Father Richard Rohr reflects on our universal participation in life and the connectedness to which Christ invites us:
We all need to feel and know, at the cellular level, that we are not the first ones who have suffered, nor will we be the last. Instead, we are in one universal parade—God’s “triumphal procession,” as Paul calls it, using the metaphor of a Roman triumph after a great victory (2 Corinthians 2:14). In this parade, he says, we are all partners with both the living and the dead, walking alongside countless ancestors and descendants who were wounded and longed for healing. This idea, “the communion of saints,” became the last phrase added to the Apostles’ Creed centuries later, almost as if it took us a while to recognize its importance. Someday, maybe we will have the courage to add “the communion of sinners,” too. The body of Christ is one great and shared sadness and one continuous joy, and we are saved just by remaining connected to it.
Since the Enlightenment, however, we have been trained to believe that we each can “do it my way,” like Frank Sinatra’s song, instead of participating in everybody else’s great parade. As I often say, if we do not mythologize our pain, all we can do is pathologize it. We Westerners have lost the ability to frame the significance of our own little lives. I suspect that those who grew up with the richness of the myths and sacred stories of Ulysses and Athena or the Corn Mothers or Kali may have found meaning and consolation for their pain more readily than many of us do today. They knew they weren’t alone on the journey, while we no longer believe or live as if we are an inherent part of a much bigger story. We believe ourselves separate from the cosmic dance that created Greek comedy and tragedy and led the Pueblo peoples of the Southwest to dance and carve kachinas as a way of marking human events or emotions. Helping people see that they are cooperating members of a performance that is already showing—and will keep showing—is surely why so many of the religions of Indigenous people were, at their heart, ancestor worship.
We are invited to realize I am not the first nor the last to feel this suffering. I can now choose to be a weak but willing member of the whole communion of saints! Surely such solidarity is our salvation, rather than private purity or personal wholeness. Paul called it living “en Cristo,” a phrase that he used multiple times to name the shape and coherence of our collective participation.
Maybe hope needs to be cosmic hope to be hope at all. Maybe pain needs to be borne together, and for all time; it is very hard to bear alone, or in the moment. We fight it as unfair and undeserved when we could instead carry it as an act of human and loving solidarity.
Community Continues
Rev. Dr. Barbara Holmes describes the gifts and wisdom she has received from the ancestors of her faith and culture:
Although some folks use a very narrow definition of the word ancestor, I use the word as an indicator of legacy and interconnections. The ancestors are elders who pour their lives into the community as a libation of love and commitment. They live and die well, and when they transition, they do so in full connection with an engaged community. Thereafter, they dwell in the spaces carved out by our spiritual and cultural expectations. They may be in another life dimension, but they connect with us in dreams, in memories, and in stories….
The stories reveal a promise that the community will continue beyond the breath of one individual and that all transitions will be well attended by relatives from the other side. This is a cosmology of connection that values but also transcends cultural contexts; life is considered to be a continuum of transitions, ruptures, and returns. Those who admit that the “ordinary” is punctuated by the ineffable cherish those indescribable and nonrational events as an enigmatic but welcome gift. The fact that I grew up in a family that included the presumptions of transcendence and the unseen in our everyday lives has affected my journey in powerful ways….
The end result is that I know that I am not alone. I am connected to the past and the future by the ligatures of well-lived lives, the mysteries of “beyondness,” and the memories and narratives that lovingly bind and support me. While I hope that when I die, one of the elders in my family who have crossed over to the realm of the ancestors will be at my bedside, I certainly did not expect contact prior to that time. And yet here I am, [in my work] hearing from liberation leaders I have never personally met. As it turns out, they are also my elders as certainly as if they occupied a branch of my family tree. They have bequeathed to all of us a legacy of resolve, resistance, and spiritual expansiveness.
Holmes points to Jesus’ experience with his ancestors in faith:
Christianity hides its ancestors in plain view. Those familiar with the Bible know that Jesus had a very public conversation with ancestors in full view of chosen disciples [Matthew 17:1–13]…. We choose safe words and images like prayerand transfiguration to soothe our discomfort with ancestor contacts that require the crossing of dimensions…
Ancestors within the context of African Diasporan legacies are those family members who have poured out their lives for the good of the family. In life, they live well and for others. Although they are human and fail often, they are seldom deluded by the distractions of ego or the desire for earthly acquisitions. They also transition well to the other side and continue their intercession and prayers for the living.
