Ascension Of Our Lord
Preaching
Lectionary Preaching Workbook
Series VIII, Cycle A
Object:
Theme For The Day
Christ calls us to stop looking up into the sky, looking instead to one another, in service.
These texts occur in all three cycles of the lectionary for this day.
First Lesson
Acts 1:1-11
Jesus' Ascension In Acts
For Luke, the ascension is the great dividing-line between the two parts of his story, the gospel of Luke and the book of Acts. For most modern people, Christ's resurrection is the watershed event, the continental divide, as it were -- and the ascension is a minor footnote. Yet, for the Lukan church, the ascension is of far greater importance. Verses 1-5 contain the dedication of the book, and a brief summary of Jesus' resurrection appearances. While Luke describes only two of these episodes in his gospel, there were evidently quite a number of them spread over forty days (v. 3). Jesus commands the disciples to remain in Jerusalem, to receive "the promise of the Father [and to] be baptized with the Holy Spirit" (v. 4). As they gather for the last time, the disciples ask Jesus, "Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?" (v. 6). They still don't get it. Jesus is not going to bring something in; he is going to depart from them, after which they "will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon [them]" (verses 7-8). Suddenly, Jesus is lifted up and vanishes into a cloud -- reminiscent of the cloud of God's glory, the shekinah, of the Hebrew scriptures. We have previously seen this bright cloud at Jesus' transfiguration (v. 9). Then, in an almost comical episode, two angels show up -- almost as though they were janitors, pushing brooms, cleaning up after the big event -- and ask: "Why do you stand looking up toward heaven? He's gone -- but he will come back in the same way, in his own time. Move along!" (v. 11).
New Testament Lesson
Ephesians 1:15-23
"Above All Rule And Authority And Power And Dominion"
Now that the opening pleasantries of this letter are over, the author gets down to business: sharing with the people what he's been praying for. He gives thanks for the Christians of Ephesus (v. 16). He prays that God may give them "a spirit of wisdom and revelation" (v. 17). This spirit will show them the source of their hope: "the riches of [Christ's] glorious inheritance among the saints," and "the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe" (verses 18-19). Verses 20-22 are a summation of the power God has demonstrated in Christ through his resurrection and ascension. The accent, here, is on Christ glorified: "seated... at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion" (v. 20). This vision of celestial glory, while hard to comprehend, is a source of hope for these persecuted, first-century Christians. All "rule and authority and power and dominion" -- even that of mighty Rome -- is now subservient to the ascended Christ.
The Gospel
Luke 24:44-53
Jesus' Ascension In Luke
Luke actually gives us two versions of Jesus' ascension. The first one, the version found in Acts, is better known (see above). The description of the ascension itself, in Luke, is very brief -- although today's lectionary selection backs up to include some earlier, parting instructions from Jesus to his disciples. In the latter part of this -- the second of two resurrection appearances Luke describes -- Jesus "opens their minds to understand the scriptures," as he did with Cleopas and his companion on the road to Emmaus (v. 45; see also verse 27). After explaining the meaning of his resurrection, he reveals that there is more good news to come: "repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem" (v. 47). And who is going to do the proclaiming? None other than these same disciples who will be "witnesses of these things" (v. 48). He commands them to stay in the city until they "have been clothed with power from on high" (v. 49). After this, the account of Jesus' ascension is rather matter-of-fact. He "blesses" them, "withdraws" from them, and is "carried up into heaven" (v. 51). The passive voice, here, is significant. As with the resurrection -- when Jesus "is raised," rather than "rises" -- here, too, it is God who is the principal actor. They "worship him," then joyfully return to the city, where they remain "continually in the temple blessing God" (v. 53). The gospel of Luke begins and ends in the temple, and in both instances there is hope and expectation that something remarkable is about to happen. In the first case, it was the promise to Zechariah of the birth of John the Baptist. Now, it is the promise of Pentecost.
