What goes up
Commentary
"What goes up must come down." So goes the old saying, in an axiomatic testament to the gravitational reality in which we human beings live. But what of something -- or someone -- not bound by gravity?
This Sunday is Ascension Sunday, and all three of our texts this week invite consideration of that event. Both the Luke and Acts selections tell the actual story of Jesus' ascension, and the passage from Paul alludes to it (God "seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places").
In many churches, Ascension Sunday would pass unnoticed if the preacher did not make a point of it. A few Christian holy days have risen to the surface of our cultural consciousness, but this Sunday's commemoration does not rate much attention.
It's not surprising that the world around us pays little attention to Jesus' ascension since the church itself doesn't seem to make much of it. We faithfully echo the good tidings first told to the shepherds at Jesus' birth each Advent and Christmas season. All through the year, the life, ministry, example, and teachings of Jesus inform our preaching and our living. And, even beyond his birth and his life, we find that the real good news is found in Jesus' death and resurrection.
But what do we make of his ascension?
In the churches I've served through the years, folks have had a sense of the importance of Christ's coming. They have cherished the stories of his life. They have embraced his cross and celebrated his empty tomb. However, most church folks do not have a sense of the importance of Christ's ascension.
That, then, becomes our task this Sunday. To a people who likely know the good news of his coming, living, dying, and rising, we now preach the good news of his leaving.
Acts 1:1-11
Carpenters know that the poorest way to join two pieces of wood is simply to butt one up against the other. The connection is much stronger when the two pieces of wood overlap or intersect one another. Luke, as a storyteller, shows his craftsmanship by the way he joins the end and the beginning of his two pieces.
The book of Acts follows and continues the story that he had begun to tell in his gospel. But the two books do not merely abut end-to-end. Rather, Luke has crafted the beginning of Acts to overlap and intersect with the end of Luke.
Both our Gospel Lesson and this passage tell the same story (the ascension), and by the same author (Luke). The accounts are not identical, though their differences may be owed only to the fact that Luke is a good writer. They are naturally similar, and together they form the miter joint that joins Luke's two works.
This first passage from Acts presages several themes that are recurring and significant throughout the rest of the book: the Holy Spirit, "convincing proofs," and the spread of the gospel.
Three different times in just eleven verses, Luke makes explicit reference to the Holy Spirit. The prominence of the Spirit in just this introductory section reflects Luke's view and understanding of the events he is recording. The Holy Spirit is more expressly prominent in Luke's Gospel than any of the other three, and the Spirit is arguably the central character in the book of Acts. Some have rightly observed that, while we call the book "the Acts of the Apostles," the real title ought to be, "The Acts of the Holy Spirit."
Closely related to that theme of the Holy Spirit is the importance to Luke of "convincing proofs." The word Luke uses (tekmerion) suggests evidence that is irrefutable, indubitable. Indeed, the King James and New King James Versions translate the word "infallible proofs." And while the word itself appears nowhere else in Acts -- or in the entire New Testament, for that matter -- Luke has given an early indication of an issue that is important to him.
A concern for convincing proofs surely lies behind Luke's interest in signs and wonders. Eight different times in the book of Acts (2:22; 4:23; 4:30; 5:12; 6:8; 7:36; 14:3; and 15:12), Luke makes pointed reference to signs and wonders. He understands these as evidence of God's work and, by extension, of God's authentic and empowered workers.
Luke also demonstrates his interest in convincing proofs by his portrayals of Stephen, Apollos, and Paul. Not only does Luke point to flashy miracles as the proof of God's work, he also embraces the less-spectacular proof of wisdom and irrefutable logic. We read that Stephen was opposed by men "who stood up and argued with (him). But they could not withstand the wisdom and the Spirit with which he spoke" (6:9-10). Similarly, Luke reports that the newly converted Saul "became increasingly more powerful and confounded the Jews who lived in Damascus by proving that Jesus was the Messiah" (9:22). Likewise, Apollos was "an eloquent man, well-versed in the scriptures" who "powerfully refuted the Jews in public, showing by the scriptures that the Messiah is Jesus" (18:24, 28).
