I find the Sunday after Ascension the most poignant Sunday of the year. That’s because 51 Sundays we talk about Jesus being with us. But on this one Sunday, with Jesus ascended and the Holy Spirit not yet come, we feel a shiver of isolation unique in our tradition.
It begs the question of what we do when we can’t see the way ahead. Columbus legendarily wrote in his log, day after day as he crossed the Atlantic in search of who knew where, ‘No land in sight; kept sailing.’ There’s a stubbornness about this kind of faith that’s both admirable and daunting at the same time.
I recall a woman many years ago who had two children. Her son died suddenly at 19 – a heart defect took him without warning on the side of a football field. Then her 18-year-old daughter disappeared. Her life had emptied out. What was she to do? In a gesture that made complete sense to her, but her friends feared was pure denial, she made supper and prepared the bathroom and bedroom every night in case her daughter returned as suddenly as she’d disappeared.
It was hard to know how to hold a conversation with her during that season. She was living in two worlds – the world in front of her and the world she was hoping for. And behold, after two years, without any notice, her daughter reappeared: carrying an 18-month-old child.
Before we get too maudlin about how much of how many lives is spent either in unrequited love or in that mixture of frustration, waiting and near-despair that borders on insanity, we may reflect on one thing. That is our experience in relation to God one Sunday of the year. But it may be God’s experience of us every Sunday of the year. Waiting; hoping; longing – for us to respond, to recognise, to reciprocate: to be with.
Revd Dr Sam Wells