Preaching Possibilities
"Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?" We've heard of "Men in Black"; it's the "men in white" who say that -- two angels, who address the disciples, there on Mount Olivet. Those disciples have just bade farewell to their beloved Jesus, the risen Lord: "as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight."
Now that, as they say in summer camp, is something to write home about! It's hard to imagine a sight more remarkable unless it's that vision of Jesus emerging from the tomb; or, standing with Moses and Elijah, clad in dazzling white, on the Mount of Transfiguration; or, knee-deep in the Jordan River with the sky cracked wide open and that great booming voice announcing, "This is my beloved Son...."
The truth is, the gospel of Luke is chock-full of dazzling revelations, brimming over with radiant epiphanies. We can speak of "the gospel of Luke," even though today's text comes from Acts because the book of Acts is volume two of Luke's gospel. Two books, by the same author -- in Hollywood lingo, a "prequel" and a "sequel." Acts takes over, after a brief introduction, right where Luke leaves off: with a cliffhanger ending. The cliffhanger is Jesus' ascension into heaven.
Luke inserts into his story, at intervals, certain revelatory events. If he were building a railroad train, these radiant miracles would be the couplings between the cars. These events display Jesus in all his glory for those who have eyes to see.
At Jesus' birth, legions of angels sing "Glory!" At his baptism, there's that resonant voice booming down from the heavens. At the height of his ministry, there's the Transfiguration; and, just after the lowest point, comes the Resurrection.
Now there's this. The Ascension just could be the most remarkable sign of all. And what do the disciples do? They stand there, rubbernecking. The boundary line between life and death has grown thin. It's just too fascinating.
The men in white come along waving their arms like state troopers breaking up a traffic jam: "Move along... move along... move along."
The vision of the Ascension is fascinating, but it's also troubling for us moderns. We no longer believe heaven is "up there," as the ancients did. We don't go in for that three-tiered universe stuff: the multi-story structure of underworld and earth and heaven. When astronauts go rocketing up through the stratosphere, they no longer come back saying, as one early cosmonaut did, "I didn't see God!"
When it comes to space travel, the concept of "up" loses all meaning. Because the earth is round, blasting off from its surface is more like going "out" than "up." If heaven is "up," is it located over the North Pole, or the South Pole? (If it's "up" from anyplace else, you'd have to ask what time of day it is before taking off in your rocket ship, because the earth spins on its axis.) It's easy to see that taking the biblical account of the Ascension literally presents certain problems. In order to maintain a literalist outlook, you just might have to join the Flat-Earth Society and deny there's any such thing as outer space.
The truth is, we don't know what happened, exactly, there on Mount Olivet. The eyewitnesses describe it the best way they could, using the scientific knowledge at their disposal. Maybe they were thinking of that story from 2 Kings 2:11 of Elijah, rising up into the heavens in a chariot of fire. Some things are better left to the poetic imagination.
There's a persistent message resonating out from this story -- a refrain still ringing in our ears, as we pick our way down the winding trail from the summit. Maybe it's the real message of the Ascension. It's the message of the men in white: "Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?"
Why, indeed? Why do you and I stand looking up toward heaven when there's work to be done on this earth? Oh, a little glimpse of heavenly glory is all right, from time to time -- no one would fault us for that -- but if we spend our entire lives hunting ecstatic experiences, rooting around among churches and cathedrals and holy places like some desperate junkie scrabbling for the perfect high, then (the men in white are saying) we're failing our calling as disciples.
The time comes when worship isn't what we're called to do, when praying and pondering about the faith must be set aside. The time comes when God calls us to get to work: pick ourselves up, discover our talents, and respond to the call of Christ.
Those disciples who just stood there, frozen like deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, misunderstood what was really happening in the Ascension. They thought this miraculous event marked the end. They thought Jesus, who had been crucified and raised from the dead, was now departing from them for good.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Jesus was going to heaven to be sure, but he was going there not merely to dwell, but to reign. The Ascension is not the end; rather, it is the beginning of a new, universal order. "He ascended into heaven," says the creed, "and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty. From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead."