Interestingly, the theme of what the apostles were able to prove about Jesus is set in contrast to the malicious things that the apostles' opponents could not prove about them (see 24:13; 25:7).
Finally, the third great theme introduced by our first paragraphs from Acts is the spread of the gospel. This is the very essence and content of Acts. Luke introduces that theme right away with Jesus' "you will be my witnesses" instruction, as well as the spread implicit in "Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth." As the story unfolds, the book of Acts follows that general outline. The story focuses initially on Jerusalem in chapters 2-7. It turns to the more regional gospel activity in and around Judea and Samaria in chapters 8-12. Then, beginning in chapter 13, the reader follows Paul to "the ends of the earth" -- throughout the Mediterranean world and Rome, where the book concludes.
Ephesians 1:15-23
Paul's reference to having heard of the Ephesians' "faith in the Lord Jesus" and their "love toward all the saints" is the sort of line that raises basic, critical questions about authorship and audience. Paul spent more time in Ephesus than in any other single place during his missionary journeys (apart from two lengthy imprisonments, that is). Acts 19:10 indicates that Paul was in Ephesus for a full two years, and yet this "I have heard" line sounds more distant and not so personally familiar as we might expect from his relationship to the Ephesians, given his tenure there.
Leaving aside the critical questions raised by it, the line contains a beautiful and challenging truth. "I have heard," Paul writes, "of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints." What a tribute to the Ephesian Christians. How easy it would be for a church to be known for lesser things, or not to be known at all. Yet the church in Ephesus had carved out the grandest possible reputation.
As a congregation, perhaps we will want to consider the question: What have folks heard about us? For what, if anything, are we known?
The good report and reputation of the Ephesians inspires and informs Paul's prayers for them. And, as is so often the case in the early verses of Paul's letters, the occasion of giving thanks and praying for the people turns the attention from the people to the Lord. The Ephesians begin as the subject; but by the end of the passage, Christ is the subject.
The transition is marvelous to behold. We can almost picture Paul's eyes gradually rising -- much like the disciples' eyes did at the ascension. He begins with a horizontal gaze, focusing on the Ephesians. He prays for them, which draws his attention upward to their "hope" and their "glorious inheritance." Now Paul is focused on the "great power" of God's work, which turns his attention to Christ. Once his eyes are set on Christ, the scene rapidly escalates beyond the clouds. He begins with Christ being "raised." He is in "the heavenly places," "far above," and "all things (are) under his feet."
The passage is a magnificent doxology, as well as a great Christological declaration. It also unfolds a pattern emblematic of the disciples' own experience at Christ's ascension, as they see him eye-to-eye at the beginning and are craning their necks upward at the end. Finally, as Paul moves seamlessly from talking about the Ephesians to marveling at Christ in glory, the passage serves as a metaphor for a larger truth in Paul and in the New Testament: namely, that all things point to Christ.
Luke 24:44-53
We associate with Matthew a concern for the Old Testament, yet Luke's post-resurrection accounts highlight the revelatory importance of those scriptures. In the Emmaus road conversation found earlier in this chapter, as well as in our selected passage, Luke records Jesus' deliberate statements about "the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms." He pointedly explains to the Emmaus road travelers -- and references to the disciples here -- all that was written about himself in those Old Testament writings.
That material might come as news to some of the people in our pews. Even before the prevailing biblical illiteracy of our present generation, there was a dismissive attitude in much of American Christianity concerning the Old Testament. It had second-class status, at best; or, at worst, the Old Testament was rejected as something bad or wrong. It's a neo-Marcion attitude, often exemplified by the discounting phrase, "Yes, but that's Old Testament," as though referring to stale milk or Beta VCRs.
In contrast to all of that, Luke reflects here what the early church understood and preached: that the Old Testament scriptures point to Christ. They are even, as Paul later wrote, "able to instruct you for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus" (2 Timothy 3:15).
Among the Old Testament explication that Jesus offered the disciples on this occasion was this core statement: "Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day." That, of course, is essentially the same thing that he had told them deliberately three times before (for example, Luke 8:21-22; 9:44; 18:31-33; and counterparts found in Matthew and Mark). On those prior occasions, the disciples had responded with confusion, misunderstanding, and even outright objection. When the predicted events began to unfold in Jerusalem, the disciples seemed genuinely stupefied by them.
