Lifted. Carried. Here.
Ascension is not a story of departure but of transformation—of Christ moving beyond limits into a deeper, more expansive presence. This sermon explores the paradox of a God who is both lifted beyond us and more fully presence within the fabric of our lives. In a weary world, Ascension becomes an invitation to live with open hearts, holding grief and hope together as we are drawn more deeply into the world.
The Glimpses of Grace podcast is a ministry of Grace Episcopal Church in Gainesville, Georgia. We are passionate about supporting the spiritual growth of souls, and we hope these sermons and conversations meet you where you are and enrich your soul as we all continue to make meaning in the world today.
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Transcript
Ascension Day is a tricky one.
On one hand, it defies imagination. It’s hard to make sense of it. On the other hand, we try to. We make attempts to capture it as a simple image.
But if we’re not careful, we reduce it to something like a spiritual rocket launch— Jesus lifting off, rising somewhere “up there,”
as if heaven were some distant location
and the story ends with a magical disappearance.
But Ascension Day resists being flattened.
Just look at what the texts give us…images that stretch us:
Being lifted.
Being carried, offered.
Hands raised in blessing.
Minds opened.
Hearts catching fire with understanding.
Ascension Day is multidimensional.
Psalm 93 begins not with distance, but with nearness clothed in majestic clothing.
It’s not that God reigns somewhere far away—
God is wrapped in the fabric of reality,
of what we know (and of what we don’t know).
The psalm sings of floods lifting up their voices,
waves crashing and rising,
creation surging upward.
This sounds chaotic, maybe even a little scary.
But it concludes in sureness, steadfastness:
“Your being is trustworthy, faithful, nourishing…
forever, always, beyond time.”
So already we’re sitting with this tension:
Everything rises.
Everything surges.
Everything reaches upward—
and yet God is deeper.
And in Luke’s Gospel.
Jesus is with his disciples, again. Present.
Eating with them. Speaking with them.
Re-minding them:
“Everything written about me…must be fulfilled.”
And then this lovely bit:
“He opened their minds to understand the scriptures.”
Not forced. Not dictated.
But released. Opened.
Like something closed had always been there,
but now, with deep gratitude,
is opened wide.
It points to invitation and receptiveness.
Maybe this is the first movement of Ascension.
Not upward. But inward.
Downward into depth.
“Repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed…”
A change of heart, transformation, release, letting go…
is to be announced, held, shared.
It’s a way of seeing.
A way of knowing the world.
A way of recognizing that everything—
even suffering, death, even the places we thought were endings— are somehow held within a larger mercy.
On Ascension Day we get caught up in the next bit:
“He led them out…and lifting up his hands, he blessed them.
While he was blessing them,
he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.”
Carried up. Lifted. Ascension.
But…the last thing Jesus does? He blesses them.
An offering. Extending.
Still, an opening, holding them in a gesture that doesn’t close.
Yes, there is an upward movement.
Something is being lifted.
Something is being carried beyond what we can sense.
But, at the very same time—
there is a downward movement.
A deepening.
A settling.
A widening of awareness.
Which only makes sense if Ascension is not about absence,
but about a different kind of presence.
A presence that is not confined.
No longer bound to one place, one moment.
But a presence that has somehow become—
more deeply here.
And this is where human language begins to fail us.
Because everything in us wants to map the Ascension spatially: Up there. Down here.
But the gesture is something else entirely—
a dimension beyond our usual senses.
As if Christ is not leaving the world,
but filling it.
Inhabiting all things.
To be present in ways that are no longer limited
by distance, or time, or form.
It’s not really about where Jesus goes.
It’s about what becomes possible for us.
Because if Jesus is lifted, carried, offered into the fullness of God— so is our humanity.
Our lives.
Our hurt.
Our questions.
Our becoming.
All of it is being drawn upward—
and at the same time, drawn deeper.
An image of expansion.
An image of breaking open.
Minds opening.
Eyes opening.
Hearts breaking open
to a reality that is larger than we try to contain.
So the disciples return “to Jerusalem with great joy”
and, in turn, bless God.
Jesus’s Ascension only means something
if we re-enter the world with new sight
with a deeper knowing.
It’s a lot for our rational brains to hold. Ascension leaves us with a paradox. Christ is lifted up — yet somehow, nothing is left behind.
Christ is carried into heaven — yet heaven seems to press closer to earth. Christ departs — yet becomes more fully present.
But I think we’re called to live inside the paradox.
Not to make sense of it or solve it—
but to practice it.
The world is tired.
War, loss of life, anxiety-provoking headlines—
How can we even process anger or grief?
We become numb.
Ascension speaks right into that.
If Christ is not absent but more fully present,
we aren’t asked to withdraw from the world’s pain,
but how can we re-enter it differently?
When the noise rises,
when it’s just too much,
when you feel yourself shutting down—
allow a moment of pause.
Lift something up.
A name. A place. A grief. Your own weariness.
Hold it for a moment in the presence that is already here.
Let something open.
A simple prayer. A refusal to dehumanize. An act of kindness.
Because Ascension reminds us:
The world is being carried.
Sure, it’s tempting to just disengage,
but how can we engage with presence without being consumed?
Christ has not left the world.
But has filled it.
There is more mercy than we can see.
And we are a part of it.
Lifted. Carried. Opened. Sent.
Not away from a tired world—
but more deeply into it.
Amen.