Heaven, in the Christian way of looking at things, is not some insubstantial place, impossibly far-removed from the joys and struggles of everyday life. Heaven is not some vague reward, waiting for the faithful in a distant afterlife. No, in the Christian view, heaven is the seat of ultimate power in this life, in the here and now. It is the place where the present and future of this world is shaped and guided.
It's as Paul says in Romans 8:34, writing to Christians under persecution, who know all too well what the word "condemn" means: "Who is to condemn? It is Christ Jesus who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us."
Because Jesus is ascended, the power of the Roman Emperor is no longer ultimate power. Because Jesus is ascended, there is hope for tomorrow. Because Jesus is ascended, those believers who languish in ghettos, refugee camps, or homes where domestic violence is the dark, terrible secret -- find power for living and to look for justice.
The letter to the Ephesians puts it clearly. God "has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all" (Ephesians 1:22).
Together, we are the body of Christ, his continuing presence in the world. As we gather, week by week, in worship, hearing the scriptures and praying the prayers, he is here. As we sit down to eat, at a communion table open to all, witnessing to his radical inclusiveness, he is here. As we gather to wash new members in baptism, gently welcoming them into the fold, he is here. As we discover the courage, in our own lives, to go out into whatever godforsaken place we may be sent, to do what he would have us do, he is here.
Quietly now... if you listen, you may hear it. Over the din of police whistles and the fire sirens... over the roar of fighter bombers and the whine of missiles... over the anguished cries of parents of murdered children... over the despairing moans of the dying and the desolate, you can begin to make it out. "The kingdoms of this world have become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ. And he shall reign forever and ever. Hallelujah! Amen."
Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?
Prayer For The Day
Lord Jesus Christ,
when we think of your life,
our eyes are drawn upward.
When we think of your death on our behalf,
our eyes are drawn upward.
When we think of your glorious resurrection,
our eyes are drawn upward.
Yet, when you think of us,
your eyes are drawn to those on our left and on our right:
our neighbors,
the ones you call us to love.
Teach us to stand no longer gazing into the heavens,
but rather to roll up our sleeves:
so we may be about the important business,
your holy call,
to love one another. Amen.
To Illustrate
It's a scene you'll see on many an interstate-highway journey. There you are, breezing down the road at 65. Suddenly you see red brake-lights up ahead. A lot of red brake-lights. You brake, too. It's a traffic jam. Everything has come to a dead stop. The interstate highway, marvel of modern engineering, has become a humble parking lot.
After a time -- if you're lucky, not too long a time -- the traffic slowly begins to move. You creep forward, idly watching the on-again, off-again brake lights in front of you. Finally you round a bend, and you see something up ahead -- an explanation, maybe, for the long delay. Flashing red lights. Lots of them.
The traffic inches forward, more slowly than ever. You lean out your window, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it is that's caused the back-up.
Then you see it: a crumpled car or two, strewn at odd angles by the side of the road... an ambulance with its doors open... paramedics grimly loading a stretcher into the back. It's a person -- alive or dead, who's to say?
Then you see the state trooper, arm waving like a windmill. You don't need to hear her voice to know what she's saying: "Move along... move along... move along."
"Move along" you do -- and in an instant of time, the traffic jam is no more. You floor the accelerator, and you're on your way, again, to your destination.
You're on your way again, except for your thoughts, which leapt out of your car back at the accident-scene and are still roaming around someplace, back there. Your thoughts are hovering in the air, floating over that poor unfortunate, lying face-up on the stretcher: alive or dead, who's to say?
It's a lamentable fact of modern life: the auto accident. If you're driving on an interstate on a busy holiday weekend, chances are you'll see at least one, maybe more. Chances are, as well, you'll witness a human behavior that's the bane of the highway patrol, and the cause of more tie-ups than the accident itself: the behavior called "rubbernecking."