We see the same thing at work in the Old Testament. God sent the prophets to warn the people of Israel and Judah about what was going to happen.
The important and marvelous pattern is that God tells his people in advance. Lest we think that events are random or that the world is spinning out of control, God's prior warning should give us peace, and even understanding. Yet here, on the other side of Gethsemane, Golgotha, and the garden tomb, Jesus still needs to go back and explain to his disciples what had happened. Of course, it was essential that Jesus explain to them what they had seen, for now the time had almost come for them to serve as "witnesses of these things."
Taken all together, we are presented with a marvelous time line under the plan and providence of God. At the center stand the death and resurrection of Christ. To the left, back in the days of Moses and the prophets, God had declared in advance what the Messiah would be and would do. Closer to the moment, Jesus himself had alerted his disciples to what was to come. And now, on the right side of the time line, just beyond that death and resurrection, comes the Holy Spirit and the empowered apostles proclaiming "repentance and forgiveness of sins ... in his name to all nations."
Finally, while Luke would not have a native reason to cherish the temple in Jerusalem, it appears favorably again and again in both Luke and Acts. In spite of the architectural design that would have set him, as a Gentile, at a greater distance from God, Luke seems to embrace the importance, beauty, and significance of the place.
In his gospel, Luke includes two temple events that none of the other gospel writers do. Shortly after Jesus' birth, Mary and Joseph bring him to the temple, where they are met by Simeon and Anna. Likewise, in the sole canonical episode from Jesus' childhood, Luke tells the story of the boy Jesus sitting in the temple with the teachers. It is, as Jesus sees it, the natural place for him to be, for it is "my Father's house" (2:49).
As in the other gospels, the temple figures prominently in Luke's holy week account, but he is the only one of the four evangelists who places the post-ascension disciples so deliberately back in the temple. "They were continually in the temple blessing God," Luke concludes. It is a line reminiscent of Anna, to whom Luke introduces us at the other end of his gospel. He says she "never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day" (2:37). The image of the disciples with which Luke closes his gospel is revisited early in Acts, where he reports that "they spent much time together in the temple" (2:46).
Application
We had a friend some years ago who had a reputation for falling asleep in certain group settings. (Truth be told, it was an exaggerated and unfair reputation, but it was good fodder for teasing among her good friends.) Our observation was that, when she was at or near the center of attention, she was the most animated person in the group. When we weren't all talking about her or things that involved her, however, she would fall asleep.
That sounds quite self-absorbed, of course, which she was actually not. Her pattern may serve as a kind of metaphor for much of American Christianity. We may be quite interested as long as it's all about us, but we become indifferent when the subject is something or someone else. This is perhaps most evident in our doctrine.
I wonder if our relative disinterest in Jesus' ascension traces back to the fact that we can't see that it has anything to do with us. We have a sense for the personal relevance of his coming, his living, his dying, and his rising, but what about his leaving? We have a doctrinal understanding of these other matters, and their importance to us may derive from their relevance to us.
The old J. Wilbur Chapman song says, "Living, he loved me; dying, he saved me; buried, he carried my sins far away; rising, he justified, freely forever; one day he's coming -- O glorious day!" I love the hymn, but I recognize that it articulates a certain anthropocentricity that may characterize our doctrine: that is, what Jesus has to do with me. Better that the story of Jesus should become personal than remain impersonal, and yet, when it comes to his ascension, I am reminded that it's not about me. It's about him.
Paul declares that "God ... seated [Christ] at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule, authority, power, and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come." It is a magnificent picture of ascended Christ in glory. But I am not in that picture.
The Acts account of the ascension concludes with the disciples "gazing up toward heaven," while the gospel account reports that "he was carried up into heaven" and "they worshiped him." This, then, is the appropriate posture for Ascension Sunday. And for every Sunday since his ascension. We gaze upward, and we worship him. He is glorified, with all power and authority for all time. And we do well to remind ourselves that it's all about him.
