The Heavens

The Mystery of the Floating Priest

Chris Pipkin

"The Heavens are the Heavens of the Lord,

But the earth he has given to the sons of men."

Scouring the online news for an article to hand out to my English students, I came across an interesting piece about a Brazilian priest—a certain Rev. Adelir Antonio de Carli.

It seems that Padre de Carli, as part of a fund-raising stunt for a mission to truck drivers, strapped himself to hundreds of colorful, helium-filled balloons, intending to fly to another city hundreds of miles away. In mid-flight over the ocean, the priest lost contact with his flight crew, and only the balloons have been found since. His former flight instructor, who described the priest as "rash," said something like, "I can't really say this tragedy was unexpected."

I would like to imagine that, at some point in his journey, the priest shared the fate of Enoch—rather than that of Jonah—and was simply snatched up by a Monty Python-esque hand reaching down from a passing cloud—carried higher than plastic and helium could afford to take him. We'll probably never know exactly what happened (the Brazilian coast guard called off the search for his body a few days ago), but drowned or not, I'd like to think he no longer needs party favors to walk about the sky. Which brings me to this month's topic:

How did we ever get the idea--common enough nowadays, whether encountered in Dante or Disney--that when we die, our souls go up into the sky? For thousands of years, most cultures seemed to believe the opposite. Expired Greeks and Romans traveled like loose leaves among the caves of Hades, Norsemen went to "Hel" which worked along the same lines; Egyptian and Chinese equipped imperial graves with food and earthen slaves, and even Hebrews seemed to believe that the soul--good or bad--always went "down to Sheol."

Heaven (with very few exceptions) was not the final resting place of mortals, but the realm, rather, of the gods. Valhalla, Asgard, Olympus, and "The Heavens" of Jewish Scripture were bright and beautiful, in contrast to the shadowy underworld(s), and bursting with lights and glory, but they were alien, inhospitable, and even hostile to mankind.

There are various accounts of unhappy humans who, in their pride, refused to accept this fact--who aspired to transcend their sphere and reach the bright haunts of the immortal spirits. The Greeks write of Bellepheron, who tried to ride Pegasus up to the gods' domain until he was struck down by Zeus himself. The builders of the Tower of Babel were similarly (though less severely) punished, as was the King of Babylon (Isaiah 14:13-15). Even when God-fearing prophets of monotheistic Judaism are permitted a glimpse into Heaven, they are terrified at the sight of its immortal inhabitants (closely associated and clothed with the glory of the one God) and have great difficulty describing them. Their reaction, most usually, is to fall down "as though dead," and feel, despite angelic reassurances, that this is no place for them.

The mere sight of the sky, during a moment of insight, causes poets to tremble. "When I consider your heavens," says David, "The work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place...what is man that you give a thought to him?"

Modern science, as far as the material, visible heavens are concerned, has proved these ancient ideas to be, in a way, correct. The higher we lift ourselves off the earth, the less capable we seem to be of living. We now know (do we?) that this is not because of proximity to any sort of gods, but due to terrestrial conditions which keep our bodies together.

There seems, then, to be an agreement here between ancient and modern thought: The sky is no place for humans. And yet modern failures and successes at flight, and ancient study of heavenly beings and bodies is a testimony to the continued human desire to "slip the surly bonds of earth and touch the face of God." Nevertheless, the hulking winged machines, precarious balloons and now-weightless pieces of iron (mined, embarrassingly, from the very place we wish to escape) frustrate this dream even as they help us (partially) to achieve it. We would prefer, if we could, to soar naked on the back of the wind, to float on pixie dust or angels' wings to an alien realm beyond; to somehow find a home there with the gods and sip ambrosia at their table, and to feel, in doing so, that we have come home. This we still cannot do, for we are insubstantial crumbling clay, not solid light.

The latter half of the book of Daniel brims with bizarre showings. Unearthly beasts and bright warring spirits appear to a wise but bewildered Jewish eunuch already caught between rising and falling world powers. Yet, terrified as he is, he keeps "looking in the night visions," and there, sees "Coming in the clouds of heaven...One like a son of man."

