The Pentecost Diaries: Uprising… 

After the shock of Jesus' resurrection, the disciples begin to realise how His kingdom is growing - and what their future roles in it will be.

Chapter 3 of the Pentecost diaries, a collection of four creative and immersive pieces which chart the journey from Easter to Pentecost. by Jonathan Vaughan-Davies. 

 



Read below, and listen to a recording of the story here: 
 

A Deep Sleep…
 
Last night, I dreamt again of home…
 
Down on the eastern side of Emmaus, where the sloping hills face the warm glow of the morning sun, is a small farm holding that has belonged to Father’s family as far back as anyone’s memory extends.
 
Mile after mile of sheaves of grain huddling together and swaying gently like golden waves rising and breaking on Emmaus’ hillside. As a child, I used to love to race through the wheatfields, swallowed up by the height of its grain and often followed by my sweet little sister chasing me in fast pursuit.
 
More often than not Father would just be lost out there somewhere: constantly checking the grain for pests or clearing the ground in neighbouring fields he was resting for the next seedtime. For him, this simple way of life was a happy one. He had grown up right here on the land and the thought of leaving this place never seems to have entered his head.
 
At the back of the house is our family dinner table, and above it was a large window overlooking his allocated piece of Eden. “Can’t you take your eyes off her for a second?” mum would ask as once again his precious little kingdom had attracted his gaze; stealing his attention from whatever she had been saying. “I feel like I’ve got competition around here!”
 
His investment in the place ran as deep as the roots beneath our feet, the work was in his very blood. As his aging eyes lovingly surveyed the land, he seemed to be instinctively drawn to exactly where needed tending next. For me it was a playground, a safe haven, a world of my own – but for Father this was his corner of the very Garden of God, and caring for it was more worship than work for him.


 
Once a year, the wheatfield would return her thanks and unveil her true magic once more.
 
Every Spring the long green sheaves start to dry to a delicious golden colour, signalling that threshing season would soon return. Father would be out there, running his fingers through the grain, gently breaking off the seedhead in the process. He’d rub the grain out between his hands, then chew what remained to check its texture… once he was sure it was ripe to harvest, he would race into the granary and return with his father’s scythe. And then he’d disappear off into the fields, humming his happy little tune, grateful once again to his land and to his God.
 
The harvest seemed to bring Father to life too, the energy of his passion was just infectious. Growing up there you couldn’t fail to find your part to play in the harvest.
 
In the first days of threshing season, there was always one basket that was reserved for temple. Father would painstakingly go through our baskets looking for the choice grain and place them carefully into the Shavout basket.
 
“These are the first fruits of the grain harvest…” he would tell us, “And they belong not to us, but to God – to the God of the Harvest. Look! Look! He has been faithful to His people for another year – it is the LORD alone who brings forth bread from the earth!”
 
I asked him once why he was going through all our baskets: “Because my lad, first fruits are not just ‘first’ in terms of timing - but also in terms of testing. Only the very highest quality can be offered back to God!”
 
Father wasn’t one for getting involved with the men of the village who loudly debated theology in the streets or grumbled together around the fire against the Roman Occupation of our land. He wasn’t always quoting Torah at you and didn’t take much heed of the local group of Pharisees. But he always took great pride in Shavout: the Festival of First Fruits.
 
Every year without fail, we would load the Shavout baskets onto our cart and journey the Emmaus Way to offer the choice grain back to God at Temple. In my mind’s eye, I can still see my usually reserved Father queuing in line to lay his grain on the altar, tears of appreciation gently rolling down his cheeks. That look on his face was unmistakable – harvest was here, which meant his God had proven Himself faithful once again …once again worthy of his, and his land’s, absolute best…
 
The truth is that as I grew older, the place got into my blood too. Mum would often laugh at the two of us, both sat at the dinner table and looking outside over the fields… “It’ll all still be there after dinner!” she’d say, smiling at me, “You do know that nothing’s going to change in the time it takes you to eat up your broth?”
 
We’d laugh… but, just to be sure, once our bowls were empty, we’d back out there in the field. Me running my hands through the sheaves like I’d seen Father do a thousand times before, rubbing it through my hands and chewing the grain… “Is it ready Father?” I’d ask a million times, offering him my hand to sample it too. “Not… quite…” he’d reply, still chewing carefully, “It’s so close now my lad, but we’ve still got to wait a while longer.” And then, sensing my hurried young heart, he’d add, “Patience my boy, patience. Trust me – when the time does come, it’ll be worth all the waiting in the world!”
 

Galilee
 
Father’s face began to shake, slowly at first but then more and more violently. The wheatfields behind him began to spin, then fade to black. Another voice bellowed over Father's: “Up! Quick! Wake up!”
 