An Alternative Application
Acts 1:1-11. "Are We There Yet?" Some expressions are so universal among children that one wonders if they have undertaken some formal training in order to learn the lingo. "It's not fair," "But Johnny's parents let him," "I promise I'll take care of it and clean up after it" are all among the common idioms of childhood.
Then there is the dreaded refrain of a long, family car trip: "Are we there yet?" Almost any parent who has made a long trip with a child has dealt with this query. The first time, it can be amusing. My five-year-old daughter once asked the question before we had even gotten on the highway. As the trip wears on and patience wears thin, however, the question can become an irritant.
I see that childish question in the disciples. "Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?" They have a notion about what God's destination is, and they want to know if they're there yet. Or almost there.
While parents joke -- or perhaps complain -- about the impatience of young travelers, we should note that there is a certain virtue in it. After all, that expressed impatience for the destination means that they want to get there!
I remember asking my parents, "Are we there yet?" on certain occasions; but not on every occasion. I don't recall using that phrase when I was being taken somewhere I didn't want to go. I never impatiently asked, "Are we at the dentist's yet?" or "Are we to the piano teacher's house yet?" The fact that the children are impatient to arrive at the restaurant, the motel, the relative's house, the vacation destination, or wherever, means that they feel a commendable eagerness for what lies ahead.
I may preach a sermon in which I cast the disciples in the familiar role of children in the back seat -- fidgety and impatient. They want to know if we're there yet. And just about the time I have my congregation bemused by the disciples, I will remind them of the virtue. Better to be impatient for God's destination than to be indifferent about it.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 47
"Clap your hands, all you people! Shout to God with loud shouts of joy!" What images of fun and frolic this paints in the imagination. Behind the shouting and the clapping is an old New Orleans style jazz band. All around the band are daisy chains of people wrapped arm and arm, caught in the throes of dance and song. It is exuberance and wonder, joy and clarity, all bound up in one powerful package.
Such a scene warms us. We long for such unrestrained expression and wonder vaguely why that is so difficult for us. Bound up, as we are, in cords of appropriateness and process, it's difficult to let it all out in one whoop of ecstasy, isn't it? In fact, many of us look askance at ecstatic expressions of faith.
The question begs the asking. Why is that? Why are ecstatic utterances of faith shoved to the margins of the less than serious? Why is the whoop and holler of this psalm something not witnessed in many of our worship services today? Is it because we are afraid of emotion? Is it because we shudder at what feels like a loss of control? Or is it that, down deep, we really are not in agreement with the notion that it's God, and not us, who is in charge?
There is perhaps a bit of risk in saying so, but the answer must be, "Yes" to all three questions.
First, many of us are afraid of our emotions. We live in a tightly controlled environment that shoves intimacy and extremity of feelings neatly out of sight. We paper it over, of course, with language about boundaries and, once again, appropriateness. So tightly wound are we that it is nearly impossible to cut through our defenses to the heart, which is where God operates.
Second, is control. We are a culture of control freaks. We have a need to be in charge. From the stage of world politics to the color of our cars, we want to believe that we have made a choice. A stroll down a supermarket aisle reveals the pernicious nature of this obsession. Choice. Choosing makes us feel powerful and in charge. If God is totally in charge, then what of our freedom to choose? If it is God who rules the nations, then what of our input? This leads to the fearsome notion that we may not want God to be in charge. Could this idolatrous drive to unseat God be the primary source of our muted, unenthusiastic praise? It conjures up images of the fainthearted applause at a wedding where few approve of the choice of spouses.
Our journey to control and finally to unseat God can be seen in the destruction of our ecology and in our ongoing maintenance of an arsenal that can undo God's entire creation in a hellish flash of fire. If we can destroy it, are we not greater than the Creator?
But the song persists. Through the mire of our faithlessness comes the ancient song. "Clap your hands, all you people! Shout to God with loud shouts of joy!" It is a harmony that will not retreat. The strains of the melody lift up the heart. The rhythms of the drums unchain the soul, and through the tightly controlled emotions, through the compulsion to be in charge, comes the unrestrained wonder of knowing, simply, that God is God. Indeed, it is God who is in charge after all. So pick up that trumpet and blow. Sing out to the Lord. Celebrate the one of glory who is our Creator and our ruler, our Savior and our Sovereign.
