A Friend In High Places
Sermon
Sermons On The Gospel Readings
Series I, Cycle B
What we want to talk about is not, I am extremely sure, a theme that dominated your breakfast conversation this morning. It is not, I am equally confident, a theme that came up in any church conversation around here in the last little while. It is not even, I am still confident, something that you have ever thought much about at all. And I am sure it is not something you have heard homiletically addressed more than once, if at all. I am talking about the ascension of Jesus Christ into heaven. If by chance it rings a theological bell within your memory, chances are that bell was rung by the creedal line that runs: "... and the third day he rose again according to the scriptures: And ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of the Father...."
Before you zone off, thinking that this theme has nothing of value to add to your soul's nourishment, let me be heard to say that the ascension does have a contribution to make; it does say something that can speak to our hearts and bring us closer to God.
Now I know what you are thinking, because I have already thought it. When Luke describes Jesus as being "carried up into heaven," often our penchant for knowing the "how" of a matter immediately takes precedence over the meaning of the matter. And finding the mechanics of the event to be incredulous, we dismiss the matter as fanciful, merely a product of exuberance. End of story. Physics has euchred theology.
Strangely, in other areas of our lives, we don't seem to have the same problem. We can hear Elizabeth Barrett Browning say of her beloved, Robert, that he "lifted me from this drear flat of earth where I was thrown ..." and we know precisely what she means. Not for a moment do we think that he brought in some kind of crane and lifted her from one place to another. Rather, she is speaking poetically about a moving experience of soul that vivified and restored her.
Similarly, Luke is describing the post-resurrection estate of Jesus. The Jesus who was, is now again the Jesus who is, but in a new and expansive way.
The imagery bespeaks permanence. There is a wonderful line from the thirteenth chapter of Hebrews that is really a statement about the ascension of Jesus. It goes like this: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever" (Hebrews 13:8). What Jesus did, he did forever. The pattern of his life, the substance of his teachings, his role in bringing us closer to God -- all of that is permanent and will never change.
People familiar with New England will remember seeing ruggedly beautiful stone walls that mark off property lines; they will also call to mind the rock-bound coast of Maine. Either image will convey the permanence of stone. A boulder is like a silent sentinel, guarding those in its shadow from the ravages of a tempest. Little wonder that people of earlier generations used to warm to Augustus Toplady's hymn, "Rock Of Ages," and gladly sing, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee...."
We desperately hunger for what is forever. This hunger is so commonplace that it goes unrecognized for what it is. The insecurity of children, the childishness of adults, the behavior of hedging -- all these are reflections of our hope to be connected to what is permanent and our disquietude when we are disappointed because that permanence can be so evasive. How many children really believe -- and feel -- that the love of their parents is unconditional and will always be there? How many adults really believe -- and feel -- that the love of a mate or best friend is unconditional and will always be there? This hope we all have, and our despair when it is promised and then either not given or taken away is profound.
In our adult maturity, of course, we come to a time when we realize that the ultimate and only permanent permanence -- if I can speak that way -- is the permanence of God's eternity. Sam Miller once wrote an essay on this theme provocatively titled "Beginning Eternity Now." Wrote Miller:
There is a sense in which we begin eternity here and now. It is not something that we will easily add on to the end of life when we die. Eternity is mixed invisibly with the stuff of the earth. With every new coming of springtime across the earth, some men will continue to live the old, old life they have always lived while others will see that most amazing stuff we call the soul that shines with potential surprises able to begin again no matter how far it has gone, stretching itself toward that peace which is only known in the endless dimensions of God's eternal purpose.1
The ascension is about the permanence of God in Jesus the Christ. And it is also about the ultimate object of our adoration. Following Jesus' ascension, Luke tells us that his disciples "returned to Jerusalem with great joy; and they were continually in the temple blessing God" (Luke 24:52). To gather regularly for public worship to sing our praises to God makes perfect sense, because if we fail to worship God here, we will worship at some other altar. Should we do that, it is guaranteed that eventually we will succumb to the most profound of disappointments.
We are, by our very nature, worshiping people. And there is no end to the golden calves before which we willingly lie prostrate. Said differently, we will regularly make our way to one temple or another, of this we can be certain. You and I both know about the golden calves that wait to seduce us; preachers have been cataloguing them forever. Money, cars, houses, bank accounts -- these are always in top ten idol lists. But often idolatry is more subtle; it has us in its snare and for a long time we might not even notice it.
There can come a time, for example, when in rightly caring for our bodies we move from stewardship to idolatry. Exercise can become worship of the body, the gym our temple. When the exercise and development of one's "abs" becomes absolutely and ultimately important, we can easily cross over the line into the territory of idolatry.
Debbie Parvin writes about an even more insidious form of body worship:
I buy the market's products
because I've bought
the market's definition
of my self and beauty.
Dear God,
sit with me
when I look in the mirror.
Forgive me for falling
for the market's cheap tricks,
for I have given them
my sense of worth
along with all my money.
Help me believe again
that I am beautiful,
that you have made me good,
and that there may be a little bit
of loveliness in me
to linger
even when I'm gone.2
The ascension is not the province of physics; it is, however, the province of theology. It speaks to the sense of permanence we ardently seek, and the worship we would gladly give. It announces that we have, so to speak, "a friend in high places," who is our rock and redeemer, alone worthy of our unbounded praise.
