perish on the way from the heart to the lips.”1
I wish I could remember a moment, some white-hot flash, when I first realized the sacred in the flood of the senses. I’d like to think my search for God began early in life, but that would be claiming too much. What I do remember is saying goodbye to a friend when I was five.
My grandparents and I were moving from Canada to California and I was leaving behind my first-grade friends, the hill behind our house where I sledded, and the stand of junipers in our back yard that grew so thick I could crawl beneath them to watch the world and dream.
I knew we were moving away because my grandfather had explained it to me. My impression was we would first be here and then we would be there. The logistics of it didn’t occur to me. There were no pictures in my head of us climbing into our Studebaker and driving from Ontario to California. Neither did I understand how long it would take nor what California was. There was a gap of experience that simply did not rise to imagination. So, I cheerfully went about my young life, immersed in the pursuit of bugs, building roads and tunnels in my backyard sandbox, and peering out through the branches of my juniper fortress.
Bustle and commotion, the moving van pulling up and the contents of our house boxed up and carried down stairs and up ramps into an enormous box on wheels. It wasn’t until we were finally in the car — me in the back seat with my books and the box lunch my grandmother had made for us — and my grandfather was praying for traveling mercies, his head bowed over the steering wheel and his murmured words gathering into me, that the truth hit my gut.
“I have to do something!” I yelled, and I wrenched open my door before my grandparents could stop me and dashed around the house to the sandbox in the back yard. Squatting down, I clawed a hole in the sand and sat back on my heels. And I saw not wet sand and twigs, but a green, lush, and fertile canopy of trees far below and at the lip of the hole, his legs dangling, my merry little elf, my invisible friend.
I told him I would miss him, but we were going away and I was pretty sure they didn’t allow elves in California. He would guard the fortress under the junipers until I should return. This was not goodbye. That was understood. And then he grinned and waved and leaped and I covered the hole. I stood up, brushed my knees, and ran to the car idling in front of our house and we drove away.
We arrived in California in due time. We built a home on the side of a mountain overlooking the Napa Valley, on a site tangled with manzanita bushes and strewn with volcanic rocks that were pitted and bubbled. I immersed myself in that nature, with acres of abandoned vineyards just up the road and streams and lakes to explore. There in Nature was the depth of the mysterious, clothed in the familiar forms of animals, trees, stone, and clouds.
There may not have been a law against elves in California, but I never saw another one nor did I apparently need to. The companionship of an invisible elf gave way to visible friends. It was my first experience with the numinous.
Our impressions of the divine coalesce early and later we subject them to reflection. The absence of my father from my life — alive, but far away — shaped how I regarded God for many years. Our separation was the result of fate, forced choices, and the slow accretions that time and habit build up from settled ways and random circumstances.
God-hauntedness has run like a dark thread through my life. Alongside a quietly intense religious upbringing there was the constant presence of the absence of God, an absence with a voice. We have no images of God nor definitions. We have only God’s name, “I Am,” a name that in its utterance brings us to silence and dissolves all time into a present pregnant with the future.
“Something is asked of us. But what?” wrote Abraham Joshua Heschel.2 It is a recurring theme in his books. It is the question, Who — or what — is God? The question is our silent companion, standing off to the side as we move through the world under the sky, give and take with others, and face our eventual death. This is what we can only begin to respond to when we have decided to listen, to feel, to receive, instead of first postulating, arguing, or explaining.
Faith, said Heschel, begins in wonder and awe. That doesn’t preclude rational thinking about God at all, but as one of my professors was fond of saying, “No one was converted by the ontological argument.”
We cannot live on mystery alone; desire to know gives rise to language and language both orders and liberates. We wield the structures of language in shaping the welter of sense impressions flooding in on us from the world. Though we are limited creatures, there is almost no limit to how we may express that ordering through imagination. In our creativity is the strongest evidence of our family resemblance to the Father of us all.
“Religious insights have to be carried over a long distance to reach expression,” said Heschel, “and they may easily shrivel or even perish on the way from the heart to the lips.”3
I have thought about this vivid experience now and then in the intervening sixty-four years. Even now, if I shut my eyes, I can see the backyard, the sandbox, the febrile green of the forest canopy (only visible if seen directly from above), and the wizened, mischievous face of my elf. At the time, I easily made a distinction between what I saw and what was “real.” Yet, I felt compelled to do it and there was a sense of completion in having done it. It wasn’t something I discussed with my grandparents at the time nor with anyone since. Writing about it now breaks up the ice on a long-frozen river.
Any moment in our history can be a window to our interior life. When I gaze through this one, I see a child putting away childish things — without which he could not have imagined later the unseen presence of the Son of Man.
Heschel, Abraham Joshua. Man is Not Alone. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1952, p. 98. ↩
“There is nothing in this world or the next, absolutely nothing, which cannot, and will not, be turned into the valid currency we need to buy the one pearl of great price.1
I’ve always agreed with Joni Mitchell when she sings, “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone?”
