What is the "Cash Value" of Ascension?

The seventh Sunday of Easter is also Ascension Sunday. Normally, I remain with the lectionary gospel reading, but today, I want to think about the passage in Acts which describes the ascension (Acts 1.6-14). Although I am only focusing on this account, I do want to note that the Gospel of John presents a rather different understanding of ascension.

Before I look at the text itself, I want to begin with a question I have been musing on.

How does the ascension affect me?
What does it mean for me, right here in 2026?

If Andy were posing the question, he would probably quote one of his favourite philosophers, William James, and ask, “What is the cash value of ascension?”

I think these are important questions to ponder.

But first I want to look at the text itself, especially in the light of what I reflected on in my last blog — that these words were penned for people living under severe persecution. Acts is generally dated somewhere between 65 CE and 85 CE, during the brutal periods associated with Nero and later Domitian. That matters. Words are always heard through the lens of current circumstances.

The book of Acts opens by telling the reader there had been several post-resurrection appearances over a period of forty days. Today’s reading describes the final one. Then comes a very telling question addressed to the resurrected Christ:

“Is this the time you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”

What lies behind that question?
What are the people still hoping for?

It is striking that right at the beginning of Acts, this group of followers — named disciples alongside other women and men — are still hoping for a revolutionary leader who will free them from their political oppression.

They had witnessed Jesus’ life and miracles, heard the teaching, lived through the trauma of crucifixion, encountered resurrection appearances, and still they hoped for political liberation.

The resurrected Christ does not dismiss the longing. There is no rebuke. Instead, the response is simply that the timing rests in the hands of G*d.

Then comes the promise that they will receive power and that this small, fragile movement will spread “to the ends of the earth.” (8)

And then the ascension itself:

Christ is “lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight.” (9)

I think that detail becomes especially significant when interpreted in the context of persecution. These were people facing fear, violence, imprisonment, and sometimes martyrdom. Even after hearing resurrection stories, perhaps they still needed reassurance that death was not the end. That suffering and empire would not ultimately triumph.

The story continues that while they stood watching, two people in white robes appeared and spoke with them. The imagery echoes both resurrection morning and the transfiguration. Once again, heavenly messengers appear in moments of fear and uncertainty.

So, this becomes a powerful opening to Acts.

A reaffirmation that life continues.
A reaffirmation that empire is not ultimate.
A reaffirmation that G*d remains present even when Christ is no longer physically visible.

And perhaps that brings me back to my original question.

What is the “cash value” of ascension for me now?

I do not think it is primarily about geography, as though heaven were “up there” somewhere beyond the clouds. Nor do I think the story is asking me to spend my life staring upwards waiting to escape the earth.

Perhaps ascension is instead about trust.

Trust that the way of Christ continues even when certainty disappears.
Trust that love and justice still matter in violent times.
Trust that death, oppression, and empire do not have the final word.

The disciples eventually stop staring into the sky and return to Jerusalem where they begin the difficult work of building community, sharing possessions, feeding people, resisting fear, and carrying hope into a wounded world.

Maybe that is the true meaning of ascension.
Not escape from the world, but the courage to remain fully present within it.

 

Holding Steady in a World That Is Not Safe

Today’s lectionary text is a rich and difficult passage (John 14;1-14). 

I think it is key to remember that this was penned to a community under threat. It is not a comfortable fireside conversation but encouragement to those being persecuted who were seeing family and friends killed for their faith.

The passage starts with the admonition, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” (1) This is one of the well-known lines in the gospel. It is often read at funerals, often softened, almost sentimental. But I wonder if, in doing that, the edge has been lost.

Because it cannot be forgotten that this phrase was written to a community living with fear, exclusion, persecution, violence and the real possibility of death. This is not a gentle reassurance spoken into a peaceful world. It is a strong word spoken into anxiety, uncertainty, and danger.

So, when Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” it is not denial about circumstances. It is defiance.

It is a call to hold steady when everything happening around is suggesting that the community should be falling apart. 

Over the centuries, this text has been turned into a kind of romantic vision of heaven, rooms prepared somewhere beyond the clouds. Interestingly, the text never actually uses the word “heaven.”

So perhaps this is less about geography and more about relationship. A place is prepared not because it is architecturally impressive, but because it is relationally secure. The message is you belong, you are known and you are not abandoned.

For a persecuted community, this would matter far more than imagery.

Jesus speaks repeatedly about relationship with the Father-Mother. It is not about distance, nor hierarchy, but intimacy. “I am in the Father-Mother, and the Father-Mother is in me.”

And then, notably the invitation is extended. Anyone who shares this relationship will do the same works. The same relational flow, that same mutual indwelling, is what the community is being drawn into.

And then comes something that, if I am honest, feels deeply uncomfortable:

“Ask whatever you ask in my name… and it will be done.” (13)

This is to a community being imprisoned, tortured, even martyred. They asked, they prayed, they suffered. And they died.

So, what do I do with this?

I think I have to resist the temptation to read this as a transactional promise. This is not, ask correctly and you will be protected.

If it were, then the history of the early Johannine community, and indeed the history of the church, simply would not make sense. Perhaps, the key lies in that repeated phrase: “in my name.” I have spoken many times about the importance of a name.

In the ancient world, a name was not just a label. It was essence, character and presence. So, to ask “in the name” is not to add a formula at the end of a prayer. It is to align oneself with the way of Christ. To ask from within that relationship. To ask shaped by that life. To ask as one who participates in that same love.

And when I think of it that way, the promise shifts.

It is not that every request will be granted in the way the asker imagines. It is that the work of love, of justice, of healing, the very work of Christ, will continue through the community, even under persecution.

So, when I think about this text I’m not asking, “Why didn’t Gd answer their prayers?” I am asking “What does it mean to remain in relationship, to live and act in that name, when the world is not safe?”

And I find myself wondering about contemporary times, personally, locally, nationally and internationally. These are troubling times. 

So, what does it mean for me not to let my heart be troubled? Certainly not because everything is fine but because I am held in something deeper than circumstances.

And what does it mean for me to ask in that name?  It can’t be to control outcomes, but to participate in that same flow of love that cannot be extinguished even by violence.

I don’t think today’s lectionary text offers easy reassurance. I think it is something more demanding, and perhaps more real. A call to trust relationship over outcome, to value presence over protection and love over certainty.