____________
1. Samuel H. Miller, The Life of the Soul (New York and Evanston: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1951), pp. 152, 157.
2. Debbie W. Parvin, "Make-Up" (Alive Now, January/February, 1997), pp. 26-27.
Before you zone off, thinking that this theme has nothing of value to add to your soul's nourishment, let me be heard to say that the ascension does have a contribution to make; it does say something that can speak to our hearts and bring us closer to God.
Now I know what you are thinking, because I have already thought it. When Luke describes Jesus as being "carried up into heaven," often our penchant for knowing the "how" of a matter immediately takes precedence over the meaning of the matter. And finding the mechanics of the event to be incredulous, we dismiss the matter as fanciful, merely a product of exuberance. End of story. Physics has euchred theology.
Strangely, in other areas of our lives, we don't seem to have the same problem. We can hear Elizabeth Barrett Browning say of her beloved, Robert, that he "lifted me from this drear flat of earth where I was thrown ..." and we know precisely what she means. Not for a moment do we think that he brought in some kind of crane and lifted her from one place to another. Rather, she is speaking poetically about a moving experience of soul that vivified and restored her.
Similarly, Luke is describing the post-resurrection estate of Jesus. The Jesus who was, is now again the Jesus who is, but in a new and expansive way.
The imagery bespeaks permanence. There is a wonderful line from the thirteenth chapter of Hebrews that is really a statement about the ascension of Jesus. It goes like this: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever" (Hebrews 13:8). What Jesus did, he did forever. The pattern of his life, the substance of his teachings, his role in bringing us closer to God -- all of that is permanent and will never change.
People familiar with New England will remember seeing ruggedly beautiful stone walls that mark off property lines; they will also call to mind the rock-bound coast of Maine. Either image will convey the permanence of stone. A boulder is like a silent sentinel, guarding those in its shadow from the ravages of a tempest. Little wonder that people of earlier generations used to warm to Augustus Toplady's hymn, "Rock Of Ages," and gladly sing, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee...."
We desperately hunger for what is forever. This hunger is so commonplace that it goes unrecognized for what it is. The insecurity of children, the childishness of adults, the behavior of hedging -- all these are reflections of our hope to be connected to what is permanent and our disquietude when we are disappointed because that permanence can be so evasive. How many children really believe -- and feel -- that the love of their parents is unconditional and will always be there? How many adults really believe -- and feel -- that the love of a mate or best friend is unconditional and will always be there? This hope we all have, and our despair when it is promised and then either not given or taken away is profound.
In our adult maturity, of course, we come to a time when we realize that the ultimate and only permanent permanence -- if I can speak that way -- is the permanence of God's eternity. Sam Miller once wrote an essay on this theme provocatively titled "Beginning Eternity Now." Wrote Miller:
There is a sense in which we begin eternity here and now. It is not something that we will easily add on to the end of life when we die. Eternity is mixed invisibly with the stuff of the earth. With every new coming of springtime across the earth, some men will continue to live the old, old life they have always lived while others will see that most amazing stuff we call the soul that shines with potential surprises able to begin again no matter how far it has gone, stretching itself toward that peace which is only known in the endless dimensions of God's eternal purpose.1
The ascension is about the permanence of God in Jesus the Christ. And it is also about the ultimate object of our adoration. Following Jesus' ascension, Luke tells us that his disciples "returned to Jerusalem with great joy; and they were continually in the temple blessing God" (Luke 24:52). To gather regularly for public worship to sing our praises to God makes perfect sense, because if we fail to worship God here, we will worship at some other altar. Should we do that, it is guaranteed that eventually we will succumb to the most profound of disappointments.
We are, by our very nature, worshiping people. And there is no end to the golden calves before which we willingly lie prostrate. Said differently, we will regularly make our way to one temple or another, of this we can be certain. You and I both know about the golden calves that wait to seduce us; preachers have been cataloguing them forever. Money, cars, houses, bank accounts -- these are always in top ten idol lists. But often idolatry is more subtle; it has us in its snare and for a long time we might not even notice it.
There can come a time, for example, when in rightly caring for our bodies we move from stewardship to idolatry. Exercise can become worship of the body, the gym our temple. When the exercise and development of one's "abs" becomes absolutely and ultimately important, we can easily cross over the line into the territory of idolatry.
Debbie Parvin writes about an even more insidious form of body worship:
I buy the market's products
because I've bought
the market's definition
of my self and beauty.
Dear God,
sit with me
when I look in the mirror.
Forgive me for falling
for the market's cheap tricks,
for I have given them
my sense of worth
along with all my money.
Help me believe again
that I am beautiful,
that you have made me good,
and that there may be a little bit
of loveliness in me
to linger
even when I'm gone.2
The ascension is not the province of physics; it is, however, the province of theology. It speaks to the sense of permanence we ardently seek, and the worship we would gladly give. It announces that we have, so to speak, "a friend in high places," who is our rock and redeemer, alone worthy of our unbounded praise.
____________
1. Samuel H. Miller, The Life of the Soul (New York and Evanston: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1951), pp. 152, 157.
2. Debbie W. Parvin, "Make-Up" (Alive Now, January/February, 1997), pp. 26-27.
