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.

Wednesday night, when I sat to write my blog for yesterday, it completely slipped my mind that I was writing for Ascension Day.

Now, there are moments in ministry when one hopes to be particularly liturgically aware, theologically grounded, and spiritually attentive.

And then there are moments like this.

So, with a mixture of gratitude and mild embarrassment, I would like to write the post for Ascension Day now.

Better late than never—which, incidentally, is also a fairly accurate description of how most of the disciples seemed to arrive at understanding what Jesus was doing.

The Ascension is one of those feasts that can feel a little… elusive.

Easter has energy.
Pentecost has fire.
But Ascension?

Jesus rises.
A cloud appears.
And suddenly the disciples are standing there, looking up.

Which, to be fair, is a perfectly reasonable response.

If someone you love is taken up into heaven before your eyes, you are unlikely to glance casually at your watch and say, “Well then, shall we be off?”

You would look up.

You would wonder.
You would linger in the moment.

And that is precisely what they do.

Until, of course, two angels appear — because in Scripture, when people linger too long, angels tend to arrive with gentle but unmistakable clarity.

“Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”

Which is, I think, one of the most beautifully practical questions in all of Scripture.

Why are you still standing here?

Because the story is not ending.

It is beginning.

The Ascension is not Jesus leaving the world behind.

It is Jesus entrusting the world to his people.

“You will be my witnesses… to the ends of the earth.”

Not “remain here and reflect thoughtfully.”

Not “stay in this moment as long as possible.”

But go.

Which, if we are honest, is not always our instinct.

We quite like the looking up part.

The awe.
The wonder.
The sense of something holy happening just beyond our reach.

What we are less certain about is the next step.

The going.

The witnessing.

The living of resurrection life in the very ordinary, very immediate places where we actually are.

But Ascension Day insists on this truth:

That the risen Christ has not disappeared.

He has gone ahead.

And in going ahead, he has opened the way for us to follow — not by staring upward, but by stepping outward.

Into our communities.
Into our conversations.
Into the small, daily opportunities to live and speak the grace we have received.

Which means that the Church is not a people who remain gathered around a memory.

We are a people sent into the world.

Sent with joy.
Sent with hope.
Sent with the quiet, steady confidence that Christ reigns — not at a distance, but in a way that fills all things.

So yes — there is a moment for looking up.

For wonder.
For awe.
For standing still and recognizing that something holy has happened.

But then…

There is the going.

And perhaps that is where Ascension finally meets us.

Not in the sky, but in the step we take next.

Christ is ascended.

And we are sent.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Ascended Lord,
You reign in glory
and send us into the world.

Lift our hearts to you in wonder,
and then guide our feet in faithful living.

Give us courage to go where you lead,
wisdom to speak your truth,
and love to serve in your name.

And as we are sent,
remind us that you are with us always—
reigning, guiding, and calling us onward.

Amen.

There is a moment — often discovered rather than planned — when one realizes that the world has become… slightly unclear.

Not dramatically so.
Not enough to cause alarm.

Just enough that the print looks a little softer than it used to.
The edges a touch less defined.
The fine detail — particularly on parish bulletins printed in ambitious fonts — somewhat… negotiable.

And then it dawns on you.

It is not the world.

It is your glasses.

Now, this discovery is usually followed by a brief and highly intentional polishing ritual.

A handkerchief is located (or, more realistically, a sleeve is pressed into service).
The lenses are wiped with great care.
There is a moment of anticipation.

And then —

Clarity.

Suddenly everything sharpens.

The words come into focus.
The room regains its definition.
The world, it seems, has been restored to its proper condition.

Though, to be fair, it was never the world that needed adjusting.

Now, as it happens, this is precisely the sort of moment where Easter joy quietly slips in.

Because resurrection is not only about new life.

It is about new sight.

The disciples spend a remarkable amount of time in the Gospels not quite seeing clearly.

Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener.
The travellers to Emmaus walk alongside him for miles without recognition.
Even the gathered disciples struggle to comprehend what is unfolding before them.

It is not that Christ is absent.

It is that their vision needs adjusting.

And when it does — when their eyes are opened — everything changes.

The same world.
The same people.
The same circumstances.

But now, seen through the light of resurrection.

Which suggests that perhaps our own slightly smudged moments are not failures of perception so much as invitations to grace.

Because we, too, go through our days not always seeing clearly.

We miss things.
We misread situations.
We overlook the quiet ways God is already at work.

And then, sometimes quite unexpectedly, clarity comes.

In a conversation.
In a moment of prayer.
In a simple act of attention.

And we see.

Not perfectly.
Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough to recognize that Christ has been present all along.

Enough to glimpse the life of resurrection moving quietly through the ordinary.

Now, I will admit that cleaning one’s glasses is not, in itself, a sacrament.

But it is not entirely unlike one.

A small, tangible act that opens our eyes again to what has always been there.

Which means that the next time the world looks just a little unclear —

Do not be too quick to assume that something has gone wrong.

Pause.

Take a moment.

Wipe the lenses.