This Sunday is Ascension Sunday, and all three of our texts this week invite consideration of that event. Both the Luke and Acts selections tell the actual story of Jesus' ascension, and the passage from Paul alludes to it (God "seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places").
In many churches, Ascension Sunday would pass unnoticed if the preacher did not make a point of it. A few Christian holy days have risen to the surface of our cultural consciousness, but this Sunday's commemoration does not rate much attention.
It's not surprising that the world around us pays little attention to Jesus' ascension since the church itself doesn't seem to make much of it. We faithfully echo the good tidings first told to the shepherds at Jesus' birth each Advent and Christmas season. All through the year, the life, ministry, example, and teachings of Jesus inform our preaching and our living. And, even beyond his birth and his life, we find that the real good news is found in Jesus' death and resurrection.
But what do we make of his ascension?
In the churches I've served through the years, folks have had a sense of the importance of Christ's coming. They have cherished the stories of his life. They have embraced his cross and celebrated his empty tomb. However, most church folks do not have a sense of the importance of Christ's ascension.
That, then, becomes our task this Sunday. To a people who likely know the good news of his coming, living, dying, and rising, we now preach the good news of his leaving.
Acts 1:1-11
Carpenters know that the poorest way to join two pieces of wood is simply to butt one up against the other. The connection is much stronger when the two pieces of wood overlap or intersect one another. Luke, as a storyteller, shows his craftsmanship by the way he joins the end and the beginning of his two pieces.
The book of Acts follows and continues the story that he had begun to tell in his gospel. But the two books do not merely abut end-to-end. Rather, Luke has crafted the beginning of Acts to overlap and intersect with the end of Luke.
Both our Gospel Lesson and this passage tell the same story (the ascension), and by the same author (Luke). The accounts are not identical, though their differences may be owed only to the fact that Luke is a good writer. They are naturally similar, and together they form the miter joint that joins Luke's two works.
This first passage from Acts presages several themes that are recurring and significant throughout the rest of the book: the Holy Spirit, "convincing proofs," and the spread of the gospel.
Three different times in just eleven verses, Luke makes explicit reference to the Holy Spirit. The prominence of the Spirit in just this introductory section reflects Luke's view and understanding of the events he is recording. The Holy Spirit is more expressly prominent in Luke's Gospel than any of the other three, and the Spirit is arguably the central character in the book of Acts. Some have rightly observed that, while we call the book "the Acts of the Apostles," the real title ought to be, "The Acts of the Holy Spirit."
Closely related to that theme of the Holy Spirit is the importance to Luke of "convincing proofs." The word Luke uses (tekmerion) suggests evidence that is irrefutable, indubitable. Indeed, the King James and New King James Versions translate the word "infallible proofs." And while the word itself appears nowhere else in Acts -- or in the entire New Testament, for that matter -- Luke has given an early indication of an issue that is important to him.
A concern for convincing proofs surely lies behind Luke's interest in signs and wonders. Eight different times in the book of Acts (2:22; 4:23; 4:30; 5:12; 6:8; 7:36; 14:3; and 15:12), Luke makes pointed reference to signs and wonders. He understands these as evidence of God's work and, by extension, of God's authentic and empowered workers.
Luke also demonstrates his interest in convincing proofs by his portrayals of Stephen, Apollos, and Paul. Not only does Luke point to flashy miracles as the proof of God's work, he also embraces the less-spectacular proof of wisdom and irrefutable logic. We read that Stephen was opposed by men "who stood up and argued with (him). But they could not withstand the wisdom and the Spirit with which he spoke" (6:9-10). Similarly, Luke reports that the newly converted Saul "became increasingly more powerful and confounded the Jews who lived in Damascus by proving that Jesus was the Messiah" (9:22). Likewise, Apollos was "an eloquent man, well-versed in the scriptures" who "powerfully refuted the Jews in public, showing by the scriptures that the Messiah is Jesus" (18:24, 28).
Interestingly, the theme of what the apostles were able to prove about Jesus is set in contrast to the malicious things that the apostles' opponents could not prove about them (see 24:13; 25:7).
