Ascension Sunday

Luke 24:44-52

He said to them, “This is what I told you while I was still with you: Everything must be fulfilled that is written about me in the Law of Moses, the Prophets and the Psalms.”

45 Then he opened their minds so they could understand the Scriptures. 46 He told them, “This is what is written: The Messiah will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day, 47 and repentance for the forgiveness of sins will be preached in his name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. 48 You are witnesses of these things. 49 I am going to send you what my Father has promised; but stay in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.”

The Ascension of Jesus

50 When he had led them out to the vicinity of Bethany, he lifted up his hands and blessed them. 51 While he was blessing them, he left them and was taken up into heaven. 52 Then they worshiped him and returned to Jerusalem with great joy. 53 And they stayed continually at the temple, praising God.

Transcript

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Hey there, it's Pastor John, and welcome to the Lutheran Church of Our Savior podcast in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. We are so glad you're here. Whether you're driving, cooking, walking the dog, or just need a little soul boost, you're in the right place. If you want to learn more, connect with us, or say hello, shoot us an email at office at LCOSBR dot org. Now, take a breath, lean in, and let's dive into a word of grace together. Amen. I sometimes imagine the ascension like this. Jesus is rising toward heaven. The disciples below are shielding their eyes against the brightness, still stunned, still confused, still trying to make sense of everything that has happened. Beside him are two angels carrying him upward like attendants escorting a king home after battle. One angel looks down at the little cluster of disciples standing there in the dust. Peter, impulsive as ever, Thomas with his questions, Mary Magdalene, still carrying resurrection in her heart, the others looking somewhere between hope and panic. And one angel leans toward Jesus and asks, So what's the plan? And Jesus, smiling, looks back at the angel and questions him, The plan? Yes, the angel says, What the movement, the future, the church. Surely you have something impressive prepared. And Jesus, still smiling, looks back at the angel and says, Love one another. The angel blinks. That's it. Jesus nods. They'll feed the hungry, forgive sins, baptize, break bread, welcome strangers, carry one another when the road gets heavy. They'll fail sometimes. But the Spirit will keep calling them back to love. And the angel asks Jesus, but Lord, what if that doesn't work? And Jesus looks down one last time at the disciples standing beneath the clouds, frightened and hopeful and human, and he says, I have no other plan than this. Now that story is not in Scripture, but it feels closer to the heart of the gospel. Because Ascension Sunday leaves us standing in a strange place between wonder and uncertainty. Jesus goes up, the disciples stay behind, and suddenly the question hanging in the air becomes what now? What now when the teacher is no longer physically beside us? What now when certainty gives way to trust? What now when we are left holding the story, the mission, the promise? Ascension can feel bittersweet. Yes, and Psalm forty-seven proclaims this well: God has gone up with a shout. There is glory here, there is triumph here, but there is also ache. The disciples have already watched Jesus die. They watched hope appear to collapse beneath violence and fear. Resurrection came, but resurrection did not erase memory. The wounds remained. And now Jesus is taken up. Luke tells us he lifts his hands in blessing, and while blessing the disciples, he is carried upward. The disciples stand staring into heaven until the angels ask, Why do you stand looking up toward heaven? Now that feels deeply human. They stand there like people after a funeral when everyone else has already gone home. The flowers beginning to wilt and the silence setting in. Because departures tend to reopen old wounds. Congregations know this feeling too. Churches know what it is to move through seasons of uncertainty. After a beloved leader dies, after a pastor leaves, after difficult meetings and anxious conversations about budgets, buildings, and the future, communities begin asking, where do we go from here? And pastors ask their own questions quietly in the background. Like, Am I leading faithfully? Is this helping? Can this congregation hold together through another season of change? Sure, pastors carry joys and burdens most people never fully see. They stand at hospital bedsides and gravesides, they pray with families in crisis, they hold stories entrusted in confidence, and sometimes they carry everyone else's fears while wondering who is carrying them. And at the same time, congregations carry their own griefs: fear of change, fear of decline, fear that what they love might disappear. And beneath all of it is that same ache. How do we keep loving one another well when life becomes heavy? Because, honestly speaking, churches are made up of human beings trying our best while carrying more than anyone else fully knows. Sometimes people speak too quickly because they are anxious. Sometimes they withdraw because they are hurting. Sometimes frustration covers grief. And sometimes silence hides exhaustion. And yet Christ keeps calling people back toward one another, back toward patience, toward gentleness, toward the kind of love that listens before reacting and seeks understanding before judgment. Not shallow politeness, not pretending conflict never existed, but real grace. The kind that remembers there is a human heart on the other side of every disagreement, the kind that leaves room for apology and reconciliation, the kind that believes relationships are worth tending carefully. Because the church is meant to be one of the few places in this world where people do not have to earn their belonging. A place where grace is practiced, a place where burdens are shared, a place where people learn again and again what it means to love because Christ first loved us. That is why the book of Acts matters so much today. Jesus tells the disciples, you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you. Not power to control one another, not power to win every argument, power to witness, power to embody another way of being human. A way rooted in compassion, in forgiveness, in mercy, in love strong enough to survive misunderstanding and uncertainty. And maybe that is why this year's synod assembly theme has just dug itself into my heart. How can we keep from singing? Feels so fitting for ascension, doesn't it? Because Christian faith has always been born in uncertain places. Israel sang in the wilderness. Paul and Silas sang in prison. The early church sang under persecution. Communities sang through funerals, wars, heartbreak, and long nights waiting for dawn. The church sings not because life is easy, but because hope refuses to disappear. Every hymn becomes an act of trust. Every shared voice becomes a reminder that no one carries the song alone. And maybe singing together matters because it teaches us to listen to one another. You cannot harmonize without paying attention to the people beside you. You cannot sing as one body while refusing to hear one another breathe. Perhaps that is part of the church's calling in this moment to relearn how to listen deeply, to speak gently, to assume mercy before suspicion, to remember that every person here carries invisible burdens and sacred stories. And Christ is still saying, love one another. Simple words. Difficult words. Holy words. Love one another when anxiety runs high. Love one another when the future feels unclear. Love one another when patience grows thin. Love one another enough to keep showing up for each other. Because love has always been God's way of healing the world. Steady, crucified, resurrected. Love. And maybe that is the hope hidden inside Ascension Sunday. Jesus does not leave the disciples with a perfect strategic plan, but he does leave them with each other. He leaves them with a table, a promise, a spirit, a song. And perhaps that still is the miracle of the church. People from different stories and different struggles somehow gathered into one body, praying together, singing together, grieving together, hoping together. In a fragmented world, the church becomes a reminder that people are not disposable, that names matter, that grace still makes room at the table. And maybe that is what the disciples finally begin to understand as they turned away from the clouds and walked back toward Jerusalem together. Christ indeed had not left them orphaned. Christ had woven them into one another's lives. And perhaps that is still true for us. So when the future feels uncertain, when grief feels heavy, when the church feels fragile, I want you to remember this. Christ already loved us first. Before we got it right, before we learned patience, before we learned mercy, before we understood how deeply we needed one another. And if we have been loved like that, then surely we can keep growing toward one another too. God has already given us to one another. And by grace, that is enough. Amen.