H. S. von Kulmbach, The Ascension of Christ (1513), oil on fir, Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York)
He raised His hands to bless them. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, He began to vanish—not as someone leaving, but as someone crossing a threshold we cannot yet follow. He was taken up into heaven. But the strange thing is this: they were not sorrowful. They did not weep or despair. The Gospel tells us, astonishingly, that they returned to Jerusalem with great joy. Joy after absence. Joy after goodbye. Why? Because this wasn’t an ending. It was a beginning. The Ascension is not Christ escaping the world. It is Christ drawing it into Himself. His Body, once limited to one place, is now bound to no place—and so it can fill every place. His presence is no longer local but sacramental. Cosmic. Intimate. Available. “You are witnesses of these things,” He says—not only of what happened, but of what will now begin to happen through them. But first: they must wait.
“Stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high.” That phrase has always struck me. It’s so physical. Clothed with power. Not simply given power or taught how to wield it. Clothed—wrapped, embraced, transformed. The Spirit is not a tool, but a mantle. Not a supplement, but a new skin. And it will come not through effort, but through surrender. Through remaining. Through praise. The Gospel ends in the Temple, with the disciples “continually praising God.” The Church begins, not with activity, but with adoration. There’s a quiet echo of this movement in the writings of Simone Weil, that brilliant soul of paradox and hunger. In one of her notebooks, she writes: “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer.” That’s the posture of this Gospel: a community gathered, not performing or planning, but paying attention. Looking up. Holding the space. Becoming ready. And if I had to give music to this moment—music that holds space, breathes waiting, and lets silence bloom—it would be Henryk Górecki’s Symphony No. 3 (Symphony of Sorrowful Songs), especially the second movement. It’s not triumphant. It’s tender. A lament that never loses hope. It feels like the air between the Ascension and Pentecost. Not empty but aching with promise. The Ascension is not an escape. It’s invitation. It’s the Lord saying: “I go to prepare a place for you.” And in the meantime? Wait. Worship. Witness. The Lamb is no longer here in the way we once knew—but His blessing still lingers in the air. His hands are still raised. His promise still echoes. And soon—so soon—we will be clothed with fire. Until then, we sing. We stay. We trust the silence. And we lift our eyes • AE
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https://youtu.be/2fiE6NsRz8M?si=vL3Xs5rNrBJUpOPy
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