Finally, the third great theme introduced by our first paragraphs from Acts is the spread of the gospel. This is the very essence and content of Acts. Luke introduces that theme right away with Jesus' "you will be my witnesses" instruction, as well as the spread implicit in "Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth." As the story unfolds, the book of Acts follows that general outline. The story focuses initially on Jerusalem in chapters 2-7. It turns to the more regional gospel activity in and around Judea and Samaria in chapters 8-12. Then, beginning in chapter 13, the reader follows Paul to "the ends of the earth" -- throughout the Mediterranean world and Rome, where the book concludes.
Ephesians 1:15-23
Paul's reference to having heard of the Ephesians' "faith in the Lord Jesus" and their "love toward all the saints" is the sort of line that raises basic, critical questions about authorship and audience. Paul spent more time in Ephesus than in any other single place during his missionary journeys (apart from two lengthy imprisonments, that is). Acts 19:10 indicates that Paul was in Ephesus for a full two years, and yet this "I have heard" line sounds more distant and not so personally familiar as we might expect from his relationship to the Ephesians, given his tenure there.
Leaving aside the critical questions raised by it, the line contains a beautiful and challenging truth. "I have heard," Paul writes, "of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints." What a tribute to the Ephesian Christians. How easy it would be for a church to be known for lesser things, or not to be known at all. Yet the church in Ephesus had carved out the grandest possible reputation.
As a congregation, perhaps we will want to consider the question: What have folks heard about us? For what, if anything, are we known?
The good report and reputation of the Ephesians inspires and informs Paul's prayers for them. And, as is so often the case in the early verses of Paul's letters, the occasion of giving thanks and praying for the people turns the attention from the people to the Lord. The Ephesians begin as the subject; but by the end of the passage, Christ is the subject.
The transition is marvelous to behold. We can almost picture Paul's eyes gradually rising -- much like the disciples' eyes did at the ascension. He begins with a horizontal gaze, focusing on the Ephesians. He prays for them, which draws his attention upward to their "hope" and their "glorious inheritance." Now Paul is focused on the "great power" of God's work, which turns his attention to Christ. Once his eyes are set on Christ, the scene rapidly escalates beyond the clouds. He begins with Christ being "raised." He is in "the heavenly places," "far above," and "all things (are) under his feet."
The passage is a magnificent doxology, as well as a great Christological declaration. It also unfolds a pattern emblematic of the disciples' own experience at Christ's ascension, as they see him eye-to-eye at the beginning and are craning their necks upward at the end. Finally, as Paul moves seamlessly from talking about the Ephesians to marveling at Christ in glory, the passage serves as a metaphor for a larger truth in Paul and in the New Testament: namely, that all things point to Christ.
Luke 24:44-53
We associate with Matthew a concern for the Old Testament, yet Luke's post-resurrection accounts highlight the revelatory importance of those scriptures. In the Emmaus road conversation found earlier in this chapter, as well as in our selected passage, Luke records Jesus' deliberate statements about "the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms." He pointedly explains to the Emmaus road travelers -- and references to the disciples here -- all that was written about himself in those Old Testament writings.
That material might come as news to some of the people in our pews. Even before the prevailing biblical illiteracy of our present generation, there was a dismissive attitude in much of American Christianity concerning the Old Testament. It had second-class status, at best; or, at worst, the Old Testament was rejected as something bad or wrong. It's a neo-Marcion attitude, often exemplified by the discounting phrase, "Yes, but that's Old Testament," as though referring to stale milk or Beta VCRs.
In contrast to all of that, Luke reflects here what the early church understood and preached: that the Old Testament scriptures point to Christ. They are even, as Paul later wrote, "able to instruct you for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus" (2 Timothy 3:15).
Among the Old Testament explication that Jesus offered the disciples on this occasion was this core statement: "Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day." That, of course, is essentially the same thing that he had told them deliberately three times before (for example, Luke 8:21-22; 9:44; 18:31-33; and counterparts found in Matthew and Mark). On those prior occasions, the disciples had responded with confusion, misunderstanding, and even outright objection. When the predicted events began to unfold in Jerusalem, the disciples seemed genuinely stupefied by them.
