Every time I start to say something about the Ascension, I stop myself and think, “no, that’s not right, you can’t say that.” For instance, I might start to speak of the Ascension as the day that “Jesus went away.” But that’s not right; Jesus isn’t gone. How about “the day Jesus returned to Heaven.” That makes it sound like the Second Person of the Trinity had been temporarily absent from Heaven, so… no. Or I might start to talk about “the end of Jesus’ life on Earth,” and that’s not right either. Then I get a light bulb and start to blurt out “the end of Jesus’ physical presence among us.” But for Catholics, believing in the Eucharistic Presence, that’s wrong too.
Well, come on. Something changed! Why is it so hard to find the right words for what’s different? I mean, he was here and then he wasn’t! No, wait, you can’t say that.
That difficulty in finding words can mean one of two things. It can mean that you’re dealing in nonsense, or it can mean that you’re dealing in mystery. If you fumble for words when I ask you “what color is seven?” it’s because we’re dealing in something that isn’t real. If you fumble for words when I ask you “what does it mean to truly love,” it’s because we’re dealing with something that’s especially and tremendously real, something that escapes our words and refuses to be corralled by them.
And that’s just the sense one gets when Jesus talks about His Kingdom. He uses signs and parables to get us pointed the right direction, because it’s not something that can just be put into a few simple words. Is it here, or in a faraway heaven? Does it start now or later? He talked about His Kingdom as something that was already at hand, but He also talked about His Kingdom as something that would come to fulfillment. He said “The Kingdom of God is in your midst,” but he also taught us to pray, “Thy Kingdom come.”
It’s in that mystery that Christian life happens. We acknowledge the presence of Christ with us now, even as we hope and look forward to something…more. We work to bring His Kingdom into flower in our world, even as we know that this world, this life, is not our true home. At least, not yet.
Thirty seconds after the Ascension, they were already dealing with this paradox. “Men of Galilee, why are you staring at the sky?” That’s not what Christians do. We don’t turn our backs on the world in favor of a “something better” waiting for us after we die. Neither do we forget that the coming of the Kingdom is something we pray for, not something we accomplish by gradually improving the world.
When you can’t come up with words to describe something, you need to find a poet. This is the most famous poem of the English Jesuit priest, Gerard Manley Hopkins. You won’t catch all of this in just one hearing, but see if some of it resonates:
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
The great Jesuit poet has got hold of it, there, I think, that moment when the Apostles looked down from the sky at the new reality of Christian life, at the world “charged with the grandeur of God.” It always was, the grandeur was always there, but when Christ ascended into Heaven He brought heaven and earth together in a fundamentally new way.
“Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil.” That’s the illusion of the ordinary. The routines and ruts we fall into, all the ways that things seem futile, all the ways that things seem dull or pointless. It’s the idea of a world cut off from Heaven, a world from which God has departed. The most we could hope for from such a world would be to escape it.
But that’s not Christianity. The Ascension is not a departure, but the opening of a door that will never be shut. The Kingdom is among us AND The Kingdom is to come. We are citizens of that Kingdom now, insofar as we live in a world “charged with the grandeur of God,” under the “bright wings” of the Holy Spirit. Our connection with Christ, Risen and Ascended, seated at the Right Hand of the Father, is our connection to the “dearest freshness deep down things.”
Like all good poetry, that’s some seriously practical stuff. Like all true mysteries, it’s as concrete and relevant and practical as could be. You don’t want your life to go by in dreariness and boredom and empty routine. You don’t want to spend your life with that sinking feeling, “Is this it? Is this all?” That restlessness, that dissatisfaction that haunts you, that’s because you’re made for more than this. You have to know that or you’ll live in disappointment and frustration! People who expect perfect satisfaction from this world can only wind up resenting it for failing.
But you have to know this, too: that the ‘more’ that you’re made for is shining all around you. It flames out, it gathers to greatness. Living in the Kingdom is not staring at the sky waiting for something. Living in the Kingdom is complicated to put into words, but simple to put into practice. We’ve got His example to follow. Let the children come to me. Take time often for silence and prayer. Cultivate friendship. Extend a hand to the people the world is condemning or alienating. Extend help to the people who need it. Forgive the unforgivable. Give up on no one. And give yourself away, love until it hurts, love even if it kills you.
In a word, live the Great Commission. Jesus didn’t Ascend saying “wait around, I’ll be back.” Good educators know - like the staff we’ve been training at Camp Ondessonk - that sometimes the lesson can only be fully learned when the teacher steps away. It’s that moment when the teacher relinquishes control, extends an encouraging hand, gives a look of confident trust, and says, “OK, your turn.”
Jesus spoke about His Kingdom with words that are recorded in Scripture. He showed it in actions and signs, He showed us a life of grandeur, showed us “the dearest freshness deep down things.” And then He ascended. Did He leave? No. Did He stay? Well, not in the same way. I’m not a poet, but I can’t help thinking it’s just a little like that teacher or camp counselor who steps back… having taught, having shown, and still keeping a tender and hopeful and watchful eye… “OK, your turn.”
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