(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on May 8, 2016, Ascension Sunday)
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“Clothed with Power”
“Until you have been clothed with power…” (24:49). As I read these words on Mother’s Day, I can think of only one thing. When I was little, I loved to imagine myself as a superhero. From time to time, my mom would indulge my imagination. She would draw emblems of superheroes so that I could pin them on my clothes. And just like that, I would be clothed with power. Bearing the badges of Flash and Superman and Batman, I would be clothed with super-speed or supreme strength, or fitted with whatever expensive technological gadgets would ensure victory.
Now it’s safe to say, I think, that Jesus had something different in mind when he promised his followers that they would be “clothed with power.” He was not envisioning the transformation of his disciples into a bunch of superheroes. The Holy Spirit does not transform us the way that a radioactive spider transformed Spiderman. But if not that way, then how?
Or perhaps we should begin with an even simpler question. Did Christ make good on his promise? Were his followers “clothed with power” at all? The short answer is, yes. As a matter of fact, that’s what we celebrate next Sunday: Pentecost. This Sunday, we remember the ascension of Christ, when he spoke his last words—no ordinary words like, “See you later,” or, “Until next time,” or “That’s all folks,” but rather unforgettable words of promise. On Pentecost, we celebrate the apparent fulfillment of that promise, when the Holy Spirit swirled around like a violent wind and descended on the followers of Christ (cf. Acts 2:2).
But perhaps you caught my ambivalence just a moment before. Jesus promised his followers that they would be “clothed with power,” and the short answer is that, yes, they were. But there’s a long answer, too, as long as the time from then until now. And that long answer has everything to do with one word: power.
“If Power Were a Person, You Could Bet He’d Be Christian”
From the moment of its birth, the church has played a dangerous game with power. For a few centuries, it was on the underside of power, a minority religion that faced discrimination and even persecution from the powers-that-be. But everything changed with the conversion of the Roman emperor Constantine. Christianity soon became the official religion of the Roman Empire. And it hasn’t looked back since. From the time of Constantine, Christianity has predominantly allied itself with the powers-that-be. If power were a person, you could bet that he’d be a Christian.[1] From pop idols who casually sport crosses on their skin and around their necks, to presidents who recite scripture and go to great pains to demonstrate their faith, to businessmen who broker high-money deals through the moral leverage of church leaders—one could argue that the church has become not the bride of Christ but the bride of power.
But why, one might ask, is a marriage between church and power such a bad thing? Isn’t that what Jesus promised? That his followers would be clothed with power? In our world, the clothing of power looks like a costly business suit, or a military uniform, or perhaps the glitz and glamour of a pop icon. If Jesus promised that his followers would be clothed in power, is it any wonder that we commonly see Christianity putting on this sort of dress?
Power or Possibility?
But is this really what Jesus promised? That his followers would usher in the kingdom of God through the sword, the coin of Caesar, and pop culture fame? Aren’t these the sorts of temptations that Jesus resists in the wilderness?[2] Isn’t this idea of being “clothed with power” just as crazy as the idea of us running around with superhero powers?
If your own suspicions have been raised at this point, then you would be most curious to learn that, in the Greek, Christ promises his followers they will be clothed with dunamis—which is a word with two different meanings: power and possibility.[3] It is clear how the word has traditionally been understood. People tend to hear what they want to hear, and what the world wants to hear is the promise of a power that builds us up and gratifies our desires. What the world desires is a power of the hand, a power that can accomplish what it wants through muscle or money or image.
But let’s listen anew to this promise. What if Christ is promising that his followers will be clothed with possibility? Possibility is very different from the power of the hand. The power of the hand severely limits possibility. Imagine a person clothed with the power of a military uniform. Such an outfit, such a power, knows only two possibilities: fight or surrender, win or lose, overcome or be overcome. Possibility is not the power of the hand, but the power of the heart. It is not the power of domination but the power of transformation. It is the kind of power that opens doors rather than closes them, that surprises rather than finalizes. Possibility is not the power of what exists but rather of what insists. It is not the power of being but of becoming. Possibility is the power of dreams and memories, of promises and invitations.