Now here is something new. The clouds, especially for a Jew forbidden to associate the Divine with the created, are not the place for anything resembling a man. The Cherubim, those dreadful, shape-shifting spirits surrounding the Throne of the unseen God, have been glimpsed among the clouds. God, it is written, clothes himself with "clouds and thick darkness," riding upon them like a chariot. And here we have "One like a son of man" using the clouds in this way.

At the end of the Gospels of Mark and Luke, and at the beginning of the Acts of the Apostles, you have the risen Jesus, the self-named Son of Man suddenly "lifted up, and a cloud took him out of [the disciples'] sight." Jesus had died already. He had, according to the widely-held beliefs of his early followers, "descended into the lower parts of the earth," like all people--but while there, the Divine Man had--somehow--conquered the Grave itself, and brought souls up from it. We see him two days after his entombment, glorying in his victory. But when, forty days later, he floated up into the air, where did he go? Outer space? Another planet? Another dimension? Another time? America?

And so, as if the good Father de Carli didn't leave us with enough questions, here we have the mystery of another floating Priest. This past Sunday was Ascension Sunday, so I reckon now is as good a time as any to puzzle over it. Christ had told his disciples before his crucifixion that he was "going to prepare a place for you. And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to myself, so that where I am, there you also may be." Many of us, hearing this, imagine Jesus the Carpenter, spare nails in mouth, hammering away at a billion or so celestial mansions in some as-yet-undiscovered cloudy city. We all know that's probably not what he meant, exactly, but it's hard to shake the picture from our imagination. The difficulty is, of course, that Jesus didn't just evaporate. We believe he still lives in his physical body--and if he has retained a physical body, he has to be in a physical place--even now, long before a new heavens and new earth are created. But no one knows where. It's as ambiguous, to us, as the date and time of Christ's return.

So now the good news. In a sense, we do know exactly where Christ now is. The Gospels, the Creed, the Epistles, Stephen's vision in Acts, all have him "seated [in Acts, standing] at the right hand of the Father." Whatever else that may mean in terms of actual physical location, etc., the "right hand" of any ruler is the place of favor. Christ, following his Death, Resurrection and Ascension, was revealed as the Father's favored one, as the Priest, on creation's behalf (because sharing man's nature), to God (because sharing God's nature). "Right hand," when it occurs in the New Testament, is an allusion to Psalm 110, which Peter quotes in Acts 2: "Sit at my right hand, until I make your enemies your footstool." The Ascension, like the Resurrection which preceded it (and let us not be too stringent in our division or prioritizing of Christ's acts), marks Christ out as our unique Advocate before God, and God's chosen Minister to humanity. Most of all, it marks him out, once and for all, as God's beloved Son, in whom he is well-pleased.

Second piece of good news: Christ said, "I go there to prepare a place for you, so that where I am, you may be also." In other words, if Christ is at the right hand of the Father, so, undeservedly, inexplicably, marvelously, are we. We do share a table with not only the gods, but with God himself, and we are there in the place of favor. The inability of humanity to exist in the same place as the Divine--the estrangement itself, which all ancient civilizations felt deeply--that has been put to death instead of us. Now it is given--not reached by merit of our own fuel, but given--to us to dwell in the abode of the gods, and not be burnt up. For in Christ, we are safe, and we ourselves are becoming gods and not ashes as we follow him through fire and beyond death.

Christ summed it up pretty well as he predicted his ascension to Mary Magdalene on that holiest of Sundays: "Go to my brothers and say to them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'"

In his humility and generosity (and joy) he makes no distinction here between his relationship with the Father and that of his "brothers," though it is obvious enough that he is, by nature, the Only Begotten Son, and ourselves sons and daughters only through him. At present, we are (even priests) prevented from following Christ's glorified corporeal body wherever it went, because our own bodies have not yet been changed. And yet we are with him, in him, and he is with and in us, just as he is with the Father. The laws of physics have not changed, but other laws, in a way even more absolute, have been transcended, for we are being transformed within. And the day now approaches when even our physical bodies--faces, skin, fingernails--will rise into the air and meet, there, Him.

under the heavens

india, January 2002.

