A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14, Year A)
August 9, 2026

Text: Matthew 14:22-33

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

One of the great blessings of being a parish priest is taking Holy Communion to those who are sick or homebound. It’s an opportunity to meet people where they are and to bring the Church to them when they can’t be here in person.

For the past few years, I’ve had the opportunity to visit someone in our community—not a member of our parish—but a retired Episcopal priest named Francis.

Because of his health, he’s no longer able to come to church. So every so often, one of his family members calls and asks if I’ll come pray with him and bring Communion, which I’m always happy to do.

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit Francis again.

I arrived at the house expecting an ordinary visit.

When I walked inside the house, I greeted Francis like usual and asked how he was doing.

Then I looked across the room and greeted the woman who lovingly cares for him, and I asked how she was doing.

She paused for a moment.

She lowered her head just a little.

And I could tell immediately that something wasn’t right.

Then she shared with me that, just a few months ago, her family had experienced a terrible tragedy.

With tears in her eyes, she told me that her youngest son had died unexpectedly, leaving behind a wife and two young children.

I don’t want to go into the details, because they’re not important.

What matters is that a mother was grieving the loss of her son.

As I sat and listened, my heart broke for her because I could tell she was really struggling.

And one thought kept running through my mind:

“What do I say?”

What do you say to a mother who’s lost her child?

What words could possibly make a difference?

As tempting as it would have been to move the conversation along and return my attention to Francis, I knew in that moment that she needed someone to listen.

So that’s what I did.

I listened.

I offered a few simple words of encouragement.

I gave her a big hug.

And I reminded her that our God is loving and merciful—a God who promises never to leave us or abandon us in our pain—a God who walks with us even when it feels like all hope is lost.

The truth is, there was nothing I could do or say that would make her pain go away.

There was nothing I could do to fix what had happened.

The only thing I could do was stay with her in that moment.

To listen.

To be present.

To give her the space to share what was on her heart.

I have no idea whether anything I said made a difference.

But I hope that, in some small way, my presence reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

After we all prayed together and shared Holy Communion, I drove home.

And as I drove, I found myself giving thanks to God for this calling and for being able to serve as an instrument of God’s healing.

I also found myself reflecting on something I need to be reminded of from time to time.

Maybe you do too.

We never really know what people are carrying.

We can go through an ordinary day assuming everything is perfectly fine while the person standing right beside us is living through the worst season of their life.

We never know how God might place someone in our path who is hurting.

And because we never know, kindness matters.

Compassion matters.

Showing up and being present matters.

Because God may be preparing to use us in ways we never expected.

God may be calling us to bring hope to someone who’s struggling to find it.

God may be using us to reach out a hand to someone who needs our help.

As I was getting ready for today’s sermon and reading through our Gospel lesson for this morning, my mind kept going back to that visit with Francis and his caregiver.

And I began to realize something. These two stories have something in common.

They’re both about people who are sinking.

In our lesson today from Matthew, after feeding the five thousand, Jesus sends the disciples ahead by boat while he goes up the mountain to pray.

During the night the wind picks up, the waves begin crashing against the boat, and the disciples become terrified.

Then, in the darkness, they see Jesus walking toward them on the water, but at first, they think it’s a ghost.

Peter says, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you.”

Jesus answers with one word.

“Come.”

Peter climbs out of the boat, and for a few moments, he actually walks toward Jesus.

But then he notices the wind.

He sees the waves crashing.

Fear overwhelms him, and he begins to sink.

As the water closes around him, Peter cries out, “Lord, save me.”

Then Matthew gives us one of the most beautiful sentences in the entire Gospel.

“Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.”

That line has stayed with me all week.

Jesus reaches out his hand.

He doesn’t stand back and wait for Peter to figure out how to save himself.

He doesn’t lecture Peter while he’s drowning.

He reaches for him.

And once he has him safely in his grasp, he says to Peter, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

For the longest time, I heard those words as criticism.

But, now I hear them differently.

I hear them as words of compassion.

Not the voice of an angry or disappointed teacher.

But the voice of a Savior who was there to save his friend.

It’s almost as if Jesus is saying, “Peter…I’m right here with you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

I think that’s important because it tells us something about the heart of God.

Jesus’ first instinct is compassion—not criticism.

His first instinct is to move toward the one who’s sinking.

His first instinct is to reach out his hand in love.

And if that’s who Jesus is, then perhaps that’s what we’re called to do as well.

There’s another story in the Bible that comes later—in the Book of Acts—about Peter and John, who encounter a man who’s been unable to walk since birth.

Every day he’s carried to the Beautiful Gate of the Temple to beg for money.