We’re getting plenty of practice at seeing what is gone. We’ve lost jobs, the ones we must have just to keep going. We’ve lost weekends with relatives and the afternoons that make a friendship. Many children have lost almost a year of school. Families have been disrupted, separated, decimated.
So many have died. Half a million of them and counting in this country alone. We are learning to know the shape of what we’ve lost.
The pandemic pares us down to the essentials. What can we live without, what can we do without and still have a life? What is of value, even that which we cannot put a price upon because we have no idea how to measure it?
If it’s gone and lost, does that mean we know how much it was worth? Is it worth more to us now that it’s lost than it was when we had it — because we didn’t really know what we had? Does this mean we have to lose a thing to appreciate its value?
At times in my life I’ve tried to pre-empt this lostness by imagining my life without the job that I hated but really needed or losing the people I sometimes took for granted or falling into such bad health that it would be hard to remember a time when my body didn’t ache.
This is an exercise I recommend. It should be done when you feel yourself drifting, losing focus—not when you’re secure and comfortable with your face to the afternoon sun, but when your moral compass has lost true north. It should be done when you think you know exactly why someone acts like a jerk, but you don’t know jack. You could do this also when you’ve had a run of good luck, hit all the green lights on your daily commute, and generally feel yourself to be in favor with God and your fellow humans.
At this point you may hear a little voice asking plaintively why you’re so paranoid. Or if you’re really a hypochondriac. Or why you care what other people think.
You don’t have to answer. Just don’t ignore it. This is the voice of conventional wisdom — just so you know what you’re up against.
It helps you appreciate what it takes to recognize something of real value. Like the kingdom of heaven.
Jesus told a parable: “Here is another picture of the kingdom of Heaven. A merchant looking out for fine pearls found one of very special value; so he went and sold everything he had, and bought it.”
There is a blithe extravagance about this parable. There’s no understatement here. Jesus paints the image of a man who is willing to risk all that he owns to buy the one thing he’s discovered that outshines everything else. He’s mortgaged his home, sold his cars and his inventory—maybe even his own business. Everything is willed down to one thing: the pearl.
A risk that great reveals the character of the man and the value of the object. He recognizes what he sees. He isn’t rummaging through a yard sale to discover a treasure worth thousands at the expense of the clueless owner. The story doesn’t elaborate, but we can infer that whoever he’s buying it from requires top dollar. Our man knows this and will sacrifice everything.
Equally important, he has the means to buy it. That kind of money is accumulated over time. Someone just starting out in the business would have neither the expertise nor the capital to invest. Both take time and energy and experience.
We see a decisiveness in his actions that may obscure the deliberation behind it. This is not a snap judgment he’s come to (although at times the Spirit may come upon us like a mighty wind). It began with attentiveness and openness. He took action; he searched for the best. He counted the cost, he gathered his assets, he took the risk. We can imagine him shaking with excitement — and some fear — when he finally takes the pearl in hand.
This is but one story about the kingdom of heaven and how one person grasped it. It may not be the story for everyone. It’s not a template. In fact, at one point Jesus recoils from the fractured current images of the kingdom: “And from the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent bear it away.” The kingdom is a mindset of peace, not of violence.
The way this works for me is to imagine the moment in which you decide you will learn the cello, or you will be a sculptor, or you want to write. There is a life you want to live. There is that existential moment, a point in time, which can be remembered, perhaps even marked in some way. But what led you to that moment is fragmentary, sporadic, and distorted by memory. Much of it was unconscious. Only later, having passed through the portal of that particular decision, will you begin to see a pattern to your life. It is like an iceberg: most of it is under the surface, but you know it is there.
Crossing the decision threshold might be like leaping into a charged electrical field or it might be as quiet as a leaf falling. There was the before, then there was that moment, unique and solitary, and now you live in this changed reality. You are making music, you are sculpting, you are writing. This your life. That is what the kingdom of heaven is like for me.
It’s not about space, but about time, day after day. We grow into a longing for the kingdom as we read, pray, and love, and even as we lie, steal, and fight. Our fears, as much as our virtues, pry us open to a consuming need for the kingdom. Our losses and our failures count as much toward our hopes as do our moments of courage and compassion. We are not first transformed and then magically enter the kingdom. We enter, trailing our pains and ills. None of us are on the path marked “Present and Perfect.”
The kingdom is not a place, it’s a way of being. If that sounds too abstract we could say that we carry it within us. It’s portable, and where we are, so there the Spirit is that makes us one. Separated, socially distanced, removed from one another by pandemics, culture, language, politics, and religion, we nevertheless may form a fine web of symbols and trust among ourselves.
Everything that we are and everything we have experienced and will experience in this life we bring to this kingdom of the heart that we share. Everyone is invited, no one is excluded. There are no conditions except one: that we wish to know as we are known, our lives transparent without shame before God.
Williams, H. A. The True Wilderness. Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse Publishing, 1994, p. 52. ↩