A hand rocking my shoulder transported me back in an instant to the Upper Room that had hidden us away safely these past two weeks. “Get up! We’re leaving….”
 
“Leaving?” I said, still readjusting to my eyes to the light of the day, and my head back to its familiar surroundings…
 
“Yes! There’s going to be some sort of… gathering…”
 
The voice belonged to Andrew, Peter’s younger brother. It seemed Andrew was, once again, running an errand for his big brother.
 
Andrew was excited, and I wasn’t surprised. Ever since we’d met, Andrew had longed to show me Galilee – where he’d grown up and had learnt his beloved fishing trade from his father…

In no time at all we were all up, out, and on the road – pacing ourselves for the day-long hike down Jerusalem’s hills and onto the old Jericho road that wound its way to Galilee. There were many of us now, we decided it best to divide our number into different groups so that no Roman guard would mistake us for a mob, or question our purpose.
 
As the day stretched out, the journey was a great chance to catch up with so many others… Didymus who had been missing the first time Jesus had appeared – but now here, a fully pledged witness of Jesus; James, and the rest of Jesus’ brothers who’d often tried to discourage Jesus from His “Kingdom movement” and return home with them – now walking along right here with us, sharing, talking, laughing, joking…

Over these past few weeks, Jesus would still visit us from time to time. Still surprise us by His sudden appearance among us! Still speaking the same Shalom, the serenity of God, over us – still speaking the promise of His Kingdom coming and of His Father’s heart for all.
 
 

The Shores of Galilee are surrounded by hills on almost every side, and though nobody had mentioned exactly where we would all gather, my best guess was that one of Galilee’s hillsides would house our number and hide our presence from those who still wished us harm.
 
Sure enough, as we ventured down through Market Street towards the shoreline, we could see the dotted line of our fellow pilgrims disappearing up around the back of one its hillsides, and just out of our view. My little group paused so as not to draw too much attention to the spot, but in short while that would be our path too.
 
I’d heard Andrew talk so many times about this very place, and I could see straight away why he loved it so much. The vast expanse of Galilee’s shoreline, the gentle lapping of the waves upon her sands. The smell of the market, fresh with fish and fruit and grain; alive with people, with noise, with life.
 
Being out of the Upper Room, and out amongst the crowds, I remembered Jesus’ face whenever He looked at a scene like this. It was His eyes where you saw it at first – those eyes that held a depth of longing; a loving look that seemed to reach out from His face. “Harvest time!” He said on one occasion, “It’s threshing season… that’s what you’re looking at here – forget the fear you’re feeling and focus on them! If you look closely enough you will see it… they are ripe to the harvest,” then turning to me, He added quietly, “but the workers are so few, if only people would find their part to play in my Father’s fields.”
 
Sat at the water’s edge was an old sorry-looking fishing boat, full of piles of dirty nets. It was anchored up to a nearby harbour post – and from the look of it was long abandoned there to aimlessly bob out. “Peter and Andrews?” Cleopas wondered out loud. “Could be!” I chimed back at him. They were fishing for bigger things now, for people who needed to know the truth that would set them free…
 
Standing here today was amazing, in the actual spot where Jesus had started it all. For me, the invitation still hung there somehow in the air: “Come on! Follow me!” And they had, and so had we, not really knowing at the time all that would mean and all we would see!
 
Cleopas nudged me, the evening would be drawing in soon, and he obviously felt it was as good a time as any to go and join our fellowship. We soon found their path, where someone had carved out the shape of a fish with the toe of their sandal in the road’s dust for us to see. Even here and now, Jesus was still inviting us to follow!
 
The path around the mountain to its hidden hillside was short, but steep. In mere moments we were able to look back down again on Galilee’s shores but the sound of our number gathered just around the corner was even more enticing than the view.
 
Nothing, however, could prepare me for the sight… there must have been hundreds of us, literally, hundreds! Andrew and Levi ran over to us. “You made it!” Andrew said excitedly, “You’re here!”
 
“We are…” said Cleopas, “along with the rest of the world it would seem… I don’t know how word got out, but there must be three or four hundred here…”
 
“There’s over 500!” said Levi, for though his heart had left his tax collecting booth far behind him, his mind still had its old habit of totalling up everything he laid eyes on – whether he wanted to or not.
 
My head was still scanning… trying to take it all in. “Did we even know there were this many of us?” I asked.
 
“No…” said Andrew, “But it seems like not even death was going slow Jesus down!”
 
“Yes, this is quite a gathering!” Cleopas said, his face beaming “He does appear to have been rather busy for a dead man!”
 
We moved among huge crowd, meeting old friends and new; sharing stories, sharing hopes and dreams. One family ran over to us, they had been there that day when Jesus had fed the multitudes with one child’s meagre lunch… and were excited to share the memory of that meal with us!
 
