Reconciliation

Last Thursday, we, the Church at large that is, celebrated the Ascension of Our Lord; and in 11 days’ time, we will commence the Week of Prayer for Reconciliation,[1] which is book ended by 2 significant national dates, the anniversary of the 1967 Referendum and the 29th anniversary of the Mabo judgment.

I am provoked to wonder how the ascension of Christ might have a bearing on how we think about justice and peace in Australia, and the gulf that lies between white and black people. This is by way of a thought experiment)

Firstly, let me say that the biblical representation of Jesus taken up into a cloud[2] does not have to be taken literally, although I have no objection if you do. The Ascension as described in the Acts of the Apostles is a symbolic way of saying something that cannot be put into words.

In the narrative process we have followed during Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent and Easter, we have journeyed alongside folk who forged an intimate and significant relationship with a man called Jesus. The quality of that relationship is such that when he was killed, their sense of loss was overwhelming. They were paralysed, benumbed, a perfectly normal human reaction to loss or change.

How do you convey such paralysis of feeling to someone else? It is impossible, unless your respondent has also suffered that paralysis. And even then, you cannot be entirely sure that your message will get across. So, you tell a story; you employ powerful symbols of your culture in order to express the intensity of what you are feeling. You exaggerate and go into great detail in order to make sure you are heard and understood.

The archetypal fishing story arises from the immense excitement of the catch, the proverbial sea monster that no one hitherto has caught. A moment of self-transcendence can only be captured by telling a story, and exaggerating like crazy. This is not telling lies; it is the compulsion for intimacy that wants to share this moment of excitement. It is one of the most intimate things a fisherman can offer you. The Fish Story. And some of the apostles were Fisher Folk.

So, the paralysed friends, lovers, of Jesus, cannot express their loss, and cannot initially let go of all that their relationship has meant to them. Some of us know how difficult it is to dismantle the room of a family member who has died. We keep the symbols of that presence intact until we are ready to let go. Even so, the dismantling involves feeling the pain; but that is alright, because weeping and tears are pain on the way out. And some symbols remain, a photograph, a keepsake, a small gift, to keep a memory alive, to maintain the structure of a closeness that once was incarnate.

The apostles cannot let go at first. Their distress is so intense that they will not even let Jesus be in a tomb. He simply disappears; he is not in the tomb, nowhere to be found, perhaps in the hope that he is still around - somewhere. Their narrative goes something like this.

We cannot yet dismantle the constructs of our relationship with this remarkable man. We even see him in our everyday life situations. He joins us for breakfast on the beach; he walks along the way to Emmaus; he pokes his fingers into his side to show that it is indeed himself.

 Again, it is a common experience of grief to be aware of someone’s presence, to see them clearly in the room, or out of the corner of the eye. And there is a story to be told.

But once we are able to tell the story, we are starting to let go. The difference between having and being is clarified. If I am a relationship, I cannot talk about it; but if I have a relationship, I can talk about it, put a distance between me and it, objectify it, and so put it in its proper place when I am ready. This is no dishonour to the relationship. Rather it gives it an honoured place in my heart along with the other treasures I carry and cherish; and so, I can tell a story about it.

To be able to tell the story is a sign of healing.

A time comes when I can say goodbye in a way that leaves me free, individual, standing alone, but not isolated. And, again, I have a story to tell about my goodbyes. I no longer dwell on the minute details of my process of loss, but offer memories to share. This is, paradoxically, a moment of reconciliation, with self, and with the object of my loss.

How many goodbyes do you have in your life? The pundits tell us that from birth we are engaged in a cycle of attachment and loss. It does not matter whether you are at the beginning of life or approaching the end of it. You have many, many goodbyes already tucked into your shirt. Have you shared them with a significant other? If not, you have something to which you can look forward.

The Ascension is the story of a goodbye offered to us by twelve or more men and women. It is a statement that they have let go. Their fish story is of the Ascension, when they were released from the paralysing grip of grief to grasp their selfhood in a new and wonderful way. The keepsake they retain is not a photo; it is not a pebble off the beach; and it is not something that Jesus might perhaps have made for them. The paradoxical reconciliation with the object of their loss, Jesus Christ, is symbolised in their final offering to us, their touchstone, the Holy Spirit of God, Sophia, Wisdom, whose presence we shall celebrate next week.

Well, you may by now be wondering what the blazes this has to do with the Week of Prayer for Reconciliation. Harken to the voice of the Dreamtime for a moment.

My brother-in-law, the late Father Don Moffat, spent several years on Flinders Island. He had a huge concern for the First Nation peoples of Australia. Here is one bit of his writing:

During the year we hope to be able to bring a small group of Aborigines and clergy together just to sit in a circle together to share stories, and from this we hope to be able to develop a program of Aboriginal story telling for our next clergy conference. We also hope to get the clergy into small groups to think over some simple statements concerning Aborigines without forcing them to come to a conclusion [as might be expected from, say, focus groups][3]. In a circle there is no first and no last. In a circle we can dance together and we can sing together; we can talk and listen to each other; we can quietly ponder together on the deep things of life; we can laugh together and we can cry together.

I quote this to underline the kind of listening that we as a dominant white culture must offer to our black siblings. Reconciliation comes at the end of a process of loss, grieving, painful
re-collection, re-integration of self, and the telling of a number of stories. If a story is to be told properly, it must be heard properly – not something that our Government is good at. If I speak of my pain and you do not hear, truly hear,  then you treat me and my story like the Pharisee and the Scribe who left a mortally wounded man by the roadside; but if you do truly hear my story, and tell it back to me so that I know that you know, then you have been to me the Samaritan who took the wounded man to a place of shelter and healed his wounds.

Your story is symbol and sacrament of your life; my story is symbol and sacrament of my life. Whatever the colour of our skin (I like to think of rainbows in this context; I am blue), may we sit together in a circle where there is no first and no last, except perhaps for the greatest storyteller of them all, and share our lives. And let us respectfully grieve with each other, for our losses are great. And new life will abound. That is Ascension, and my hope for our nation.

Amen.

Doug Bannerman.

Copyright © 2021

[1] 27 May is the anniversary of the 1967 Referendum, 3 June the Mabo Decision

[2] Acts 1.9

[3] My own comment. DDB.