The plane ride was long enough. After some eight hours of being strapped into a flying metal tube in close proximity to a bunch of strangers I am glad to stretch my legs in the New Delhi terminal. Devin and I see what looks to be our party at one end of the oddly smelling baggage area and a group of four men approach: Vijay, his brother, two friends and lots of smiles. We gather our belongings and they lead us to the taxi. Even before we sit down, my legs know there will be trouble. There are only five small seats. What with the six of us, the taxi driver, our hefty suitcases, and a miniscule trunk space hardly worth mentioning, we have a brutally long journey ahead of us. For most of the journey we speed and bounce along unpaved dirt roads at breakneck speeds. The night is dark and unfamiliar. Suddenly there are lights, and we slow. It seems to be a police checkpoint. We inquire.

“This is normal. They check the driver’s papers. But they may want money.” As in… bribery?

The driver slows to a crawl, but curiously doesn’t stop. We hear muttering and a flashlight is shining through the back window. If this were Texas, I imagine we’d be promptly unloaded as illegal immigrants. Suddenly there is loud crack and shattered glass is flying everywhere.

“Dou-ven! Get do-ven!” and we are speeding away, tires peeling.

“The driver did not have his papers. Or did not want to pay… not sure.” Vijay says with a shrug. “Sorry about that,” and a chuckle. I am wide-eyed and tense.

Nine hours later, the morning sun shining brightly—with moans, at least from me—we unpack our bags and ourselves from the taxi in the small compound of huts that was the home of pastor Vijay Golden, his parents, his younger brother, his older brother, and his older brother's wife. The noisy greetings initially distracted us from the otherness of the surroundings. What was the smell? I am fairly delirious from lack of sleep. With Vijay's near fluency in English and our complete lack of Punjabi, it was an unspoken rule that he would be our translator for the duration of our visit.

"Hey!" with a flurry of hellos.

"Praise the Lord!" and hubbub.

"Brother, this is..." and Vijay was pointing to someone else, and we were all shaking hands and embracing.

"Hallo!"

The family cow, for its part, mooed a greeting as well. Vijay's mother beemed a large and toothy smile. Wearing a dusty purple saree with long gray hair captured by a purple scarf, the deep, dark wrinkles on her hands and face spoke of a life very different than I have ever known. The smells are more shocking than the sights. Listening to the seemingly endless introductions the smells assault me, confuse me. Shortly we stow our belongings in one of the small huts made of brick and concrete-mortar—just big enough for the two rough but sturdy cots that would be our beds for the next eleven days.

"Devin, these covers are dirty… and they stink."

bathing.

We are both thinking of showers after our frustratingly lengthy taxi ride on top of our flight from Austria. It has been a long day.

"Vee will get it ready for you vight now."

Vijay's admirable English falls a little short in pronunciation. The "bathing area" was built only very recently. The roofless brick enclosure rises maybe 4 1/2 feet and the simple square design is roughly 5 feet by 5 feet wide. On one side is a rickety gate made of cheap metal, not wide enough for the opening which allows it. A passerby on that side would get an eyeful. The cracked concrete floor was at a slight angle so that the water or refuse would spill into a channel, taking it into the open sewer-ditch on the street leading into the compound. Conveniently the entire "bathing area" doubled as a bathroom area. The air is now chilly enough for me to see my own breath as I awkwardly stripped down inside the bathing square. The wall doesn't even come to the top of my chest, and as I quickly learn--white attracts. I am attended by the neighborhood children, several of whom have been watching us since our arrival from neighboring rooftops, and who run and hop to nearer buildings to get a better view. While three or four of them giggle and dart forward and back, I squat lower, feeling rather like a monkey, and splash myself with water from the a tin bucket. Though the Golden family had graciously stoked a large fire over which to hold the bucket and heat the water, by the time it has hit me and run off I am freezing... I am ever so glad I brought a bar of Dial antibacterial soap and my Pert Plus shampoo. They afford me a brief sensation of clean in a strange universe of dirty. Splash. Scrub. Freezing! Splash. Scrub. Freezing! Laughter from somewhere above and to the my left... my right.

Conveniently, we later learn, the entire area doubles as a large toilet.

under the heavens.

Even though it’s late now, it's challenging to get alone time for prayer or solitude or simply sanity. Personal space, people, personal space. Sandeep, Vijay's sixteen year old younger brother, tends to follow me closely. Literally. In conversing I often have to inch away because his face gets uncomfortably close to mine. He is precious, but his breath is rank. Sandeep also enjoys impressing me with his English. This evening I try to explain that I'd like to find a quiet place to pray alone.

