The image of revved engines sets the room to move from warmup to an immense time of worship, but Scripture itself sets the pace. John shows Jesus in the garden with Mary Magdalene, speaking a word that surprises her grasping love: “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.” Jesus sends her with a message that shifts the center of gravity of faith from grasping to going, from clutching the old form of his presence to sharing in his new nearness with the Father, “my Father and your Father, my God and your God.” The ascension, then, does not signal absence. It announces that something is happening, something about Jesus’ relation to the Father that will change the disciples’ relation to God.
Luke pictures the moment with simple strangeness. Jesus blesses them, and as he blesses he is carried into heaven. It looks like a scene from a sci-fi film, but the New Testament treats it as a key movement in the story of God. To feel its weight, the church must reckon with what is unique in Christian speech about God. When Christians say God, they name Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This is not a puzzle to be solved with clever props. The water analogy and the boiled egg may make a point, but nobody worships an egg. Words run thin. Minds are finite. Relationships are fractured. So the early church reached for a word that gestures more than it defines, something like a circle dance, to hint at the living communion of Father, Son, and Spirit.
C. S. Lewis presses the same nerve. God is not a static thing, not even simply a person, but a dynamic, pulsating activity, a life, a drama, almost a dance. That kind of language does not flatten mystery. It invites participation. Isadora Duncan once said of a performance, “If I could explain it, I wouldn’t dance it.” The ascension moves the Son, in his resurrected humanity, into the heart of the Father’s glory, and it moves the church out of clutching into blessing, out of bare explanation into adoration. John’s garden and Luke’s hillside together call the church to set hearts on King Jesus and step into the rhythm of Father, Son, and Spirit. Not to master the mystery, but to be mastered by it. Not to hold him fast, but to be held inside his blessing.
Key Takeaways
- 1. The ascension reorders attachment and access The garden scene shifts love from clinging to commissioning. Jesus names the Father as his and theirs, signaling that his going up opens a new kind of nearness. The disciple’s life becomes less about holding on and more about being sent in the security of adoption. The change is intimate and missionary at once. [21:33]
- 2. God is Father, Son, and Spirit Christian speech about God is not generic monotheism. It is the confession that the one God eternally lives as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This naming does not domesticate mystery, it protects it, keeping the church from shrinking God to something manageable. The ascension situates Jesus within that eternal communion. [23:41]
- 3. Clever analogies can shrink adoration Water phases and boiled eggs might score teaching points, but they do not kindle worship. When images make God simpler than God is, the soul grows dull. Better to let imperfect words point and then fall silent, letting wonder widen the heart. Mystery is not a problem to fix but a place to bow. [25:44]
- 4. The Trinity moves as a dance The early church’s circle-dance image and Lewis’s “dynamic pulsating activity” both reach past diagrams to doxology. The triune life is motion, mutual indwelling, and joy, and the ascension draws humanity into that current in the Son. The church best knows this not by overexplaining, but by entering it in worship. Explanation yields to participation. [27:31]
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