That's what they call the people who lean out the car window, eager to witness some damage. There is something darkly fascinating about that terrible scene: the crumpled metal... the sparkling particles of windshield strewn like fallen stars across the asphalt... the dark puddle that's probably motor oil (but could be something else).
What's so fascinating about an accident? Not the accident itself, so much. It's something else. It's the sudden realization -- in the midst of a long and tedious journey -- that the boundary between life and death is not so far away as we may think. It's not the high, un-scalable wall we imagined it to be. Suddenly, regarding the flashing ambulance lights and the sputtering emergency flares, we remember our mortality. And the thought arises from deep within, unbidden: "There, but for the grace of God, go I..."
Jesus' ascension, too, draws our attention to the boundary between life and death, between this life and the next.
***
Back in the days of the American West, there used to be three classes of tickets on the old stagecoaches. The ride was equally bumpy and dusty, no matter which ticket you held. The real value of the ticket emerged when the stagecoach got stuck.
If you held a first-class ticket, it was your privilege to remain in the coach while the crew labored to push it out of the ditch. If you held a second-class ticket, you were expected to step down from the coach and stand off to the side. If it was a third-class ticket you held in your hand, you had to get out, roll up your sleeves and push.
Except for those who are young, disabled, or needing the community's special care, there aren't any tickets in the church except third-class tickets. Everyone is expected to work, to use their talents to advance the mission of Jesus Christ. There's no standing around, looking up toward heaven.
***
Not long after Mother Teresa started the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta, India, she opened a medical clinic right next to a Hindu temple.
The Hindus objected. It was a sacrilege, they declared, to have an order of Christian sisters living next door to their temple. They insisted that their leader get rid of them. He agreed. One day he went to pay a call on this Albanian nun and her sisters.
Mother Teresa received him warmly. She asked him to follow her on her rounds as she bathed, fed, and nursed the dying. "After visiting her clinic," the Hindu leader recalled, years later, "and watching her care for the poor, I went back to my congregation and said: 'When you will go to the clinic and do for the poor what Mother Teresa is doing, then I will get rid of her.' "
The clinic is still open to this day. Mother Teresa was never one for standing around looking up into the sky.
Christ calls us to stop looking up into the sky, looking instead to one another, in service.
These texts occur in all three cycles of the lectionary for this day.
First Lesson
Acts 1:1-11
Jesus' Ascension In Acts
For Luke, the ascension is the great dividing-line between the two parts of his story, the gospel of Luke and the book of Acts. For most modern people, Christ's resurrection is the watershed event, the continental divide, as it were -- and the ascension is a minor footnote. Yet, for the Lukan church, the ascension is of far greater importance. Verses 1-5 contain the dedication of the book, and a brief summary of Jesus' resurrection appearances. While Luke describes only two of these episodes in his gospel, there were evidently quite a number of them spread over forty days (v. 3). Jesus commands the disciples to remain in Jerusalem, to receive "the promise of the Father [and to] be baptized with the Holy Spirit" (v. 4). As they gather for the last time, the disciples ask Jesus, "Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?" (v. 6). They still don't get it. Jesus is not going to bring something in; he is going to depart from them, after which they "will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon [them]" (verses 7-8). Suddenly, Jesus is lifted up and vanishes into a cloud -- reminiscent of the cloud of God's glory, the shekinah, of the Hebrew scriptures. We have previously seen this bright cloud at Jesus' transfiguration (v. 9). Then, in an almost comical episode, two angels show up -- almost as though they were janitors, pushing brooms, cleaning up after the big event -- and ask: "Why do you stand looking up toward heaven? He's gone -- but he will come back in the same way, in his own time. Move along!" (v. 11).
