You can’t blame kids for staring up at the sky the first time they ever see fireworks.
And in Acts 1:11, the disciples watched, spellbound, as Jesus ascended into heaven and sat down on the right hand of God. They knew the biblical narrative of Elijah ascending into heaven while Elisha watched. But now they are watching one far greater than Elijah who has accomplished much more than that Old Testament prophet who now enters heaven to “sit down on the right hand of God” (Mk. 16:19).
For an undetermined amount of time they stood there, looking upward, bewildered by what they had seen. But eventually angels ask them, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking into heaven?”
The question is not, “Why did you look?” Anyone would have looked. The question is, “Why are you still standing there?”
There comes a point when wonder must give way to obedience.
Jesus had already given them their assignment: “You will be my witnesses” (Acts 1:8). His departure did not cancel that command, and the promise of His return did not replace it. In fact, His return should have given urgency to it. They knew where Jesus had gone. They knew He would come again. Now they needed to do what He had told them to do in the meantime.
Imagine an employer who leaves the office, telling his employees, “Here is what I want accomplished. I will return later.” One employee spends the entire day staring out the window wondering when the boss will come back. Another gets busy doing exactly what the boss instructed. Which one really believes the boss is returning? The one who went to work.
The promise of Christ’s return was never intended to create spectators. It was meant to create servants.
From the Father’s standpoint, the mission of the church has now unfolded across roughly two thousand years. God is not hurried. His purpose stretches across generations and centuries.
But you don’t have two thousand years.
You have one lifetime.
And even that statement is generous, because you don’t have your entire lifetime ahead of you. You have whatever remains of it.
Think of a relay race. No runner is expected to carry the baton around the entire track. Someone carried it before you, and someone may carry it after you. Your responsibility is simply to run your portion faithfully and not drop that baton.
Generation after generation has carried the gospel message forward until, astonishingly, it reached us. Now we are not responsible for the entire race. We are responsible for our lap.
That does not mean every day must be spectacular. Much of Christian faithfulness consists of ordinary things like praying, teaching, encouraging, serving, forgiving, opening your home, speaking about Christ, caring for another believer, or simply showing up when it would be easier not to.
The kingdom of God often advances through accumulated ordinary obedience. That’s a consolation to an ordinary guy like me whose ministry, comparatively speaking, is a string of unremarkable works. And yet in between Christ’s leaving and His returning lies something immensely valuable to all of us: our entire lives, or, whatever remains of it.
At the risk of sounding indelicate, there’s no time to waste. God has given us a great purpose, and He has given each of us a small piece of time in which to participate in it.
I was 21 when someone handed me a baton. I’m 64 now, and in the slow process of handing it off. Forty-three years of active Christian living sounds considerable until you do a little more math. Subtract my wasted days, seasons of backsliding, religious distractions, excuses, passivity, and crippling uncertainties. What’s left isn’t that great, so I’ll be leaning into grace. Grace for forgiveness, and grace for obedience.
God has a long plan, but you have a short life. Run your part well.
