Easter 7 Year A

Acts 1:1-11, Psalm 93, Ephesians 1:15-23, Luke 24:44–53

May I speak in the name of God, Creator, Redeemer and Giver of Life. Amen.

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The story of the Ascension is one of those biblical stories that sits right on the edge of what we can imagine historically. Some scholars argue that it was added later by the early church.

But my concern today is less with the mechanics of what happened, and more with the meaning the story is trying to convey. Stories like this communicate theological truth through image and symbol as much as through historical narrative.

The story is full of echoes from the Hebrew scriptures. Jesus raises his hands in blessing, as Moses and Aaron once blessed Israel. And there is a sense of Jesus passing on his work and authority, just as Moses passed leadership to Joshua, and Elijah to Elisha. There is a cloud, and Jesus passes from the disciples’ sight. In scripture, clouds often signal the nearness of mystery — something holy, strange, beyond ordinary understanding.

The Ascension story is a strange conclusion to the resurrection appearances of Jesus — the final farewell of the Son of God.

One detail of the Ascension story has especially stayed with me over the years: in so many paintings of the Ascension, we see only Jesus’ feet disappearing into the cloud of God. The last bit of him that was visible.

There is nothing more ordinary, more human, than feet. Feet hardened by walking dusty roads and dry hillsides. Feet washed with the tears of a woman and dried with her hair. Feet that stumbled, bleeding, on the road to Golgotha.

And those very feet — fully human feet — are now taken into the life of God.

For the last few months, since Advent, we have followed the story of the Incarnation: Mary’s yes to God, Jesus’ birth at Christmas, his life and ministry, his suffering and crucifixion, and then the joy of Easter resurrection. With the Ascension, the story of the Incarnation reaches its fulfilment. The humanity Christ assumed is not discarded or left behind, but carried into the very heart of God.

And now the story of the Church — the body of Christ — is about to begin.

So we wait, just as the disciples were told to wait: “Stay in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.”

And perhaps that feels important now, in a time when many people are weary, uncertain, or wondering what faithfulness looks like in a world that can feel increasingly unstable and fragmented.

After all their fear and grief and confusion since Jesus’ arrest, the disciples finally begin to change. For the first time in Luke’s gospel, they worship Jesus, and they are filled with great joy.

But still, they must wait.

Waiting is not something most of us do easily. We prefer movement, plans, certainty. We want to know what comes next, and how things will unfold. All that helps us feel more in control. But the Church begins not with action, but with waiting.

And perhaps that matters especially now, when so much in our world feels uncertain or broken, and when the temptation is either to panic or to exhaust ourselves trying to hold everything together by sheer effort.

But before the disciples are sent out into the world, they are first told to stop, to pray, and to wait together for the gift of God. The Church has never lived by its own strength alone.

And for this week, like the disciples, we too are invited into that waiting. This is not a passive waiting, but an attentive waiting. Prayerful waiting. Waiting for the gift that Christ promised.

These days between Ascension and Pentecost remind us that the Holy Spirit is indeed a gift — the gift we need in order to be the Church, the gift we need for every form of ministry and discipleship.

Especially in anxious times, it is tempting to rely only on our own strength, or to become overwhelmed by the needs of the world. But the Church has never lived by its own strength alone.

The Holy Spirit is the gift that enables us to become Christ’s body in the world. And ministry is not simply what happens here on a Sunday morning. Ministry is the way we live our lives in the world: the way we work, care for our families and friends, welcome strangers, seek justice, and remain faithful in ordinary things.

Gathered or dispersed, we are the body of Christ in the world — Christ’s hands and feet.

And so we wait for Pentecost, to celebrate the fire of God’s life and love taking hold among us once again.

I invite you this week to carry in your hearts the words of the ancient hymn traditionally sung before ordinations, invoking the Holy Spirit:

Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire,
and lighten with celestial fire.
Thou the anointing Spirit art,
who dost thy sevenfold gifts impart.

Thy blessed unction from above
is comfort, life, and fire of love.
Enable with perpetual light
the dullness of our blinded sight.

The same Spirit that moved over the waters of creation, the Spirit that spoke through the prophets, the Spirit that descended on Jesus at his baptism, is the Spirit promised to us all.

It is indeed a fire of love — something strange and wild and holy.

And so, in these days between Ascension and Pentecost, the Church waits once again. We wait in hope rather than in fear, and we wait together, rather than alone.

We wait, and we pray, and we remain open to what new thing God may yet kindle among us.

Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia, alleluia.

Amen.