May 9, Ascension (Luke 24:44–53)

I’m not new here. I know full well that preachers and writers are never supposed to cast themselves in the role of Jesus. It’s the most off-putting mistake an interpreter of the gospel can make. Still, I am going to break the rules to admit that lately, when I read Luke’s account of the ascension, I can’t help but relate to the Son of God. Not in the manner of a messiah complex; thankfully I’m not that far gone. I just resonate with Jesus’ urgency to cover all the bases in his final communications to his followers before bouncing off to the wild blue yonder.

My poetry professor used to say that unlike in prose, where superfluous words can stow away unnoticed, in a poem every word matters. Every noun must be relevant, every adjective justified. (No adverbs allowed.) Suddenly my preaching is subject to similar exigencies. I know precisely how to number my days in this particular pulpit. I’m not about to be carried up to heaven, but as I write this I am just two sermons away from relocating to Wisconsin. I’ve served the same suburban Chicago congregation for nearly 14 years, and with the announcement of my new call we’ve been thrust into a painful countdown to when I will no longer be one of their pastors.

Jesus had three years with his disciples to teach them everything he knew, and he still launches into a colossal synopsis of the nature and purpose of his life, death, and resurrection in his final moments on earth. It’s a last lecture with footnotes, as he cross-references his curriculum vitae with scripture. The law, prophets, and psalms coalesce on his resurrected tongue. He admits that it is a rerun; these are words he has already spoken. But he can’t resist the impulse to remind them of what they are already supposed to know. As the tide of teaching recedes, he begins blessing them. The wordy Word made flesh (to borrow a Johannine superlative) is still speaking words of benediction when he makes his final ascent.