The Clothes of Possibility
I think back again to my four-year-old self, running around with a superhero’s emblem plastered on my chest. Was it really power that I had been clothed with? Or was it possibility? Wearing those emblems transformed my world. They opened my eyes not to what was but to what could be. Reality gave way to dreams. Suddenly sofas became forts, slides became paths of flight, trees became buildings begging to be scaled. With those emblems, my mom clothed me not with power but with possibility.
Of course, I think the clothes of possibility that Christ promises look a little different than a superhero’s outfit. After all, superheroes operate according to the power of the hand rather than the power of the heart. So what, then, might these clothes of possibility actually look like?
Only moments earlier in today’s scripture, Jesus urges his followers to proclaim “repentance and forgiveness of sins…to all nations.” What are “repentance and forgiveness of sins” if not the clothes of possibility, the power of the heart? “Repentance” and “forgiveness” are church words, and sometimes we forget that they have very earthy, very immediate meanings. If we were to translate literally from the Greek, “repentance” means simply a change of heart and “forgiveness” means letting go. These are the things of real power, the things of the heart, the things that open the door of possibility.
Our AA sisters and brothers next door would attest to this. For them, repentance—a change of heart—truly opens the door to a new life. And anyone among us who enjoys a meaningful friendship must surely have learned the power of forgiveness—of letting go, of clearing the accounts. How else would we step beyond the inevitable hurt of spiteful words or betrayal, if not for second chances?
Power or Possibility? (Part II)
But what if Jesus was promising something radically different? What if he was promising the clothes of possibility? What if he was promising the clothes of repentance and forgiveness, which are a powerless power, a power unlike any the world knows. Not a power that puts bodies into the ground, but a power that raises them up. Not a power that strips some people of what little they have, but a power that dresses them with dignity. Not a power of privilege, but a power of blessing.
The power of repentance and forgiveness is a power that does not close down possibilities but opens them up, a power not of what is but of what could be, a power not of the high and mighty but a power of what might be, if only we would relinquish our hearts to a change of heart, if only we would let go of the wrongs of others. The powerless power of possibility is the power of a mustard seed, a small pearl, a single lost coin, an infant, the “least of these.”
The Possibility of the Kingdom
When my mother put a superhero’s emblem on my chest, she was performing a miracle of sorts. A small miracle. For suddenly my ordinary surroundings became transformed. Suddenly I could do what before was impossible. When God clothes us with repentance and forgiveness, with the clothes of possibility, it is a similar miracle, but much bigger. For suddenly the kingdom of God, which is but a dream, an invitation, a whisper in the wind—suddenly it is a real possibility; suddenly the door is open for us to step into it. This, Jesus says, is what was written from the very beginning (24:44), and this, Jesus says, is what now stands right in front of us, if we would only put on these clothes—not just in front of our good friends or our neighbors, but in front of all the nations (24:46-49).
Prayer
God of changing hearts,
Lord of letting go,
Strip us of the power we seek,
And clothe us with possibility;
May your Spirit of repentance and forgiveness
Cover us before our neighbors and before all the nations,
May it shape us in the way of the cross,
Until everything is reconciled in your love. Amen.
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[1] You could also bet that he would be a “he.”
[2] Luke 4:1-13; the temptation to turn the stone into bread mirrors the temptation to trust in money, which promises material satisfaction; the temptation to rule over the kingdoms of the world mirrors the temptation to trust in power, which promises security and the accomplishment of personal desires; the temptation to have angels catch him mirrors the temptation to popularity, which promises status and personal influence. All three temptations point to the power of the hand, a power of domination rather than of transformation, a power that finalizes life rather than opens the door to new life.
[3] For a thoughtful exploration of the word dunamis and its different meanings, see Richard Kearney, “The Kingdom: Possible and Impossible,” ebook loc. 2677-3188 in Cross and Khôra: Deconstruction and Christianity in the Work of John D. Caputo (eds. Marko Zlomislić and Neal DeRoo; Postmodern Ethics 1; Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2010).
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