After Jesus had spoken these
words, he looked up to heaven and said,
“Father, the hour has
come;
glorify your Son, so that the
Son may glorify you,
since you have given him
authority over all people,
to give eternal life to all
whom you have given him.
And this is eternal
life,
that they may know you,
the only true God, and Jesus
Christ whom you have sent.
I glorified you on earth by
finishing the work that you gave me to do.
So now, Father, glorify me in
your own presence
with the glory that I had in
your presence before the world existed.”
I have made your name known
to those whom you gave me from the world.
They were yours, and you gave
them to me, and they have kept your word.
Now they know that everything
you have given me is from you;
for the words that you gave
to me I have given to them, and they have received them
and know in truth that I came
from you; and they have believed that you sent me.
I am asking on their
behalf;
I am not asking on behalf of
the world,
but on behalf of those whom
you gave me, because they are yours.
All mine are yours, and yours
are mine;
and I have been glorified in
them.
And now I am no longer in the
world,
but they are in the
world,
and I am coming to you.
Holy Father, protect them in
your name that you have given me,
so that they may be one, as
we are one.
***
It
is true, you never know how you are going to react in a life or death situation
until your in one, and so there I was, sitting in my window seat, overhearing
the pilot say the kind of sentence I recognized from my stint as a hospital
chaplain. Like predictions from doctors to patients, when a diagnosis was not
definitive, but was possibly deadly, the pilots words were nuanced with both a
litigious carefulness and a compassionate urgency, his intensionally measured
speech saying nothing conclusively, but saying everything in the emotion
between the lines.
We
had taken off from Denver,
and as we ascended, we were accompanied by an increasingly loud sound of metal
against metal. Now we were heading back to DIA, never a good sign on its own,
but increasingly ominous as the flight attendants again recited the safety
procedures, detailing the air masks, the correct click and tightness of
seat-belts, ‘worn low and sung across your waist,’ and the illuminated lights
leading to the exit row where the stewardess squatted down to whisper to the
passengers seated there.
I
was twenty-eight, to be married in a couple months, having just finished my
chaplain residency and was attempting to sneak in the last bits of an Indian
Summer by traveling to see my best friend Anne, who was doing seasonal work, as
a kayak guide, in Seward, Alaska. Coupled with a, ‘school’s out for summer,’
type feeling, and my being a frequent enough flier to have a uniform of warm
socks for the floor air vents, hoodie to lean against the fingerprinted portal
window, and pashmina scarf to double as a blanket, the
Katy-in-a-plane-crash-setting seemed unlikely and surreal, and yet fitting, as
unpredictability seems a hallmark of tragedy, and unfulfilled life events their
playing card. Groaning with cliche, the sarcastic voice in my head played out
the news blip with my picture and mention of an unworn wedding dress and an
unfulfilled calling as a pastor, as if the unfinished life that was to be
somehow held more weight then the life that was.
Yet,
despite satirical coping skills, I could not keep from crying. Opposed to the
wails that ask questions, mine were the soundless tears that come with
acceptance. As my eyes stung and salt water found its familiar path of least
resistance over my rounded cheeks, and fell to my lap like the first giant
drops of rain, I was thankful for my window seat, that I could turn from the
crowded plane to the boundless universe in the airspace that seemed to connect
one world to the next. I remember brown flat farms and forested jagged Western Rockies, and wispy clouds that looked as if this
late afternoon was just another summer daydream. I didn’t want to leave this
and that is what the tears were. I didn’t want to die yet. I loved life too
much.
I
loved the way water sounded when you cut through the surface with a long
rolling freestyle pull. I loved the smell of pine upon the first steps of a
hike and the feel of tired legs on the last. I loved a good meal in a new place
and a glass of wine and candlelight and company. I loved the feeling of being
known when friends would tease, and likewise, when they would listen to my
overly sensitive verbal processing. I loved my family, my librarian mom
creating summer projects for my sister and I as kids, and as an adult hugging
me so tight in San Antonio’s baggage claim that my ears would hurt from the
reached up, squeezed out strength of love, and my dad, and my being Daddy’s
girl, and talks on the couch about the ways and the whys of life, that somehow
shaped me beyond his knowing, and my sister, my playmate, my pupil, my younger
than me role model and counterbalance. I wanted swim more, travel more, be with
my family more, see how my friends more. Life was so good, and I didn’t want it
to end. But also knew if it ended, it had been good, and it was enough. I
surprised myself with this.
I
surprised myself for what I didn’t grieve. There weren’t regrets of what I
didn’t do and didn’t say. Though had been through enough to have legitimate
enemies, and felt periodically pressured about providing forgiveness, I felt no
burning desire for reconciliation. Though I have done enough to be an enemy of
few, I felt no need for a final confession or last rights. Instead, 40,000 feet
in the air, I wondered if my phone worked, and whom would I call. I started
thinking through every person I loved, Will - no, Mom - no, Dad - no, Diana -
no, Anne - no, Lisa - no, Susie - no, Michael, Zach, Doug, - no, Anna, Amber, -
no. I went through the list of every person I loved, and I knew each of them
knew, and that was all I would have wanted to tell them anyway.
