05/17/2026
The Ascension is one of the strangest feasts in Christianity because at first glance it feels almost disappointing. The disciples finally have Christ risen from the dead. They can see Him. Hear Him. Eat with Him. Touch the wounds in His hands. And then, just as things seem secure again, He leaves.
If we are honest, most of us would have preferred the opposite arrangement. We would like Jesus physically present at all times. Standing in the middle of every argument. Every war. Every parish council meeting. Every anxious night at 2 a.m. We imagine faith would be easier if He simply stayed visible.
But the Ascension reveals something uncomfortable about God. He refuses to remain small enough for us to manage.
The disciples spent years trying to keep Jesus within their expectations. They wanted a king for Israel. A reformer. A miracle worker on demand. Even after the Resurrection they ask, “Lord, are you at this time going to restore the kingdom?”
It is a very human question. We are always asking God when He plans to finally do things our way.
And Christ ascends because His mission was never to become merely a local ruler in one corner of the world. He rises because He intends to fill all things. Not just Jerusalem. Not just Galilee. Not just churches. Everything.
The Ascension is not Jesus disappearing. It is Jesus becoming universally present.
That is why the angels almost sound amused when they tell the disciples, “Why are you standing there looking at the sky?” In other words: Don’t just stare upward. The work has begun.
Christianity was never meant to be a religion of spectators gazing nostalgically into heaven. It is a religion of witnesses.
And here is the difficult part. The Church now becomes the visible presence of Christ in the world. His hands become our hands. His voice becomes our voice. His mercy becomes our mercy.
Frankly, that seems like an inefficient plan.
If you or I were organizing salvation history, we probably would have gone with permanent daily miracles written in the clouds. Maybe occasional trumpet blasts. Certainly fewer committees.
Instead, God entrusts the Gospel to fragile people who forget things, get distracted during prayer, lose patience in traffic, and occasionally say “Amen” while already thinking about lunch.
And yet that is precisely the point.
The Ascension means human nature itself has entered heaven in Christ. Humanity is no longer locked outside the life of God. One of us now reigns at the right hand of the Father.
Which means heaven is no longer merely a destination we hope to reach someday. Heaven has already begun its work in us now.
The saints understood this well. They were not people floating three inches above the ground speaking in stained glass voices. They were people so filled with divine life that the ordinary world around them became radiant. They proved that Christ did not leave the earth abandoned. He left it inhabited by grace.
So the Ascension asks each of us a question.
Are we merely looking upward, waiting for God to act? Or are we willing to become part of how He acts?
Because Christ has ascended. But the Body of Christ remains here.
And perhaps the greatest tragedy is not that the world cannot see Jesus physically walking the roads of earth anymore.
Perhaps the greater tragedy is that Christians so often forget that they are supposed to make Him visible.
