Sermon by Mother Meghan Mazur
Do you have a favorite artistic depiction of the Ascension of Jesus?
I am not sure that I do, exactly, but I confess that I am partial to any depiction in which the only part of Jesus we see is his feet. I am sure you have seen at least one of those images somewhere along the way: the disciples gathered below, looking upward, while Jesus disappears into the clouds, leaving behind only the soles of his feet and the hem of his robe.
There is something almost comical about it, this holy mystery represented by two feet vanishing into the sky. But what I enjoy most about these depictions is not really Jesus’ feet. It is the faces of the disciples below.
They are almost always gawking. They often stand there with their heads tilted back, mouths open, eyes lifted, trying to take in what has just happened. Jesus, their teacher and friend, the one who was crucified and raised, the one who had eaten with them and blessed them and breathed peace upon them, has now been taken from their sight. And there they are, standing in the strange silence after a miracle, staring at the place where he used to be.
This is where Ascension Day begins - in a strange place of waiting and sometimes gawking. On Sunday, we heard Jesus say that he was going away, but that he would not leave us orphaned. Today, we stand with the disciples in the strange space between that promise and its fulfillment. Jesus has gone from their sight, but the Spirit has not yet descended in wind and flame. The disciples have been given a mission, but they have not yet been given the power to carry it out. They have been told that something holy is coming, but they do not yet know exactly what it will look like.
Ready, set… wait.
That is not usually how we want the story to go. We are much more comfortable with, “Ready, set, go.” We understand momentum and action. We understand mission when it means strategy and movement and measurable progress. But instead we are told,
Wait in the city.
Wait for the promise of the Father.
Wait for power from on high.
This may be one of the hardest instructions Jesus ever gives. We are accustomed to hearing him say, “Follow me,” or “Love one another,” or “Take up your cross,” and all of those are hard enough. But “wait” may
test us in a particularly tender place, because waiting requires us to live without the control we would prefer. Waiting asks us to remain faithful when the next thing has not yet arrived. Waiting asks us to trust that God is still at work, even when the visible signs are not yet clear.
But then while the disciples were standing there, we are told that two men in white robes appear beside them and ask the obvious and necessary question: “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”
I don’t take this to be a criticism of their awe. There are moments in the life of faith when all we can do is stand still and gaze at the mystery; when wonder is the most faithful response we can offer. Remember when we pray for the gift of joy and wonder in God’s works for a newly Baptized person? Awe is important. But awe can become a hiding place if we remain there too long. The disciples cannot fulfill their calling by staring at the last visible place Jesus occupied. They cannot become witnesses by clinging to the sky.
At some point, they have to lower their eyes, return to the city and learn how to wait together.
And perhaps that is a word for this congregation in this particular season. You are waiting, too, for your priest-in-charge to begin ministry. You won’t have to wait too long in this case, but still, that waiting is real.
An interim season can feel like a strange kind of Ascension moment: someone familiar is no longer in the same place, someone new has not yet fully arrived, and the congregation is left asking, “What now? What do we do in the meantime? What does faithfulness look like here?”
The temptation, of course, is to treat the meantime as empty time. A holding pattern. A season to get through until ministry begins again in earnest.
But the Feast of the Ascension will not let us believe that. Christian waiting is never empty. The mission of your waiting is not to hold your breath until July. The mission of your waiting is to keep being the Church: to pray, to worship, to care for one another, to welcome the stranger, to tend the ministries already entrusted to you, to tell the truth about your hopes and your fears, and to listen for the Spirit who has never once stopped speaking to the people of God.
Your new priest-in-charge will bring gifts, energy, leadership, and vision. That will be a joy. But your priest-in-charge is not coming in July to turn the lights back on. The light of Christ is already here. The Spirit is already moving here. This waiting has a mission.
It is the mission of preparation, certainly, but even more deeply, it is the mission of attention. Waiting gives a congregation time to remember its own vocation apart from any one leader. Waiting makes room for questions that may need to be asked gently and honestly: Who are we now? What has God preserved among us? What is God pruning?
That kind of waiting is not passive. It is active, hopeful, and purposeful. It is the waiting of a field before harvest, the waiting of Advent, the waiting of a mother carrying life within her, the waiting of the disciples in the upper room, praying together before they even knew what Pentecost would be.
And that waiting is bound to witness.
Because Jesus did not say only, “Wait.” He also said, “You will be my witnesses.” Witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth. The waiting is real, but it is not the whole calling. The Spirit will come, and when the Spirit comes, the disciples will not be sent back to stare at the clouds. They will be sent into the world.
But it is hard to be a witness if we are still standing in place, straining to catch one last glimpse of Jesus’ feet.
Do not misunderstand me. There is good reason to return again and again to worship, to gather together at the feet of Jesus in prayer, in song, in Scripture, and in the sacraments. We need that presence. We need to come before God with our wonder and our bewilderment, our grief and our gratitude, our questions and our hope. Worship is not an escape from the world; it is where Christ gathers us, blesses us, feeds us, and reminds us who we are.
But worship is not the end of the journey. It is the beginning. The danger is letting our awe become inaction, forgetting that Jesus did not simply leave us with a memory to preserve. He entrusted us with a mission to embody.
So on this Ascension Day, perhaps instead of searching the skies for Jesus’ feet, we should be looking for his footprints.
Where has he walked? What paths did he leave behind for us to follow? Where do we see the shape of his life pressed into the earth? Among the poor. Among the sick. Among the lonely. Among the children. Among those pushed to the edge. At tables where sinners and saints are fed together. At gravesides where grief is met with tears and resurrection. On roads where confused disciples are accompanied until their hearts burn within them.
So take a good look at Jesus this Ascension Day. Stand in awe. Giggle at the paintings where only his feet remain. Give thanks for the mystery of a Lord who is no longer bound to one place, one hillside, one gathered group of disciples, but who fills all things and sends his Spirit upon the whole Church.
But do not linger too long, staring at the clouds.
There is waiting to be done, and there is witnessing to be done. There is a congregation here, in this in-between season, called not merely to wait for July, but to wait with purpose, with courage, and with open hands. Christ has ascended into glory, and now, by the power of the Spirit, he sends his people into the world.
Ascension Day
May 14, 2026