And
that, likewise, was all Jesus wanted to share. Knowing his hour had come, he
looked up to heaven, as if out an airplane portal window, measuring the space
between this realm and the next, and connecting the two through the words of
prayer and the act of love. Jesus too went though his list. He said to God,
“You have given me authority over all people,” and I imagine he, like me,
listing the ones he loved.
I
imagine the twelve, Peter, Matthew, James and Judas, and Judas Iscariot,
Phillip, Thomas, Andrew…I imagine him listing the women Mary Madelene and
Martha. I imagine him listing his family, Mary and Joseph, Elizabeth and
Zachariah, John the Baptist. I imagine him listing Zecchaus, the Samaritan
woman, the lepers and the tax collectors. I imagine him listing each of the
children who came to him. I imagine him listing all the children who were
slaughtered at his death by Herod’s decree, and all who slaughtered them and
Herod himself. I imagine him listing Adam and Eve, and the twelve tribes of Israel, and all
whom begot all else. I imagine him listing Noah and Emzara and every animal two
by two, and all that were to come, and are to come, and all who paw, and hoof,
and swim, creep, slither and fly over this earth today. I imagine him listing
our names, yes our names, Denny, and Ernie and Ivy, and Jake, MaryAlys, and
little Kathryn and Carl, Tanya, and Louise and tiny, tiny Mae, and your name
too, and the names of those you love, and the names of the names, of the names
of all creation. And I imagine him saying, ‘No.’ Mark - No, LaVonne and Gary - no, Silas and Sydney
- no, Yvonne - no, Georgia
- no, Carolyn and Tom - No, Katy - No.
No
- Jesus didn’t need to tell them then, doesn’t need to call us today from
somewhere beyond 40,000 feet above. He has lived that his life that they might
know he loved them. He lived his life that we might know he loves us. He lived his
life to be able to answer - no. He prays, “I have glorified you on earth by
finishing the work you gave me to do.” I am sure, Jesus too would have liked to
live longer. I am sure he had the things he loved, the casting of nets and the
way they spread a web in air, the drinking of wine over a good meal with lamps
burning, the telling of parables of laborers and seeds and sheep, the healing
of the blind, the crippled, and even the dead, the justice delivered by the
turning of tables and the putting down the first stone, the travels town to
town, the welcome of strangers, and the parade of palms and cloaks on the road.
I think Jesus too would have said, “Life is so good, and I don’t want it to
end. But I also know if it ended, it had been good, and it was enough.” I
wonder if he felt surprised at the contrast of loving life, and being okay with
death. But, I think loving life, is part of what makes us okay with death. That
we have done our imperfect best and somehow in the midst we have shown love,
that those whom we leave, know we loved them.
I
watched the woman in the middle seat take her license and credit card and put
them in her back jeans pocket. I understood, if we had to exit and go off those
big ballon slides in the sky, and somehow if we reached ground and our limbs
were intact, and our clothes not burned, and if the EMT’s did not have to cut
our jeans off, it does always helps to have an ID and money, but I had what I
needed, and I preferred to spend my last moments not searching for the things of
this world. I looked out my little window and prayed for peace for the world,
for the moment itself, and the moments that would come, whatever they might be,
and I prayed for the life to be lived by those I loved, and those who loved
each one on the plane, and those who loved those, who loved those, and I prayed
for peace for the world I adored. I think this simple prayer is transcendent,
because its themes ran through the last words Jesus lifted here too. Jesus
prayed, “And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I
am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given
me, so that they may be one, as we are one.” It is the prayer for peace, for
the ones you love and the world you adore. It is the last connection you have
from this world to the next and back again in the space between.
Yet,
Jesus and I were lucky. Denver
International Airport
came into view and evenly spaced along the runway firetrucks and ambulances ran
their lights letting us know they were ready. We landed with the same slashing,
splitting sound from which we departed. Yet, after settling, still and silence
clapping and cheering created a converse caoughany of thanksgiving and praise.
On that airplane, we were one. The woman next to me, a psychotherapist, and I
debriefed, she recognizing her busying coping skills and concern for a
handicapped elderly woman a few rows up, and me sharing my introspective grief,
surprises, and prayer for peace. When I returned to the terminal and checked my
phone, a handful of friends had called to catch up and left messages of love.
They were letting me know, what I already knew, and they did too. That we loved
one another, that we cared for one another, and that we were one in this world.
Moreover, the call’s uncanny timing was a reminder that I, and we are also one
with the next world, that there is a God who loves us all and seeks our
protection. Jesus, did not get to go back to DIA and land safely, but this
scripture from John, is the voicemail left behind. I pray it is something
you’ve heard before, something you already know, that this message is just part
the reminder, a part of this life you adore. That you know you are named by
God, known and loved, and that God is praying for your protection. I hope you in
this moment, you know that we are one.