New Testament Lesson
Ephesians 1:15-23
"Above All Rule And Authority And Power And Dominion"
Now that the opening pleasantries of this letter are over, the author gets down to business: sharing with the people what he's been praying for. He gives thanks for the Christians of Ephesus (v. 16). He prays that God may give them "a spirit of wisdom and revelation" (v. 17). This spirit will show them the source of their hope: "the riches of [Christ's] glorious inheritance among the saints," and "the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe" (verses 18-19). Verses 20-22 are a summation of the power God has demonstrated in Christ through his resurrection and ascension. The accent, here, is on Christ glorified: "seated... at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion" (v. 20). This vision of celestial glory, while hard to comprehend, is a source of hope for these persecuted, first-century Christians. All "rule and authority and power and dominion" -- even that of mighty Rome -- is now subservient to the ascended Christ.
The Gospel
Luke 24:44-53
Jesus' Ascension In Luke
Luke actually gives us two versions of Jesus' ascension. The first one, the version found in Acts, is better known (see above). The description of the ascension itself, in Luke, is very brief -- although today's lectionary selection backs up to include some earlier, parting instructions from Jesus to his disciples. In the latter part of this -- the second of two resurrection appearances Luke describes -- Jesus "opens their minds to understand the scriptures," as he did with Cleopas and his companion on the road to Emmaus (v. 45; see also verse 27). After explaining the meaning of his resurrection, he reveals that there is more good news to come: "repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem" (v. 47). And who is going to do the proclaiming? None other than these same disciples who will be "witnesses of these things" (v. 48). He commands them to stay in the city until they "have been clothed with power from on high" (v. 49). After this, the account of Jesus' ascension is rather matter-of-fact. He "blesses" them, "withdraws" from them, and is "carried up into heaven" (v. 51). The passive voice, here, is significant. As with the resurrection -- when Jesus "is raised," rather than "rises" -- here, too, it is God who is the principal actor. They "worship him," then joyfully return to the city, where they remain "continually in the temple blessing God" (v. 53). The gospel of Luke begins and ends in the temple, and in both instances there is hope and expectation that something remarkable is about to happen. In the first case, it was the promise to Zechariah of the birth of John the Baptist. Now, it is the promise of Pentecost.
Preaching Possibilities
"Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?" We've heard of "Men in Black"; it's the "men in white" who say that -- two angels, who address the disciples, there on Mount Olivet. Those disciples have just bade farewell to their beloved Jesus, the risen Lord: "as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight."
Now that, as they say in summer camp, is something to write home about! It's hard to imagine a sight more remarkable unless it's that vision of Jesus emerging from the tomb; or, standing with Moses and Elijah, clad in dazzling white, on the Mount of Transfiguration; or, knee-deep in the Jordan River with the sky cracked wide open and that great booming voice announcing, "This is my beloved Son...."
The truth is, the gospel of Luke is chock-full of dazzling revelations, brimming over with radiant epiphanies. We can speak of "the gospel of Luke," even though today's text comes from Acts because the book of Acts is volume two of Luke's gospel. Two books, by the same author -- in Hollywood lingo, a "prequel" and a "sequel." Acts takes over, after a brief introduction, right where Luke leaves off: with a cliffhanger ending. The cliffhanger is Jesus' ascension into heaven.
Luke inserts into his story, at intervals, certain revelatory events. If he were building a railroad train, these radiant miracles would be the couplings between the cars. These events display Jesus in all his glory for those who have eyes to see.
At Jesus' birth, legions of angels sing "Glory!" At his baptism, there's that resonant voice booming down from the heavens. At the height of his ministry, there's the Transfiguration; and, just after the lowest point, comes the Resurrection.
Now there's this. The Ascension just could be the most remarkable sign of all. And what do the disciples do? They stand there, rubbernecking. The boundary line between life and death has grown thin. It's just too fascinating.
The men in white come along waving their arms like state troopers breaking up a traffic jam: "Move along... move along... move along."
The vision of the Ascension is fascinating, but it's also troubling for us moderns. We no longer believe heaven is "up there," as the ancients did. We don't go in for that three-tiered universe stuff: the multi-story structure of underworld and earth and heaven. When astronauts go rocketing up through the stratosphere, they no longer come back saying, as one early cosmonaut did, "I didn't see God!"
