Do Not Cling To Me

 I have always struggled with the idea of impermanence. Why do people we love die? Why do friends come into our lives and then just ghost us for no good reason, or leave? Why are cities bombed and monuments destroyed? Why do things fall apart?

I think it's why I was drawn to Buddhism initially as a teenager before becoming a Christian. Impermanence--or if you like in western metaphysics, the law of entropy--is not the exception, but the rule. Tibetan Buddhists manifest this law tangibly in their creations of intricate sand mandalas that take months to create, working eight hours a day for weeks on end. Then in one final ceremony, they brush every last grain of colored sand away.

I was thinking about this this afternoon because I had been struck yet another blow at work with someone on our team leaving for greener pastures--my sixth director in five years. I felt foolish, thinking it would be different this time with this man, whom I had grown close with professionally. In a small way, I got a taste of what foster children must feel like.

When I lived and worked in the inner-city serving Christ's poor, the man who had founded the House of Hospitality told me as we were smoking cigarettes on the dilapidated back porch, "Rob, this work is hard. I pray a lot that my heart not close off and get hardened." He, too, would leave a few months later...in the dead of night, and without a word, leaving the rest of our community to figure things out on our own. 

When I meditate on the Mystery of the Ascension, I often pray, "Lord, I know you will not leave us orphans." And yet I experienced this feeling very acutely and unexpectedly when we were told the news at work. Instantly, my heart scabbed over and developed a shell. I was hurt and angry, even though I knew I shouldn't be. I didn't congratulate him on his new position; in fact, I went off camera, shell-shocked. I shouldn't have been. His position seems cursed almost, too much for one person to manage. I don't even blame him. But once again, I find myself professionally orphaned and starting once again from square one with a soon to be new direct report. This is normal in my industry; why I should think otherwise points more to my foolishness, not any fault of those who leave or get better opportunities elsewhere. 

Even though this is a professional scenario, I've been thinking too that it applies to our life as Catholics remaining in the Church. We don't have a loving shepherd for a spiritual father in the universal Church, but one that seems cold and vindictive, elevating apostates and giving audiences to heretics while he throws those prelates who are faithful to the wolves. I wrote in To Have Become Like Orphans in a text to a priest-friend, 

"All I feel is peace, because the fissures are so clearly drawn, and we have no excuse not for girding our loins for what's coming. Just because your father is passed out at the wheel doesn't mean there's not work that needs to be done and siblings who need to be fed and cared for."

Who are we to rely on? Who can we trust? The bad bishops stay in power, while the faithful ones stepping "out of line" get called into the Vatican's principal's office. Good priests get canceled, while the lukewarm and those riding out their status quo terms stick remain insulated because they don't rock the boat. We are essentially neutered as Catholics by the episcopacy. And yet the harvest which is great still needs to be gathered in, the vineyard still needs pruning. It gets tiring, because there are so few doing the work.

This idea of impermanence, however, I don't think is resigned to the East. It takes a different guise in our own tradition, but it is a universal law. 

Our Lord reassures the disciples that there is a purpose in his going back to the Father after his forty days on earth: "But I tell you the truth, it is better for you that I go. For if I do not go, the Advocate will not come to you. But if I go, I will send him to you" (Jn 16:7). 

And to Mary Magdalene after he was raised, "Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended. to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God" (Jn 20:17). 

On Mount Tabor, Peter wanted to preserve the moment of transfiguration in time, proposing to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah" (Mt 17:4). But Moses and Elijah vanish, and God the Father makes His terrible voice heard, "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!" (Mt 17:5). 

Peter, who loved the Lord Christ so much, with a obstinate zeal, refused to accept his Master's death initially. "Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. “Never, Lord!” he said. “This shall never happen to you!”" (Mt 16:22). 

The fact that people leave, loved ones die, bosses transfer, priests get reassigned, and bishops don't have the back of the faithful should not scandalize us or lead to hurt or dejection. We should expect it. And yet, we are still human, and so it does hurt, because we attach ourselves to that which we don't want to die, leave, or end. Our suffering is proportional to our attachment, and so few of us (myself included) are perfectly detached. 

We can sometimes compensate by scabbing over our hearts to keep this hurt at bay, saying things like "I don't care," "Whatever," or "Screw them anyway." But this isn't what we are called to. It is a carnal, worldly response; and as Christians, we are not called to conform ourselves to the world. The supernatural rises above the natural. Job is a good example here of the detachment (which does not mean dispassion) that is righteous: "Naked I came from my mother's womb and naked I return there" (Job 1:21) Job cursed the day he was born, but he did not curse his Creator. 

Christian life is not a life of dispassion. You cannot love without freedom, and love involves loss as well. We don't shield or wall ourselves off from potential hurt or betrayal, because we imitate Christ who left the comforts of Heaven to debase himself in the Incarnation; was betrayed by one of his closest friends; had no where to lay his head. Our sojourn on earth is limited to a hundred years at most--a drop in the bucket compared to eternity. 

In many ways, though, it will remain a mystery to me why good things don't last, why we suffer loss after loss, and why people will leave us orphans. I've struggled with it for years, and today was a reminder that these instances touch a wound deep in my soul that I didn't even realize was there. But there is still work that needs to be done. And so our only choice is to take time to mourn it, then get back to work.