When Peter sees the man, he says, “I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk.”

Then the author of Acts tells us that Peter took him by the right hand and raised him up.

Peter reaches out his hand and heals him.

In my holy imagination, I wonder if Peter remembered the hand of Jesus in that moment.

The hand that reached out through the wind and the waves.

The hand that saved him from drowning in the sea.

Scripture doesn’t tell us what Peter was thinking, but it doesn’t really have to.

Peter experienced the compassion of Jesus, and he learned to show that same compassion to others.

That’s called discipleship.

Not simply believing in Jesus.

But becoming more like Jesus.

Receiving his compassion.

Then sharing that same compassion with someone else.

Friends, the truth is, we can’t solve every problem.

We can’t heal every broken heart, as much as we would like to.

We can’t carry every burden.

And we can’t save the world.

That work belongs to God.

But we can notice when someone’s sinking.

We can care when someone’s hurting.

We can visit someone who’s lonely or afraid.

We can pray and offer words of encouragement.

We can sit quietly beside someone who’s grieving.

We can listen without trying to explain away their pain.

We can be present.

And we can reach out a hand.

This week, someone around you may be struggling with a burden you’ll never see.

Or maybe you will.

Maybe you’ll have the opportunity to be the hands and feet of Jesus and reach out a hand to someone who’s hurting.

You may not have the perfect words.

You may not have any answers.

But Jesus isn’t asking you to have all the answers.

He’s asking you to be present.

To be kind.

To be compassionate.

To reach out your hand in love.

That’s what Jesus did for Peter.

That’s what Peter learned to do for others.

And that’s how Christ continues to reach people today—through our words and actions.

One act of compassion.

One quiet presence.

One outstretched hand at a time.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 12, Year A)
Text: Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Most years, during the season of Lent, it’s my practice to take on some kind of daily devotional—something short I can read each morning and carry with me for the rest of the day.

Several years ago, I decided to use the daily meditations offered by Episcopal Relief & Development, and that year, there was one meditation in particular that stayed with me. It was written by an Episcopal priest who began with a quotation from George Herbert:

“Nothing is little in God’s service.”

George Herbert was a seventeenth-century Anglican priest and poet. Early in his life, he seemed destined for a prominent public career. He studied at Cambridge, served in Parliament, and had connections to the royal court. 

But eventually, he left all that behind to follow God’s call to the priesthood. He became the priest of a small country parish in England, where his life was shaped by the ordinary work of ministry—praying each day, preaching, leading worship, visiting the sick, and caring for the poor.

In his well-known work, The Country Parson, Herbert reflected on the life and responsibilities of a parish priest. He believed that even the smallest and most ordinary parts of ministry could be offered to the glory of God.

His life wasn’t measured by status or popularity. It was shaped by faithfulness in one particular place, among one particular group of people.

So his words reflected his own experience in parish ministry.

“Nothing is little in God’s service.”

The author of that meditation went on to describe the ordinary work that filled most of her days as a priest. 

She wrote that most days weren’t especially glamorous or filled with excitement. Instead, they were filled with small things: speaking a kind word to a stranger, preparing a sermon, working on a newsletter, recruiting a Sunday school teacher, taking Communion to someone who’s lonely, praying with someone who’s lost a job, writing a thank-you note, saying her prayers, breaking the bread, and sharing the cup.

I connected with those words on a deep and personal level. Because even as a priest, I sometimes wonder whether the work I do really makes a difference.

And I imagine most of us have wondered that same thing at one time or another.

We look at the problems in the world and they seem overwhelming.

We see violence and division, poverty and loneliness, fear and uncertainty.

We see needs in our own community that are much greater than our resources.

And compared with all of that, what we have to give can seem so small.

We think, “What difference can one phone call make?”

“What difference can one meal make?”

“What difference can one invitation, or one prayer, or one act of kindness possibly make?”

It’s easy to believe that if we can’t do something big or dramatic, then perhaps what we can do doesn’t matter very much.

But George Herbert’s words offer us a different way of thinking:

“Nothing is little in God’s service.”

And that brings us to this morning’s Gospel.

In our reading from Matthew, Jesus offers a series of five short parables about the kingdom of heaven.

The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed planted in a field.

The kingdom of heaven is like yeast hidden in flour.

The kingdom of heaven is like treasure buried in a field.

The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant searching for one pearl of great value.

The kingdom of heaven is like a net thrown into the sea, gathering fish of every kind.

These images come one after another, each giving us a different glimpse of what God’s kingdom is like.

And they all point us toward something important: God is at work in the world, but God’s work doesn’t always begin in ways that appear large or dramatic.

