Sam Gutierrez

“What goes up must come down” is a catchy little phrase that describes gravity, a fundamental law of nature. However, when it comes to spiritual matters, the exact opposite is true: what comes down must go up!  Jesus came down from heaven and took on flesh. He lived, died, and rose again from the dead. Forty days later he ascended into heaven from the Mount of Olives while his disciples watched him disappear into the clouds. Two angels appeared to the gathered group and asked, “Why do you stand here looking into the sky? . . . [Jesus] has been taken from you into heaven” (Acts 1:11). In other words, what comes down must go up. The one true map marking the path forward is the life of Jesus. If it’s true for Jesus, it’s true for those who follow him. Jesus humbled himself and took on human flesh. He also ascended. Jesus taught his disciples in Matthew 23:12, “For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” This passage also captures this strange spiritual law—what comes down must (or will) go up. If we humble ourselves and bow our knees to Jesus, we’ll ascend too. We’ll rise in the air to meet the Lord Jesus when he comes again in his glory. While we wait for that day, we practice ascension now when we celebrate communion. Our communion liturgy puts these words before us: “Lift up your hearts. We lift them up to the Lord.” The refrain we say together is more than just a heartfelt expression. It is an acknowledgement that in order to eat and drink the body of Christ, we have to ascend. The Spirit of God will have to lift us up into the heavenly throne room where Christ, in the body, reigns in glory. Seminary professor Thomas Boogaart describes this reality in his book Heaven Came Down: Biblical Stories of Spiritual Influences (Grand Rapids, MI: Reformed Church Press, 1998) when he says: In the Reformed Tradition, communion is ascension. Although very few people realize it, the communion liturgy lifts us up step by step up Jacob’s ladder into the presence of God where Jesus sits on the right hand and the angels and the saints all have their places around the banqueting table. . . . Once having passed through the gate of heaven . . . we add our voices to theirs in singing the song of heaven: Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord of hosts! . . . Having praised the Lord of hosts, we begin the banquet. Jesus is both host and meal. His body and blood are made available to us. During the communion service his Spirit raises us up to heaven, which is the only place where Jesus’ body is available. Many Christian churches around the world acknowledge and celebrate the ascension of Jesus in worship. Jesus had to ascend so that he could take his rightful place at the right hand of God as the exalted King of heaven and earth. From there, he will send the promised Spirit to empower the church to be his hands and feet in the world. As the church does its reconciling work in the world, the Spirit lifts the church into the throne room to be nurtured by the body and blood of Jesus. We eagerly await the gift of the Spirit on Pentecost, but first Jesus has to ascend. And as Jesus ascended, we will too: what comes down must go up! Christopher Wordsworth (1807–85) perhaps says it better in his hymn “See, the Conqueror Mounts in Triumph.” He captures the essence of Jesus’ ascension (and ours too!) when he writes: You have raised our human nature on the clouds to God’s right hand; there we sit in heavenly places, there with you in glory stand. Jesus reigns, adored by angels, man with God is on the throne! Mighty Lord, in your ascension we by faith can see our own. —Christopher Wordsworth, 1862, alt.

Some time ago, I was on a hike with a group of friends. Eventually we reached the peak, and after a short time of taking in the view, we turned and started back down the mountain. On the way down, I was having trouble with my knee and began to lag behind the group. Everything was going fine until about halfway down. All alone, with the rest of the group no longer in sight, I came to a fork in the trail. Without much to go on, I said a prayer, chose a path, and started following it down the mountain. It wasn’t long before the path I had chosen became obscure. With the sun starting to set, it was too late to turn around, so I forged on. As the path further disintegrated, a sense of panic began to set in. I started climbing over fallen logs and jagged rocks with no clear sense of direction. I was lost. After forty-five minutes, I had stumbled my way down through the thick forest to a deserted road. Still disoriented, I followed the road for a while and eventually found the parking lot where my friends were waiting for me with looks of concern and relief. Too often in life, we get lost. Sometimes we get lost because of a sudden circumstance beyond our control. It’s as if we get pushed into a wilderness. Sometimes we make a decision to go one way instead of another at a fork in the road. But sometimes we get lost in a more subtle way. Rather than with a sudden circumstance or a bad decision, we get lost by putting one foot in front of the other, day after day. We get lost in routine and stop paying attention to the important and the essential. Getting lost in this way is like a slow drift from the shore: we don’t notice right away, but after a while we look around and feel unsure of where we are and how we got there. By circumstance, decision, or neglecting the essentials, human beings tend to get lost. But all this talk about “lostness” presupposes something. It assumes a center, a place of belonging and purpose, a place to wander from and come back to. Jesus said to his disciples in John 14:1–4, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.” At the center of the universe, there is a home. God’s home is big, with enough room for everyone. On Ascension Sunday, we celebrate Jesus rising to heaven to sit on the throne at the right hand of God. But that throne isn’t on an asteroid floating through space somewhere. The throne sits in a grand room in a very grand house. Jesus goes there to sit on the throne but also to take up one of his favorite passions: interior decorating. Jesus ascends to prepare a place for us. To prepare a room is to get it ready with fresh sheets, fluffed-up pillows, chocolate mints on the nightstand, and a handwritten note of welcome with some instructions about how to connect to the Wi-Fi. But it’s even more than a nice hotel room. It’s all that, but with a personalized touch—a room just for you. Ascension Sunday is about Jesus returning to sit on the throne as the exalted king. He came down, took on human flesh, lived, died and rose again. He ends up where he started: on the throne. But now he bears the marks of his human journey with him; now he is a wounded king. He goes to get our rooms ready to welcome his wounded children finding their place of belonging in the house of God. But we get lost. It happens in lots of ways, and it happens over and over again. In our lostness, we get wounded, and we often wound those who care about and love us the most. At the center of the universe, there is a home. Our truest destiny is not to wander around with a sense of dread in an unfamiliar forest. The call of Jesus is to follow him as he leads us through the darkest valleys of life, past our enemies as he feeds us at his table of grace, anoints our heads with oil, prepares a room for us, and leads us home, wounds and all. GOD LIVES God lives in a holy house with silver mounted high. The throne is draped with flowing cloth soaked rich in purple dye. The walls are adorned with onyx, fine turquoise frames the view, the floor is made of marble, the kitchen shines like new. Bronze will greet you at the entrance, while ceilings stately soar. Halls are guarded by cedar beams and metal holds the door. God lives in a humble home with flowers on the sill. T here’s a worn and beloved chair where stories from mouths spill. Family photos in the hallway, lace curtains frame the view, cookies in the cupboard and the walls are painted blue. Lavender kindly waves while your heart starts to sing. A wooden sign says “Welcome, friend”; porch light is beckoning. — Sam Gutierrez, based on 1 Chronicles 22:14 / Psalm 84:3