We see the same thing at work in the Old Testament. God sent the prophets to warn the people of Israel and Judah about what was going to happen.
The important and marvelous pattern is that God tells his people in advance. Lest we think that events are random or that the world is spinning out of control, God's prior warning should give us peace, and even understanding. Yet here, on the other side of Gethsemane, Golgotha, and the garden tomb, Jesus still needs to go back and explain to his disciples what had happened. Of course, it was essential that Jesus explain to them what they had seen, for now the time had almost come for them to serve as "witnesses of these things."
Taken all together, we are presented with a marvelous time line under the plan and providence of God. At the center stand the death and resurrection of Christ. To the left, back in the days of Moses and the prophets, God had declared in advance what the Messiah would be and would do. Closer to the moment, Jesus himself had alerted his disciples to what was to come. And now, on the right side of the time line, just beyond that death and resurrection, comes the Holy Spirit and the empowered apostles proclaiming "repentance and forgiveness of sins ... in his name to all nations."
Finally, while Luke would not have a native reason to cherish the temple in Jerusalem, it appears favorably again and again in both Luke and Acts. In spite of the architectural design that would have set him, as a Gentile, at a greater distance from God, Luke seems to embrace the importance, beauty, and significance of the place.
In his gospel, Luke includes two temple events that none of the other gospel writers do. Shortly after Jesus' birth, Mary and Joseph bring him to the temple, where they are met by Simeon and Anna. Likewise, in the sole canonical episode from Jesus' childhood, Luke tells the story of the boy Jesus sitting in the temple with the teachers. It is, as Jesus sees it, the natural place for him to be, for it is "my Father's house" (2:49).
As in the other gospels, the temple figures prominently in Luke's holy week account, but he is the only one of the four evangelists who places the post-ascension disciples so deliberately back in the temple. "They were continually in the temple blessing God," Luke concludes. It is a line reminiscent of Anna, to whom Luke introduces us at the other end of his gospel. He says she "never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day" (2:37). The image of the disciples with which Luke closes his gospel is revisited early in Acts, where he reports that "they spent much time together in the temple" (2:46).
Application
We had a friend some years ago who had a reputation for falling asleep in certain group settings. (Truth be told, it was an exaggerated and unfair reputation, but it was good fodder for teasing among her good friends.) Our observation was that, when she was at or near the center of attention, she was the most animated person in the group. When we weren't all talking about her or things that involved her, however, she would fall asleep.
That sounds quite self-absorbed, of course, which she was actually not. Her pattern may serve as a kind of metaphor for much of American Christianity. We may be quite interested as long as it's all about us, but we become indifferent when the subject is something or someone else. This is perhaps most evident in our doctrine.
I wonder if our relative disinterest in Jesus' ascension traces back to the fact that we can't see that it has anything to do with us. We have a sense for the personal relevance of his coming, his living, his dying, and his rising, but what about his leaving? We have a doctrinal understanding of these other matters, and their importance to us may derive from their relevance to us.
The old J. Wilbur Chapman song says, "Living, he loved me; dying, he saved me; buried, he carried my sins far away; rising, he justified, freely forever; one day he's coming -- O glorious day!" I love the hymn, but I recognize that it articulates a certain anthropocentricity that may characterize our doctrine: that is, what Jesus has to do with me. Better that the story of Jesus should become personal than remain impersonal, and yet, when it comes to his ascension, I am reminded that it's not about me. It's about him.
Paul declares that "God ... seated [Christ] at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule, authority, power, and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come." It is a magnificent picture of ascended Christ in glory. But I am not in that picture.
The Acts account of the ascension concludes with the disciples "gazing up toward heaven," while the gospel account reports that "he was carried up into heaven" and "they worshiped him." This, then, is the appropriate posture for Ascension Sunday. And for every Sunday since his ascension. We gaze upward, and we worship him. He is glorified, with all power and authority for all time. And we do well to remind ourselves that it's all about him.
An Alternative Application
Acts 1:1-11. "Are We There Yet?" Some expressions are so universal among children that one wonders if they have undertaken some formal training in order to learn the lingo. "It's not fair," "But Johnny's parents let him," "I promise I'll take care of it and clean up after it" are all among the common idioms of childhood.