And look again.

Because Christ is risen.

And the world — smudged though it sometimes seems — is already filled with His light.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You open our eyes
to see your presence among us.

When our vision is clouded,
bring clarity.
When we miss what matters,
draw our attention back to you.

Help us to see with grace,
to notice with love,
and to recognize your life
in the ordinary moments of our day.

And in all that we behold,
let us glimpse your resurrection light.

Amen.

There comes a moment — usually midweek — when one approaches the recycling bin with a certain degree of optimism.

“It will fit,” you say.

It will not.

The box resists.
The lid hovers.
Physics enters the conversation with a firmness that borders on theological certainty.

And so begins the sacred ritual of rearranging.

Things are shifted.
Flattened with determination.
Reconsidered from new and creative angles.

At one point, you are quite certain that if the Church ever requires a new spiritual gift, it will be listed as “Advanced Recycling Compression.”

Now, at first glance, this may not appear to be a particularly Easter-themed activity.

It lacks the grandeur of the empty tomb.
There are no angels involved.
And no one has yet written a hymn titled “Thine Be the Glory… Over the Cardboard Box.”

And yet…

There is something quietly profound happening here.

Because Easter is, among other things, a story about what is no longer needed.

The grave clothes — left behind.
The stone — rolled away.
Death itself — no longer holding its former power.

Resurrection is not only about new life.

It is about letting go of what cannot contain it.

Which brings us, quite naturally, back to the recycling bin.

Because much of life involves precisely this work.

Sorting.
Releasing.
Letting go of what has served its purpose but cannot be carried forward.

Old assumptions.
Worn-out worries.
The unnecessary packaging we wrap around ourselves to appear more put-together than we feel.

All of it, gently but persistently, being set aside.

Now, this is not always easy.

There are things we hold onto with surprising determination.

Not because they are helpful…

…but because they are familiar.

And yet Easter whispers a different possibility:

That there is life beyond what we have been carrying.

That there is freedom in release.

That the God who raised Jesus from the dead is already at work, making all things new—including us.

Which means that even this small, slightly comedic moment — standing beside an overambitious recycling bin — can become a kind of parable.

A reminder that we are not meant to hold onto everything.

That part of resurrection life is learning what to keep…

…and what to let go.

So go ahead.

Flatten the box.
Make room.
Release what no longer serves.

And if, in the process, the lid still refuses to close with perfect dignity, take heart.

Because grace, like resurrection, is not particularly concerned with appearances.

Christ is risen.

And He is already making space for new life.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You call us into new life
and into freedom we did not expect.

Give us courage to let go
of what we no longer need,
and wisdom to trust your work within us.

In the small acts of our days,
teach us the grace of release
and the joy of beginning again.

And fill us with the hope of your resurrection,
that we may live lightly and love deeply.

Amen.

There is a particular kind of holiness reserved for those who arrive just a little too early.

You know the moment.

The meeting is scheduled for 7:00 p.m.
You arrive at 6:47, feeling commendably organized and perhaps even faintly virtuous.

The door is locked.

The lights are off.

And you stand there — coat still on, keys in hand — wondering if you have misunderstood something fundamental about time itself.

Now, there are several possible responses to this situation.

One may check the time repeatedly, as though the watch might admit to a mistake.
One may walk a small, thoughtful circle around the building.
One may attempt the door again, just in case it has reconsidered.

Or — and this is where things become interesting — one may simply wait.

Which, as it turns out, is not something we are especially skilled at.

We are, generally speaking, a people of action.

We prefer doors that open promptly.
Schedules that run efficiently.
Events that begin precisely when they are meant to.

Waiting, by contrast, feels like wasted time.

And yet…

Easter is full of waiting.

The disciples wait behind locked doors.
The travellers to Emmaus walk for hours before they recognize who is with them.
The fishermen cast their nets again and again before the dawn reveals what has been there all along.

Resurrection does not always announce itself immediately.

Sometimes it arrives quietly, gradually, almost unnoticed — until suddenly, we see.

Which means that even this small moment — standing outside a locked door, slightly ahead of schedule — is not empty.

It is a space.

A pause.

An invitation.

Now, I will admit that this is not the most obvious conclusion to reach while standing in a parking lot in the Canadian evening, wondering if one should have brought a heavier coat.

But Easter has a way of transforming even these moments.

Because the risen Christ is not only present when the doors open.

He is present while we wait.

In the stillness.
In the quiet.
In the unplanned space where nothing much seems to be happening — and yet everything is already held in grace.

And then, of course, the door opens.

Lights come on.
People arrive.
Life resumes its familiar rhythm.

But something has shifted.

Because we have been reminded — gently, quietly — that not every moment needs to be filled to be full.

Some moments are simply meant to be received.

So the next time you find yourself arriving a little too early —
standing at the threshold, waiting for things to begin —

Do not be too quick to dismiss it.

Take a breath.

Look around.

Listen.

Because Christ is risen.

And He is already present…

Even before the door opens.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us in the waiting
as surely as in the doing.

