Among the deeper mysteries in life perhaps
the one we
struggle with the most is the mystery of the
Ascension. It's not so much that we misunderstand it,
we simply don't understand it.
What is the Ascension?
Historically it was an event within the life of Jesus
and the early church and is now a feast-day for
Christians, one that links Easter to Pentecost. But it
is more than an historical event, it is at the same
time a theology, a spirituality, and an insight into
life that we need to understand to better sort out the
paradoxical interplay between life and death, presence
and absence, love and loss.
The Ascension names and highlights a paradox that lies
deep at the center of life, namely, that we all reach
a point in life where we can only give our presence
more deeply by going away so that others can receive
the full blessing of our spirits.
What does that mean?
When Jesus was preparing to leave this earth he kept
repeating the words: "It is better for you that I go
away! You will be sad now, but your sadness will turn
to joy. If I don't go away you will be unable to
receive my spirit. Don't cling to me, I must ascend."
Why is it better sometimes that we go away?
Any parent with grown children has heard similar words
from their children, unspoken perhaps but there
nonetheless. When young people leave home to go to
college or to begin life on their own, what they are
really saying to their parents is: "Mum and dad, it is
better that I go away. You will be sad now, but your
sadness will turn to joy. If I don't go, I will always
be your little boy or little girl but I will be unable
to give you my life as an adult. So please don't cling
to the child you once had or you will never be able to
receive my adulthood. I need to go away now so that
our love can come to full bloom."
The pain in this kind of letting go is often
excruciating, as parents know, but to refuse to do
that is to truncate life.
The same is true for the mystery of death. For
example: I was 22 years old when in the space of four
months both of my parents, still young, died. For my
siblings and me the pain was searing. Initially we
were nearly overwhelmed with a sense of being
orphaned, abandoned, of losing a vital life-connection
(that, ironically, we had mostly taken for granted
until then). And our feelings were mainly cold,
there's little that's warm in death.
But time is a great healer. After a while, and for me
this took several years, the coldness disappeared and
my parents' deaths were no longer a painful thing. I
felt again their presence, and now as a warm,
nurturing spirit that was with me all time. The
coldness of death turned into a warmth. They had gone
away but now they could give me their love and
blessing in a way that they never could fully while
they were alive. Their going away eventually created a
deeper and purer presence.
The mystery of love and intimacy contains that
paradox: To remain present to someone we love we have
to sometimes be absent, in ways big and small. In the
paradox of love, we can only fully bless each other
when we go away. That is why most of us only "get" the
blessing our loved ones were for us after they die.
Mystically, "blood and water" (cleansing and the deep
permission to live without guilt) flow from their dead
bodies, just as these flowed from Jesus' dead body.
And this is even true, perhaps particularly so, in
cases where our loved ones were difficult characters
who struggled for peace or to bless anyone in this
life. Death washes clean and releases the spirit and,
even in the case of people who struggled to love, we
can after their deaths receive their blessing in way
we never could while they were alive. Like Jesus, they
could only give us their real presence by going away.
“It is better for you that I go away!” These are
painful words most of the time, from a young child
leaving her mother for a day to go to school, to the
man leaving his family for a week to go on a business
trip, to the young man moving out of his family's
house to begin life on his own, to a loved one saying
goodbye in death. Separation hurts, goodbyes bring
painful tears, and death of every kind wrenches the
heart.
But that is part of the mystery of love. Eventually we
all reach a point where what is best for everyone is
that we go away so that we can give our spirit. The
gift that our lives are can only be fully received
after we ascend.
Ronald Rolheiser, a Roman Catholic priest and member
of the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate
struggle with the most is the mystery of the
Ascension. It's not so much that we misunderstand it,
we simply don't understand it.
What is the Ascension?
Historically it was an event within the life of Jesus
and the early church and is now a feast-day for
Christians, one that links Easter to Pentecost. But it
is more than an historical event, it is at the same
time a theology, a spirituality, and an insight into
life that we need to understand to better sort out the
paradoxical interplay between life and death, presence
and absence, love and loss.
The Ascension names and highlights a paradox that lies
deep at the center of life, namely, that we all reach
a point in life where we can only give our presence
more deeply by going away so that others can receive
the full blessing of our spirits.
What does that mean?
When Jesus was preparing to leave this earth he kept
repeating the words: "It is better for you that I go
away! You will be sad now, but your sadness will turn
to joy. If I don't go away you will be unable to
receive my spirit. Don't cling to me, I must ascend."
Why is it better sometimes that we go away?
Any parent with grown children has heard similar words
from their children, unspoken perhaps but there
nonetheless. When young people leave home to go to
college or to begin life on their own, what they are
really saying to their parents is: "Mum and dad, it is
better that I go away. You will be sad now, but your
sadness will turn to joy. If I don't go, I will always
be your little boy or little girl but I will be unable
to give you my life as an adult. So please don't cling
to the child you once had or you will never be able to
receive my adulthood. I need to go away now so that
our love can come to full bloom."
The pain in this kind of letting go is often
excruciating, as parents know, but to refuse to do
that is to truncate life.
The same is true for the mystery of death. For
example: I was 22 years old when in the space of four
months both of my parents, still young, died. For my
siblings and me the pain was searing. Initially we
were nearly overwhelmed with a sense of being
orphaned, abandoned, of losing a vital life-connection
(that, ironically, we had mostly taken for granted
until then). And our feelings were mainly cold,
there's little that's warm in death.
But time is a great healer. After a while, and for me
this took several years, the coldness disappeared and
my parents' deaths were no longer a painful thing. I
felt again their presence, and now as a warm,
nurturing spirit that was with me all time. The
coldness of death turned into a warmth. They had gone
away but now they could give me their love and
blessing in a way that they never could fully while
they were alive. Their going away eventually created a
deeper and purer presence.
The mystery of love and intimacy contains that
paradox: To remain present to someone we love we have
to sometimes be absent, in ways big and small. In the
paradox of love, we can only fully bless each other
when we go away. That is why most of us only "get" the
blessing our loved ones were for us after they die.
Mystically, "blood and water" (cleansing and the deep
permission to live without guilt) flow from their dead
bodies, just as these flowed from Jesus' dead body.
And this is even true, perhaps particularly so, in
cases where our loved ones were difficult characters
who struggled for peace or to bless anyone in this
life. Death washes clean and releases the spirit and,
even in the case of people who struggled to love, we
can after their deaths receive their blessing in way
we never could while they were alive. Like Jesus, they
could only give us their real presence by going away.
“It is better for you that I go away!” These are
painful words most of the time, from a young child
leaving her mother for a day to go to school, to the
man leaving his family for a week to go on a business
trip, to the young man moving out of his family's
house to begin life on his own, to a loved one saying
goodbye in death. Separation hurts, goodbyes bring
painful tears, and death of every kind wrenches the
heart.
But that is part of the mystery of love. Eventually we
all reach a point where what is best for everyone is
that we go away so that we can give our spirit. The
gift that our lives are can only be fully received
after we ascend.
Ronald Rolheiser, a Roman Catholic priest and member
of the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate
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