I was taking my morning walk the other day, having wandered into a neighborhood of magnificent stone homes built in the 1920's and 30's. Every house was someone's exercise of creative genius. And all throughout the streets were tremendous trees of enormous variety and height, 80, 90 and 100 feet tall. At one point I was struck by the rising sun seen through a great maple tree sprouting tender, light green leaves, and the instruction of Jesus came to mind:
"But when this begins to happen, look up and raise your heads, for your deliverance will be at hand."
Lk 21:28
It seems to me that "looking up" is a spiritual exercise on a number of different levels. When Jesus told us to look up, to raise our heads because deliverance will be at hand — I'd suggest he had more in mind than our looking around for his reappearance in the sky, when he will begin the great sorting out of humanity — doling out rewards and punishments.
Why do we make so much of Jesus past and future but miss what Jesus means right now? Can we consider the day of deliverance as today? The nation and the church could do with deliverance from the negativity, suspicion and fear that's got hold of us. There is deliverance from our nursing old wounds and resentments. Deliverance from the waste of so much pondering of petty grievances. Deliverance from so much desiring. Jesus says it: "Stop worrying about what I am going to wear, what am I going to eat; it's what pagans do." (Matthew 6:25-34). Deliverance from so many day-to-day energy draining worries — money worries, relationship worries, health worries, fanciful worries about the future. I know a woman who is a fine care provider, but in a recent conversation she shared that she's lost her morning minutes of prayer time. We spoke of her need to aggressively reclaim it. That's a deliverance.
But I'm also thinking of the many people who were never allowed or able to look up — and sometimes were forced to look down in the name of religion. I was at a Mass once celebrated by a priest who ended the Mass with the final blessing saying, "Look up and pray the Lord's blessing." Some people don't like priests who make those kinds of changes. They sometimes write agitated Sunday night protest letters to bishops. I found it happy and enlivening — leaving Mass with head held up so we can see who and what God has put before us.
I lift up my head for the nuns whose imprisoning clothes prevented then from ever looking up, who were taught eyes down lest she be thought curious or capricious.
I lift up my head for the children who were taught modesty of the eyes as a method of control.
I lift up my head for the novices and postulants who had to look down when speaking with superiors.
I lift up my head for the Jews, Christians and Moslems who had (have) to look down before oppressors.
I lift up my head for the slaves who didn't dare.
I lift up my head for the children who are shamed by bullies (who could even be a parent or teacher.)
I lift up my head for the sexualized girls and women who for fear can only look down.
I lift up my head for those so riddled with guilt for past errors they remain bent over.
To lift up one's head is
to feel God's breeze,
to have a new thought,
to come out of hiding,
to make eye-contact.
To lift up one's head is
to see the movement of clouds,
geese in formation,
the cross-topped church,
saints in windows.
To lift up one's head is
to see sunlight through spring leaves,
to search out bird song,
to identify Venus,
the Super Pink Moon.
To lift up one's head is
to interface "good morning,"
to see what I can do,
to realize a gift,
to detect another's anguish.
I will save looking down to see the baby in the crib, my dog's water bowl empty, the windflower's sway, the table place I set for a guest, the robin on the lawn, the pothole to be avoided, the friend homebound in bed, the germinating seed, the hymn's next verse...