In the quiet moments of our day,
teach us to be still,
to be present,
and to trust that you are near.

When we are eager to move ahead,
give us patience.
When we feel uncertain,
give us peace.

And in every pause and every beginning,
remind us that your resurrection
fills all things with life.

Amen.

There is a particular moment, usually late in the afternoon, when one looks at the day’s to-do list… and realizes that it has not so much been completed as creatively reinterpreted.

Several things have been accomplished.
A few unexpected things have been added.
And at least one item — often written with great optimism in the morning — remains quietly untouched, staring back with gentle but undeniable judgment.

It is at this moment that one is tempted to sigh.

Or, if one is feeling especially theological, to reflect on the limits of human capacity.

Now, the to-do list does not immediately strike us as a place where Easter joy naturally resides.

It is, after all, a record of what remains undone.

And yet…

Easter has never been about what we manage to complete.

It is about what Christ has already finished.

“It is finished,” he says from the cross.

And then — just when we think the story has reached its conclusion — God begins something entirely new.

Resurrection does not arise out of completed lists and perfectly managed lives.

It breaks into the unfinished.

Into the not-yet.
Into the things we meant to do but did not quite get to.

Which is, if we are honest, most of life.

The disciples themselves were not models of completion.

They misunderstood.
They hesitated.
They scattered at precisely the wrong moment.

And yet the risen Christ comes to them — not with a checklist — but with peace.

“Peace be with you.”

Not “Have you finished everything?”
Not “Have you achieved the necessary level of readiness?”

Just… peace.

Which may be the most liberating word we hear all day.

Because it reminds us that our lives are not measured by what we manage to accomplish.

They are held in what God has already done.

Now, this does not mean that the to-do list disappears.

(If anything, it has a remarkable ability to regenerate overnight.)

But it does mean that we are free to approach it differently.

With less anxiety.
With more grace.
With the quiet confidence that even the unfinished parts of our lives are not beyond God’s reach.

In fact, that is often where God does his best work.

In the margins.
In the interruptions.
In the things we did not plan.

So if, at the end of this day, your list still contains items that remain stubbornly unaccomplished…

Take a breath.

Give thanks for what has been done.
Offer the rest to God.

And remember:

Christ is risen.

And He is not waiting for you to finish everything before He begins something new.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us not only in what is complete,
but in all that remains unfinished.

Give us peace in our striving,
grace in our limits,
and trust in your work beyond our efforts.

Help us to rest in what you have done,
and to offer you all that we have not.

And in every part of our day —
finished or unfinished —
fill us with your resurrection life.

Amen.

There are many ways to participate in worship.

Some are quiet and contemplative.
Some are thoughtful and measured.
And then, from time to time, there is that “Amen.”

You know the one.

It arrives with conviction.
It lands with enthusiasm.
It echoes just a little longer than expected.

It is not so much spoken as declared.

Now, depending on your particular liturgical temperament, this may either warm your heart or cause you to glance around ever so slightly.

But I would like to suggest — very gently, and with deep affection — that such moments are nothing less than Easter breaking through.

Because the resurrection is not, at its core, a quiet idea.

It is a joyful interruption.

The earliest witnesses to the resurrection did not respond with polite nods and well-regulated enthusiasm. They ran. They told. They wondered aloud. They struggled to find words big enough to hold what they had seen.

“Christ is risen!”

And somewhere, I suspect, someone said, “Amen!” with a little more volume than strictly necessary.

Which brings us back to that moment in worship.

That slightly overenthusiastic response.

That heartfelt, unfiltered affirmation.

It may not be perfectly timed.
It may not align precisely with the printed order of service.
It may even cause a brief ripple in the carefully cultivated calm of Anglican composure.

But it is alive.

And that, surely, is the point.

Because Easter joy is not always tidy.

It does not always arrive in carefully measured tones.

Sometimes it spills out.

In laughter.
In song.
In a voice that simply cannot keep quiet about what it knows to be true.

Now, this does not mean we should all suddenly begin shouting indiscriminately during the Prayers of the People. (Though I suspect it would make for a memorable Sunday.)

But it does mean this:

That worship is not a performance to be perfected.

It is a life to be lived.

A response to grace.

A gathering of people who have been met by the risen Christ and are, in their own wonderfully varied ways, learning how to say “Yes” to that reality.

And sometimes that “Yes” sounds like a quiet whisper.

And sometimes…

It sounds like an “Amen” that arrives with such conviction that it startles even the person who said it.

So the next time you hear it —
or find yourself tempted to offer one —
do not be too quick to restrain it.

Smile.

Give thanks.

And remember:

The Church is not meant to be silent in the face of resurrection.

Christ is risen.

And somewhere, someone is going to say “Amen” like they mean it.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You fill our hearts with joy
that cannot always be contained.

Receive our praise —
whether quiet or exuberant,
measured or overflowing.

Teach us to worship you
with sincerity and gladness,
and to respond to your grace
with all that we are.

And in every word we speak —
especially the simple ones —
let your resurrection life be heard.

Amen.