When it comes to space travel, the concept of "up" loses all meaning. Because the earth is round, blasting off from its surface is more like going "out" than "up." If heaven is "up," is it located over the North Pole, or the South Pole? (If it's "up" from anyplace else, you'd have to ask what time of day it is before taking off in your rocket ship, because the earth spins on its axis.) It's easy to see that taking the biblical account of the Ascension literally presents certain problems. In order to maintain a literalist outlook, you just might have to join the Flat-Earth Society and deny there's any such thing as outer space.
The truth is, we don't know what happened, exactly, there on Mount Olivet. The eyewitnesses describe it the best way they could, using the scientific knowledge at their disposal. Maybe they were thinking of that story from 2 Kings 2:11 of Elijah, rising up into the heavens in a chariot of fire. Some things are better left to the poetic imagination.
There's a persistent message resonating out from this story -- a refrain still ringing in our ears, as we pick our way down the winding trail from the summit. Maybe it's the real message of the Ascension. It's the message of the men in white: "Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?"
Why, indeed? Why do you and I stand looking up toward heaven when there's work to be done on this earth? Oh, a little glimpse of heavenly glory is all right, from time to time -- no one would fault us for that -- but if we spend our entire lives hunting ecstatic experiences, rooting around among churches and cathedrals and holy places like some desperate junkie scrabbling for the perfect high, then (the men in white are saying) we're failing our calling as disciples.
The time comes when worship isn't what we're called to do, when praying and pondering about the faith must be set aside. The time comes when God calls us to get to work: pick ourselves up, discover our talents, and respond to the call of Christ.
Those disciples who just stood there, frozen like deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle, misunderstood what was really happening in the Ascension. They thought this miraculous event marked the end. They thought Jesus, who had been crucified and raised from the dead, was now departing from them for good.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Jesus was going to heaven to be sure, but he was going there not merely to dwell, but to reign. The Ascension is not the end; rather, it is the beginning of a new, universal order. "He ascended into heaven," says the creed, "and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty. From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead."
Heaven, in the Christian way of looking at things, is not some insubstantial place, impossibly far-removed from the joys and struggles of everyday life. Heaven is not some vague reward, waiting for the faithful in a distant afterlife. No, in the Christian view, heaven is the seat of ultimate power in this life, in the here and now. It is the place where the present and future of this world is shaped and guided.
It's as Paul says in Romans 8:34, writing to Christians under persecution, who know all too well what the word "condemn" means: "Who is to condemn? It is Christ Jesus who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us."
Because Jesus is ascended, the power of the Roman Emperor is no longer ultimate power. Because Jesus is ascended, there is hope for tomorrow. Because Jesus is ascended, those believers who languish in ghettos, refugee camps, or homes where domestic violence is the dark, terrible secret -- find power for living and to look for justice.
The letter to the Ephesians puts it clearly. God "has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all" (Ephesians 1:22).
Together, we are the body of Christ, his continuing presence in the world. As we gather, week by week, in worship, hearing the scriptures and praying the prayers, he is here. As we sit down to eat, at a communion table open to all, witnessing to his radical inclusiveness, he is here. As we gather to wash new members in baptism, gently welcoming them into the fold, he is here. As we discover the courage, in our own lives, to go out into whatever godforsaken place we may be sent, to do what he would have us do, he is here.
Quietly now... if you listen, you may hear it. Over the din of police whistles and the fire sirens... over the roar of fighter bombers and the whine of missiles... over the anguished cries of parents of murdered children... over the despairing moans of the dying and the desolate, you can begin to make it out. "The kingdoms of this world have become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ. And he shall reign forever and ever. Hallelujah! Amen."
Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?
Prayer For The Day
Lord Jesus Christ,
when we think of your life,
our eyes are drawn upward.
When we think of your death on our behalf,
our eyes are drawn upward.
When we think of your glorious resurrection,
our eyes are drawn upward.
Yet, when you think of us,
your eyes are drawn to those on our left and on our right:
our neighbors,
the ones you call us to love.
