Wednesday night, when I sat to write my blog for yesterday, it completely slipped my mind that I was writing for Ascension Day. I’d like to write the post for Ascension Day now.
And now that I’ve written it… I find myself in the peculiar position of writing the day after Ascension Day about what comes after Ascension Day.
Which, if you think about it, is exactly where the disciples found themselves.
One moment: Jesus rising, blessing, disappearing into glory.
The next moment: eleven slightly stunned individuals standing on the Mount of Olives wondering what on earth — or perhaps more accurately, what in heaven — they were supposed to do next.
Scripture tells us they returned to Jerusalem with great joy.
Which is a remarkable detail.
Because if we had been there, we might have expected a different reaction.
Confusion, perhaps.
A strategic planning meeting.
At the very least, a strongly worded discussion about next steps and committee structure.
But no.
They return with joy.
Not because they have everything figured out, but because they trust the One who has just been lifted from their sight.
And this, I think, is where Ascension Day quietly does its most important work.
It removes the visible presence of Jesus… and replaces it with something far more demanding.
Trust.
No longer can the disciples simply look over their shoulders and say, “Well, what do you think, Lord?”
Now they must live what they have learned.
Now they must be the witnesses he has called them to be.
Now they must step into the world not as spectators of grace, but as participants in it.
Which is where things become just a little uncomfortable.
Because being “sent into all the world” sounds wonderfully grand until it turns out that “all the world” includes:
• The grocery store lineup
• The parish email inbox
• The neighbour who begins every conversation with, “Just one quick question…”
• And the mysterious pastoral emergency that always arises five minutes before you were planning to leave for the day
It turns out that being sent is not primarily about geography.
It is about attentiveness.
It is about recognizing that the risen and ascended Christ is already at work in the ordinary places we inhabit… and then having the courage to join him there.
The disciples do not immediately set out for the ends of the earth.
First, they wait.
They pray.
They gather.
They return to the rhythms of community.
And in that quiet space between Ascension and Pentecost, something begins to take shape.
A people who will soon be sent.
Which is where we find ourselves as well.
Somewhere between looking up and going out.
Somewhere between wonder and witness.
Somewhere between what Christ has done… and what he is about to do through us.
And perhaps that is the gentle invitation of this day after Ascension.
Not to rush.
Not to panic.
Not to draft a five-year strategic plan for the Kingdom of God (though I suspect someone, somewhere, has tried).
But simply to begin where we are.
To pray.
To notice.
To listen.
To love.
Because the same Lord who ascended is the Lord who sends.
And the same Spirit who will empower the disciples is already stirring in ways both quiet and surprising.
So if you find yourself today not entirely certain what “being sent” looks like…
You are in very good company.
The disciples started there too.
And somehow, by grace, they changed the world.
Which suggests that the Kingdom of God has never depended on perfect clarity.
Only on faithful steps.
Christ is ascended.
And we are learning, one ordinary moment at a time, how to follow where he leads.
Alleluia.
Companion Prayer
Ascended Christ,
You call us to follow
even when the path is not yet clear.
Teach us to trust you
in the waiting and in the wondering.
Open our eyes to the places
where you are already at work,
and give us courage
to join you there.
Make us a people who are ready —
ready to listen,
ready to love,
ready to be sent.
Through your grace and your Spirit,
lead us onward.
Amen.