I remember
several years ago the debates in the news about the alternatives for rebuilding
at Ground Zero in New York City. There was talk about creating an empty space
there as a memorial to the victims of 9/11; there were those who wanted to
rebuild exact copies of the Twin Towers; there were people who worried about
the cost of it all; there were others who objected to anything being done that
would disturb the sacred ground where so many had died; and there were many who
were afraid that whatever they built would become a huge target for further
terrorist attacks. Remembering those debates, I was interested to see on the
news this week that a new tower is almost completed at One, World Trade Center.
This tower is in addition to the two pools of remembrance, immense fountains
that pour somberly down into the black abyss of the Twin Towers’ foundations. It
is in addition to an underground museum dedicated to telling the story of the
victims’ lives. This new tower instead rises toward the heavens, and, topped by
a huge spire, will once again be the tallest building in North America. While
the pools and the museum are a tribute to the past, a memorial to the victims,
and a way of continuing to learn from the tragedy of September 11, the new
tower is a clear symbol of power and hope. With the completion of construction,
the people who move into the new space with their offices, will all take the
mantle of power from those who have died in that place. This new tower cries
out to the world that terror does not have the last word, that fear will not
rule our actions, that we are in control and moving forward.
Today we
celebrate Jesus’ ascension, and searching for a contemporary metaphor,
something less implausible than those ancient images of Jesus zooming up into
the clouds, I thought about this new tower in New York. All of a sudden, I
could see it:
At Ground Zero, the dark pools of water
pouring down into the abyss are like the crucifixion, like “God-made-flesh”
descending to earth, dying, descending even into hell. Alone, the dark pools
and the suffering, dying God bring peace to the depths and give succor to our
suffering, but there is no victory in them.
The memorial museum is like our
testimonies to resurrection. It gives us a new story by which to structure lost
lives, a narrative of love that brings glimmers of life out of death. Yet
alone, such a story is not enough to provide direction for the future. Mere
glimpses of the resurrected Jesus wafting in and out of our lives to feed us or
to lend a hand, if and when we recognize him, are just as tenuous and fleeting
as the pictures and voices of dead loved ones given new form as heroes on
museum walls.
The new tower, on the other hand, is like the
ascension, rising with power into the heavens, completing the cycle and
overcoming the defeat. When we say that Jesus “ascended into heaven,” what we
really mean—beyond the ancient cosmology of Jesus’ body floating up into the
sky—is that God Almighty who allowed himself to be poured out into the world to
live and suffer and die as one of us, has now not only shown us that sin and
death cannot hold him, but has returned to a place of power and glory. The Ascension
puts the Jesus that we know on earth back with the Father as ruler of Creation,
in charge and in control of the future. The Ascension builds a strong tower.
“The Almighty Lord, a strong tower to all who put their trust in Christ, to
whom all things in heaven, on earth, and under the earth bow and obey: Be now
and evermore your defense,” we pray in one of our collects for healing.
What difference, you might ask, does
the Ascension make in our daily lives? Is it just a theological concept,
another line in the Creed? Jesus tells the disciples that his ascension makes
them into his witnesses, into “martyrion,”
who are called to proclaim forgiveness of sins to all nations. I thought about
these disciples as I watched the gaggle of reporters on TV gawking up at the
hundred and some floors of this amazing skyscraper. I could imagine myself at
Ground Zero, as well, first peering into the depths of one of those huge black
pools. Lost in a sad reverie, I hear a voice saying to me, “Why do you seek the
living among the dead?”
“Of course,” I say to myself as I shake
my head to clear away the gloomy thoughts. “I’m like the women at the tomb,
expecting death, when God brings Life.” Had I forgotten so soon? I preached on
this at Easter!” Chastened, then, I look up instead at the tall tower, topped
by a silver spire that shines in the sunlight, reflecting more divine Glory
than the spires of the grandest cathedrals. My heart swells with hope for the
future and with patriotic pride as I associate myself and my nation with the strength
that this spire represents. Like Gollum who cannot tear his eyes away from his
precious ring, I stand and stare, as if entranced with the vision of Power. Then
I hear the voice again: “Anne, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This spire
and this tower will be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Until it
is no more. Your job is to testify right now and not to stare and gloat. Go
home and wait for the power of the Spirit.”
Life under the shadow of the spire,
like life under an ascended Lord, is less a life of pride and reflected Glory
than it is a life wrapped up in God. We pray in today’s collect that Christ
ascended far above the heavens “that he might fill all things.” As Joseph
Britton points out, if all things “are now filled by Christ’s presence, then
the consequence for Christian living is that nothing and no one can be taken as
insignificant or of no importance. Our commitment to God means that we are also
committed to what God is committed to: the whole of creation, as it has been
filled by Christ’s presence.”[1]
A spiritual director encouraged me just last week to put a sign over my desk
that reads: “How is the transforming power/love of God being made real in the relationship/activity/task
that you are now engaged in?” She encouraged me to examine in the light of God’s
transforming power, all of the seemingly unimportant daily tasks, chats, and
empty gestures that I shrug off every day as I long instead for a glimpse of
Glory. I haven’t started this spiritual discipline yet, but this Ascension
Sunday has given me renewed incentive. I’m going to look out—not up, not down—but
out into the world, into a world filled with Christ. What, in my actions and
interactions, opens, rather than closes, doors for God’s healing, reconciling,
forgiving, and creating work to go on? Like the 26,000 iron and steel workers
who forged the grand new tower, I have a role to play in the structure of the
Kingdom, one small widget at a time.
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