You just couldn’t deny what was happening as people shared what Jesus had done for them… the sheer glow on their faces, the buzz in the air, the thrill in the voices.
 
Amazing. Just amazing.
But it wasn’t over yet.
 
Sheer excitement and deep caution aren’t easy companions, and for all the wonder of being together someone’s anxious glances or hushed tones would serve to remind you that we were a large crowd in a public place who had gathered to celebrate a rather unpopular truth…
 
Which is why the sudden sound of shrieks were all the more shocking.
 
In an instant, hands covered mouths, parents protectively grabbed their children, and heads turned in all directions to see what had caused this reaction…
 
And they you saw Him.
 
A man standing just a little further up the mountain from all of us. The length of the plain that stretched up behind Him meant He couldn’t have journeyed down that far without having been seen – it was Jesus! He had just… appeared… again!
 
“Friends!” Jesus called out. He has sensed our fear but clearly didn’t share it, “Shalom!”
 
People gasped, hearts raced, children jumped up and down and then slipped out of their parents grip – running full speed towards Jesus. “Let them!” He said warmly. “Let them come! The truth is - if your hearts allowed you to see it as quickly as child’s does, you’d be running too!”  
 
The children threw their arms around Jesus, talking and laughing, gazing up in wonder, drinking in the reality. “Didn’t I tell you?” Jesus said, looking up at us all, “That where just two or three of you are gathered in my Name, I’d be right there in the middle of you? Well then…” He said surveying the size of the crowd, “You didn’t think I’d miss this did you?”
 
What Cleopas and I had experienced together in Emmaus, then with the Brothers in Jerusalem, was now multiplied beyond measure. And as I saw the same wonder being birthed in others, somehow that same joy would wash over me again and again in wave upon wave of love and peace.
 
Cleopas put his hand on my shoulder – we had held a deep longing for others to see what we had seen, to know what we now knew, and to feel what we now felt… and here it was happening right in front of us. His wet eyes didn’t move from where Jesus was walking through the crowd, hugging, talking, laughing, loving… “Quite a harvest…” He said to me, smiling.
 
“The harvest of burning hearts!”

 

 
 
Bethany
 
It would be a week or so later before we were gathered together again in numbers. Not hundreds like before… but enough to feel the sense of the growing momentum of Jesus’ movement.
 
One of Jesus’ favourite places was a town called Bethany… although the old place was losing that name in favour of its new nickname: Lazarus Town! The locals who’d witnessed Jesus calling out Lazarus out his tomb couldn’t think now of it any other way.
 
Lazarus’ sisters, Martha and Mary were deeply fond of Jesus, and He of them – and their home had been our basecamp on many a journey.
 
Today, however, we were up early, and heading the back way out from Bethany’s cosy hamlets. Our path taking us out into one of Jesus’ other favourite places: the mountains.


 
There was less danger here than in Galilee, and much less so than in Jerusalem, but even so the group began to spread out as we tackled the slope at different paces. At the front though, was Jesus – quickly joined by Lazarus. Seeing them walking together out in front of the crowd, it did something to you. Death was no longer the great unescapable unknown we had feared it was – something new, something powerful was leading the way… and we were part of it!
 
Cleopas caught up with me. “So, do you think this is what it will be like now?” he asked me. “I don’t know,” I replied, “I certainly don’t want all this to end!”
 
As we got higher up the Mount of Olives, Jerusalem’s rooftops began to come into view – lower down on the near-by mount Zion. It was David’s city, but her high walls and gates were now draped in the colours and emblems of Rome… even from this distance, Ceasar’s insignia was still stamped in dominant defiance.
 
Cleopas pointed over at the Ancient City, with all its history and all its destiny.
“I mean, look, Rome’s been defeated right?” Cleopas said, looking at me, “they threw their worst at Jesus – and He didn’t just survive it, He conquered it!”
 
Then pointing at our number following him, he continued:
“And look at us – we wouldn’t leave the Upper Room without our robes up over our heads, and now – we’re out in the open… fearing no threat…”
 
The transformation was undeniable, but I couldn’t see when my friend was going with this.
“So… how much longer will it be?” He asked, taking both my hands in his, “He keeps talking about His kingdom fully coming in power… but He’s a little hazy as to when it will be…”
 
Up ahead, Jesus had stopped walking, and turned to face the same view Cleopas had been pointing at. From this height you could see beyond Jerusalem into the surrounding hills of Judea, the Samarian hills off in one direction, and away into the distance the sea that connected our shores to the rest of the world.
 
The group of us circled around Him, taking in the same view. Silence fell as the majesty of the panorama just arrested us. “As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people.” The landscape itself testified to it, the mountain seemed to boast it, and up here you could see it so clearly. This was God’s good earth, and it was so good.
 
A voice broke the moment.
 