Then there is the dreaded refrain of a long, family car trip: "Are we there yet?" Almost any parent who has made a long trip with a child has dealt with this query. The first time, it can be amusing. My five-year-old daughter once asked the question before we had even gotten on the highway. As the trip wears on and patience wears thin, however, the question can become an irritant.
I see that childish question in the disciples. "Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?" They have a notion about what God's destination is, and they want to know if they're there yet. Or almost there.
While parents joke -- or perhaps complain -- about the impatience of young travelers, we should note that there is a certain virtue in it. After all, that expressed impatience for the destination means that they want to get there!
I remember asking my parents, "Are we there yet?" on certain occasions; but not on every occasion. I don't recall using that phrase when I was being taken somewhere I didn't want to go. I never impatiently asked, "Are we at the dentist's yet?" or "Are we to the piano teacher's house yet?" The fact that the children are impatient to arrive at the restaurant, the motel, the relative's house, the vacation destination, or wherever, means that they feel a commendable eagerness for what lies ahead.
I may preach a sermon in which I cast the disciples in the familiar role of children in the back seat -- fidgety and impatient. They want to know if we're there yet. And just about the time I have my congregation bemused by the disciples, I will remind them of the virtue. Better to be impatient for God's destination than to be indifferent about it.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 47
"Clap your hands, all you people! Shout to God with loud shouts of joy!" What images of fun and frolic this paints in the imagination. Behind the shouting and the clapping is an old New Orleans style jazz band. All around the band are daisy chains of people wrapped arm and arm, caught in the throes of dance and song. It is exuberance and wonder, joy and clarity, all bound up in one powerful package.
Such a scene warms us. We long for such unrestrained expression and wonder vaguely why that is so difficult for us. Bound up, as we are, in cords of appropriateness and process, it's difficult to let it all out in one whoop of ecstasy, isn't it? In fact, many of us look askance at ecstatic expressions of faith.
The question begs the asking. Why is that? Why are ecstatic utterances of faith shoved to the margins of the less than serious? Why is the whoop and holler of this psalm something not witnessed in many of our worship services today? Is it because we are afraid of emotion? Is it because we shudder at what feels like a loss of control? Or is it that, down deep, we really are not in agreement with the notion that it's God, and not us, who is in charge?
There is perhaps a bit of risk in saying so, but the answer must be, "Yes" to all three questions.
First, many of us are afraid of our emotions. We live in a tightly controlled environment that shoves intimacy and extremity of feelings neatly out of sight. We paper it over, of course, with language about boundaries and, once again, appropriateness. So tightly wound are we that it is nearly impossible to cut through our defenses to the heart, which is where God operates.
Second, is control. We are a culture of control freaks. We have a need to be in charge. From the stage of world politics to the color of our cars, we want to believe that we have made a choice. A stroll down a supermarket aisle reveals the pernicious nature of this obsession. Choice. Choosing makes us feel powerful and in charge. If God is totally in charge, then what of our freedom to choose? If it is God who rules the nations, then what of our input? This leads to the fearsome notion that we may not want God to be in charge. Could this idolatrous drive to unseat God be the primary source of our muted, unenthusiastic praise? It conjures up images of the fainthearted applause at a wedding where few approve of the choice of spouses.
Our journey to control and finally to unseat God can be seen in the destruction of our ecology and in our ongoing maintenance of an arsenal that can undo God's entire creation in a hellish flash of fire. If we can destroy it, are we not greater than the Creator?
But the song persists. Through the mire of our faithlessness comes the ancient song. "Clap your hands, all you people! Shout to God with loud shouts of joy!" It is a harmony that will not retreat. The strains of the melody lift up the heart. The rhythms of the drums unchain the soul, and through the tightly controlled emotions, through the compulsion to be in charge, comes the unrestrained wonder of knowing, simply, that God is God. Indeed, it is God who is in charge after all. So pick up that trumpet and blow. Sing out to the Lord. Celebrate the one of glory who is our Creator and our ruler, our Savior and our Sovereign.