"Okay, I come with you and show!" he says with great enthusiasm. His bright, irresistible eyes brook little disagreement. Like myself, he is tall and lanky and he nimbly climbs the homemade ladder to the flat roof of one of the taller huts. There are no electric lights to be seen save the wobbly beam of my flashlight as we ascend. Electric power was introduced to the area a few years back, but rolling blackouts prevent much usage for the better part of the evening. The heavens are so bright here, and so familiar. For a moment, a brief moment, we share the silent wonderment of being under the stars. God, this is the same moon I had looked not too many years ago, when I was six and camping in my backyard in Bowling Green, Virginia. And the consistency of this moon and the hope to which it alludes—the odd familiarity of these heavens, is but an echo and moon-reflection of the glory of all Your consistency and the worldwide hope which you make blazing clear.

"Look! Vhat is the name of that coon-stuhlation?" Sandeep asks, stumbling over the new word I have only recently taught him.

"Maybe I could... time to pray... you know..." I half-heartedly stammer.

So much for alone time.

"Look, look! Here! Look!" he exclaims, laughing and grabbing my arm—pointing to a constellation... or distant building... or bat...

Antennae To Heaven

by Amy Mann

The theme of “heavens” for some reason made me think of a song I first heard years ago at a concert in Houston. The band is called Godspeed You Black Emperor! and the song is called Storm from their album Lift Yr. Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven. I’m listening to it now. It’s a really amazing song—instrumental, and classified under the “avantgarde” genre in my iTunes music library (it’s the only album there—all by its lonesome self).
(if you want to hear, it, and I think you should, go here but maybe ignore the video some kid made to the song—just enjoy the song itself—I haven’t watched the video, actually)
http://youtube.com/watch?v=Bwz7lUaJDU0

The song begins in silence, and slowly, as a lone electric guitar quietly repeats the same few measures over and over, builds itself up in volume, speed and intensity, adding instruments in the following progression:
electric guitar--two trumpets--another guitar--xylophone (or something like it)--I think a french horn—some violins--more violins--a bass drum--a lot more strings--cymbals and snare drum

When the snare drum kicks in around 3 minutes into this 6.5 minute long song, I can’t think of any other word to describe the sound except exuberant. It’s elating. The whole song itself builds you from a still and serene place to the point where it’s undeniable that music is making you feel something, something joyous and inspiring. This is the song that, when I think of the movie that I someday hope to write, I want to be the music playing during the dramatic beautiful resolution at the end of whatever horrible events I put my characters through.

My mind jumps. The next time I really remember hearing this song was in my church back in Texas. It doesn’t seem to fit. This band’s name doesn’t seem to resonate “play me on Sunday morning,” but it did fit. A series of black and white photos were shown on a projector screen, this music playing behind it, and we were just asked to look at the pictures, and think and pray. It was really quite moving. I was so surprised to have this moment during worship that involved this song I had heard a year or so before in a smoky, hot, Houston music club.

Mind jump #3. I’m in Kansas City watching the band Waterdeep play their “farewell” show—it’s amazing. They begin upstairs in the sanctuary of this church and do over an hour of their acoustic stuff, then we take a 30-40 minute break and move downstairs to this coffee bar / concert area where they play for at least another hour doing their electric stuff. It’s all incredible. And in the middle of the second set, Don Chaffer starts talking, and it seems as if he hadn’t planned this in advance, but he just starts talking about truth and beauty and love, and how we as Christians think that we can only find these things in Christian creations (music, literature, art, whatever), and whatnot, but that he thought this wasn’t true. That God created beauty, and truth and love, and so whenever and wherever someone seeks to make that or create that, there is something important there—something that can connect us to God. If someone, Christian or not, wants to make something beautiful, God is connected to that because beauty is God’s. And if they produce something beautiful, it can connect us to God because again…beauty is God’s He was really into it.

And I think he has something there. I haven’t really thought of it to the lengths Mr. Chaffer did, but this song makes me think of that. And the name of the album aside, I feel that there is something uplifting in this song. Something that takes my mood and my emotions and my thoughts to something higher. Something beautiful and maybe even a bit transcendent. Something that connects me to God.

Try it out. My favorite places to listen to this are: alone in my room with my eyes closed, outside laying down with my eyes opened, or looking out the window of public transportation at the city and people around me.