Teach us to stand no longer gazing into the heavens,
but rather to roll up our sleeves:
so we may be about the important business,
your holy call,
to love one another. Amen.
To Illustrate
It's a scene you'll see on many an interstate-highway journey. There you are, breezing down the road at 65. Suddenly you see red brake-lights up ahead. A lot of red brake-lights. You brake, too. It's a traffic jam. Everything has come to a dead stop. The interstate highway, marvel of modern engineering, has become a humble parking lot.
After a time -- if you're lucky, not too long a time -- the traffic slowly begins to move. You creep forward, idly watching the on-again, off-again brake lights in front of you. Finally you round a bend, and you see something up ahead -- an explanation, maybe, for the long delay. Flashing red lights. Lots of them.
The traffic inches forward, more slowly than ever. You lean out your window, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it is that's caused the back-up.
Then you see it: a crumpled car or two, strewn at odd angles by the side of the road... an ambulance with its doors open... paramedics grimly loading a stretcher into the back. It's a person -- alive or dead, who's to say?
Then you see the state trooper, arm waving like a windmill. You don't need to hear her voice to know what she's saying: "Move along... move along... move along."
"Move along" you do -- and in an instant of time, the traffic jam is no more. You floor the accelerator, and you're on your way, again, to your destination.
You're on your way again, except for your thoughts, which leapt out of your car back at the accident-scene and are still roaming around someplace, back there. Your thoughts are hovering in the air, floating over that poor unfortunate, lying face-up on the stretcher: alive or dead, who's to say?
It's a lamentable fact of modern life: the auto accident. If you're driving on an interstate on a busy holiday weekend, chances are you'll see at least one, maybe more. Chances are, as well, you'll witness a human behavior that's the bane of the highway patrol, and the cause of more tie-ups than the accident itself: the behavior called "rubbernecking."
That's what they call the people who lean out the car window, eager to witness some damage. There is something darkly fascinating about that terrible scene: the crumpled metal... the sparkling particles of windshield strewn like fallen stars across the asphalt... the dark puddle that's probably motor oil (but could be something else).
What's so fascinating about an accident? Not the accident itself, so much. It's something else. It's the sudden realization -- in the midst of a long and tedious journey -- that the boundary between life and death is not so far away as we may think. It's not the high, un-scalable wall we imagined it to be. Suddenly, regarding the flashing ambulance lights and the sputtering emergency flares, we remember our mortality. And the thought arises from deep within, unbidden: "There, but for the grace of God, go I..."
Jesus' ascension, too, draws our attention to the boundary between life and death, between this life and the next.
***
Back in the days of the American West, there used to be three classes of tickets on the old stagecoaches. The ride was equally bumpy and dusty, no matter which ticket you held. The real value of the ticket emerged when the stagecoach got stuck.
If you held a first-class ticket, it was your privilege to remain in the coach while the crew labored to push it out of the ditch. If you held a second-class ticket, you were expected to step down from the coach and stand off to the side. If it was a third-class ticket you held in your hand, you had to get out, roll up your sleeves and push.
Except for those who are young, disabled, or needing the community's special care, there aren't any tickets in the church except third-class tickets. Everyone is expected to work, to use their talents to advance the mission of Jesus Christ. There's no standing around, looking up toward heaven.
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Not long after Mother Teresa started the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta, India, she opened a medical clinic right next to a Hindu temple.
The Hindus objected. It was a sacrilege, they declared, to have an order of Christian sisters living next door to their temple. They insisted that their leader get rid of them. He agreed. One day he went to pay a call on this Albanian nun and her sisters.
Mother Teresa received him warmly. She asked him to follow her on her rounds as she bathed, fed, and nursed the dying. "After visiting her clinic," the Hindu leader recalled, years later, "and watching her care for the poor, I went back to my congregation and said: 'When you will go to the clinic and do for the poor what Mother Teresa is doing, then I will get rid of her.' "
The clinic is still open to this day. Mother Teresa was never one for standing around looking up into the sky.