“Lord,” Cleopas asked, turning to Jesus, “Isn’t it time? Time now for you to restore the Kingdom to your people?”
 
Jesus smiled, His face still looking out over creation. “The time will surely come, for my Father has decreed it by His own authority… it’s not a matter of if, but a matter of when…” Then turning towards us, He said, “but exactly when – that’s not for you to know…”
 
Then Jesus looked at looked up at the heavens, which today was filled with huge white clouds that made the light breaking through them somehow all the more stunning.
 
“But what I can promise you is this: you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you… and you’ll carry my story, my hope, my invitation into Jerusalem…”
 
We turned our faces towards the city once more, “and from there, into the whole Judean territory…”
 
Our eyes kept scanning as He continued: “…and all of Samaria too… and to the uttermost ends of the earth!”
 
My eyes were on the horizon. I’d only recently travelled as far as Samaria, and that with Jesus – but beyond that I’d never ventured past our shores, barely any of us had. Unknown places, peoples, languages, ideas, religions… to the ends of the earth… wow.
 
Now there’s a harvest.
 
Jesus always had always this way of expanding your vision, your thinking, your compassion, but this was something else… wow.
 
I don’t know if you’ve ever been excited and petrified at the same time; overwhelmed and yet humbled. I didn’t know how on earth the Holy Spirit was going to come to us, but if we were going to do this, I was hungry for this power Jesus promised that He would bring to us.
 
“Patience my boy, patience.” I told myself, “When the time comes, it’ll be worth all the waiting in the world!”
 
Jesus had lifted His hands up to shoulder height, just like I’d seen the High Priests do at Temple. He began praying, speaking His blessing over us. And then it happened.
 
I cannot explain how it happened – just what I saw...
 
Jesus began to rise up slowly off the ground, as if His body was somehow being pulled up from the mountain by some force above Him. But there was nothing was sky above Him, and He didn’t flinch, just carried on blessing us as He continued to soar higher and higher over our heads. His voice going out further and further, blessing after blessing carried high on the winds from this place.
 
I just stood there, gazing in awe – my mind racing for an explanation that never came.
 
Eventually He reached the level of the clouds, until the bright golden glory enveloped around Him. “He’s right back where He belongs.” I thought to myself.
 
We squinted our eyes through the brightness and strained our vision to keep Him in sight as long as possible. But soon all trace of Him had gone, and He vanished through the clouds from our view.
 
We were glued to the spot, wondering what had happened, and what might happen next.
 
“Men of Galilee!” said a stranger’s voice. We spun around. “Why are you just standing here looking up into the empty sky?” There were two men standing there. The glare from their dazzlingly bright white robes brighter than the luminous clouds we’d been staring up into…
 
“Angels!” Cleopas whispered to me, “They are just as Mary described!”
 
Heaven had received back her King – and now its messengers had been sent to announce the news: “Jesus has been taken up into heaven – but He’s coming back one day - in the same way you saw Him leave!”
 
Soon, they too had vanished.
 
I thought I had cried my last, but more tears welled up within me. Jesus was home with His Father, and until He returned His mission was now ours.
 
“What now?” asked Andrew.
 
Peter moved to stand in front of us and addressed the group: “Jerusalem of course! That’s where He told us to wait! Now that He has returned to heaven, He’s promised to send us the Holy Spirit – and that’s where He’ll meet us.”
 
Cleopas threw his arm over my shoulder, and we headed back down the mountainside towards Bethany, and from there onto the city once more.
 
Just beyond Bethany, the road winds through a series of large well-kept wheatfields, its tall golden corn waving us a welcome. Instinctively my hand reached out and ran through the long sheaves, gently breaking off its seedhead like I had done since childhood. I raised my hand to my mouth to chew on the grain.
 
Cleopas looked over, watching my Father’s ritual play itself out. “Well?” he asked, “Is it ready?”
 
As I chewed the grain, its texture telling me it still needed longer in the sun, I spotted a Shavout basket sat waiting by a short stone wall. Of course, The Festival of First Fruits wouldn’t be far away…
 
“Not quite ready yet…” I said, “but looking at this harvest, it’s going to be worth all the waiting in the world…”

 

Jonathan Vaughan-Davies is the minister at Bethel Baptist Church in Whitchurch, Cardiff, and is also seconded to the Association Team in South Wales to explore Digital Communication and Digital Mission.

He has a particular passion for all things creative in mission and ministry, and blogs regularly at bethelcardiff.org.uk/blog. 

This is the third of four creative and immersive pieces which chart the journey from Easter to Pentecost.

• Read and listen to part one of The Pentecost Diaries: The Road Home here. 

• Read and listen to part two of The Pentecost Diaries: Re-entry here. 

• Read and listen to part three of The Pentecost Diaries: Uprising here. 

• Read and listen to part four of The Pentecost Diaries: Renewed here.