Sometimes the kingdom begins with something as small as a mustard seed.

Sometimes it works quietly and under the surface, like yeast hidden in flour.

Sometimes it remains buried for a while, like treasure in a field, waiting to be discovered.

We often expect the kingdom of God to be more obvious than that.

We look for God in large and impressive things. We imagine that the kingdom must come through dramatic moments of conversion or large crowds of people filling the pews at church.

And certainly, God can be found in those moments.

But when Jesus teaches his disciples about the kingdom of heaven, he points to a mustard seed—something small enough to disappear in the palm of your hand.

A mustard seed isn’t impressive. When someone plants it in the ground, you can’t see what it will eventually become.

You can’t see the roots that will spread beneath the surface. You can’t see the branches that will stretch outward. You can’t see the birds that will one day come and make their nests there.

At first, all you can see is the seed.

And once the seed has been buried, you can’t see anything at all.

But just because something is hidden doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

The same is true of the yeast. Once it’s mixed into the flour, it disappears. It can’t be separated from the dough.

For a while, nothing seems to be happening.

But beneath the surface, the yeast is working. Slowly and steadily, it makes its way through the whole batch of dough.

That’s how Jesus describes the kingdom of heaven.

It often begins in ways that seem small and works in ways that remain hidden for a long time.

But even though we can’t always see or measure it, we can trust that God is still at work.

We aren’t promised that every small act of faithfulness will produce a result we can point to. But we are assured that whatever is offered to God in love is never wasted.

The kingdom is near when someone notices that a member of the church has been absent for a while and takes the time to call and make sure they’re okay.

The kingdom is near when food is prepared for a grieving family or someone in need.

The kingdom is near when we take the time to invite someone to church or when we invite a stranger to sit down and share a meal.

The kingdom is near when we forgive someone, or visit someone who’s lonely, or offer a prayer that no one else will ever hear.

None of those things on their own are large enough to change the world.

But perhaps changing the whole world isn’t our calling.

Perhaps our calling is simply to plant the seed or mix in the yeast—to offer what we have, however small it may seem, and to trust God with the growth.

So much of God’s work happens beneath the surface and beyond what our eyes can see.

The mustard seed and the yeast teach us that God can work through what is small and hidden. The parables of the treasure in the field and the pearl of great value add something more: what appears small and hidden may actually be worth more than we can possibly imagine.

A treasure buried in a field might look like nothing more than an ordinary patch of ground. A pearl is small enough to hold in the palm of your hand.

But when their true value is discovered, everything changes.

The person who finds the treasure joyfully sells everything to purchase the field. The merchant who finds the pearl of great value sells everything to possess it.

Something can be hidden and still be precious.

Something can be small and still be worth everything.

The kingdom of heaven may not always attract the attention of the world. It may not look powerful according to the world’s standards. It may be found in places the world overlooks and among people the world considers unimportant.

But once we recognize the kingdom and understand its importance, it begins to reshape our lives.

We discover something worth giving ourselves to completely.

We begin to understand that no act of love, no work of mercy, and no offering made to God is ever wasted.

And because the kingdom belongs to God, its full reach—and its final outcome—cannot be controlled by us.

That brings us to Jesus’ final image in today’s reading: a net cast into the sea.

The net gathers fish of every kind. It doesn’t gather only the fish we would have chosen. It reaches farther and gathers more widely than we might expect.

God alone sees the whole catch, and God alone is qualified to judge it.

Our calling isn’t to decide which people are worth gathering or which seeds are worth planting.

Our call is to be faithful.

To cast the net.

To sow the seed.

To mix in the yeast.

To seek the treasure.

And to trust God with what follows.

Most of us won’t change the world through large and impressive acts of service.

More often than not, we’ll be given a thousand small opportunities to love God and to love our neighbor.

We may never see what grows from the seeds we plant. We may never know how a kind word is received, or what an invitation sets in motion, or how a prayer helps another person.

Like the yeast in the flour, much of God’s work may remain hidden beyond our sight.

But Jesus assures us that the kingdom of heaven is near.

God is working through small moments.

God is working beneath the surface.

God is working through ordinary people, in ordinary places, through ordinary acts of faithfulness.

And that includes us.

So plant the seed.

Mix in the yeast.

Make the phone call.

Write the note.

Offer the prayer.

Welcome the stranger.

And trust that the God who brings forth great branches from tiny seeds can use even the smallest act of love for the building of his kingdom.

Because nothing offered to God in love is insignificant.

Nothing done in the name of Jesus is ever wasted.

And nothing is little in God’s service.

Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 6, Year A)
June 14, 2026

Text: Matthew 9:35-10:8

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Several years ago, while I was serving at my previous parish in Alabaster, I was contacted by a couple in the community who had heard about our Rice and Beans ministry, much like the one we have here at St. Mary’s.

They owned several laundromats in the area, and they wondered if our church might be interested in partnering with them in some way to help people in need.

I told them we would love to do that.

Their first idea was to give us laundry cards to put in our Rice and Beans bags, so when people came to receive food, they would also receive a laundry card that they could use at the laundromat to wash their clothes for free.

It was such a generous offer, and as the conversation continued, the idea began to grow.

They also suggested that we might partner together to begin a Laundry Love ministry. Once a month, members of the church would come to the laundromat, offering free loads of laundry to anyone in the community who needed it.

They would provide the machines. All we had to do was show up and bring dryer sheets and laundry detergent.

So that’s what we did.

And once we started, the ministry began to grow. More people started coming each month, and we had several members of the parish show up to help.

What began as a simple idea became a wonderful opportunity for the Church to show up in an ordinary place with compassion and generosity.

As I got to know this couple a little better, they started sharing stories about their faith.

And one of the things they told me was that at their church, there was a sign posted outside in the parking lot that you had to drive by as you were leaving. It was very simple.

It said, “You are now entering the mission field.”

“You are now entering the mission field.”

I love that image.

And I think it’s a helpful reminder for all of us, because far too often, church can almost feel like a means to an end.

We come to worship once a week. We sing the hymns. We say the prayers. We listen to the readings. We receive Communion. And then we go about the rest of our week not really thinking much about what happened on Sunday.

And if we’re not careful, we can begin to keep our faith separate from the rest of our everyday lives.

There’s church, and then there’s everything else.

There’s Sunday morning, and then there’s Monday through Saturday.

There’s what we believe in here, and there’s how we live out there.

But this was not Jesus’ idea of discipleship.

Jesus didn’t say to his disciples, “Come and worship me once a week.”

He didn’t say, “Come fulfill your church obligation and then get back to your real life.”

Jesus said, “Follow me.”

Now, of course, we love to worship. We gather here week after week to offer our praise and thanksgiving. We worship because God is worthy of our praise. We worship from a place of gratitude and love because of all the ways God has been faithful to us.

But worship is not the end of discipleship.

Worship forms us for discipleship.

We come here to be fed and nourished and reminded who we are and whose we are, so that we can then be sent back out into the world to live as followers of Jesus.

Our Gospel reading for today is a good example of what that looks like.

Matthew tells us that Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in the synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness.

And then Matthew gives us this beautiful image.

“When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”

Jesus saw the crowds.

He saw people who were harassed and helpless.

People who were worn down.

People who were wounded and in need of healing.

And he had compassion for them.

The Greek word that Matthew uses here for compassion is splagchnizomai, which refers to the bowels or the inner organs, the deepest part of the body.

In other words, Jesus doesn’t just feel sorry for the people.

He has a visceral, gut-wrenching reaction when he sees their suffering.

He is moved from the very depths of his being.

And that compassion moves him to act.

Jesus says to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

It’s Jesus’ way of saying, “There’s a lot of important work to be done but very few who have the will or desire to do it.”

So Jesus summons the twelve disciples.

Matthew lists them each by name.

Jesus gives them authority to cast out unclean spirits and to cure every disease and every sickness.

And then he sends them out with these instructions:

“Go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. As you go, proclaim the good news, ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons.”

Jesus is on a mission to bring healing and wholeness to the people.

But instead of doing all the work himself, he shares that work with his disciples.

He shares his mission.

He shares his authority.

He sends them out to do the very things he’s been doing.

To proclaim good news.

To heal what is broken.

To confront the forces that diminish and destroy human life.

To go to those who are lost, wounded, and afraid, and announce by word and deed that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

And that’s where the Gospel meets us today, because this story is about more than just something Jesus did a long time ago.

Jesus commissions us to do the same in our own time and place. As followers of Jesus, we share in his ministry.

That’s really why the Church exists in the first place.

The Church doesn’t exist only for our own benefit.

The Church doesn’t exist just so we can have a beautiful place to worship or programs that meet our needs.

All of those things matter.

But they are not the end.

We gather here week after week to be fed and nourished so that we can then be sent out to do the work of healing God has given us to do.

Sometimes we do that in organized ways through the ministries of the Church—like feeding our neighbors through Rice and Beans or helping people wash their clothes at Laundry Love.

We do it when we visit the sick, care for the grieving, and offer hospitality to those who walk through our doors.

But more often than not, we’re called to be ministers in those ordinary, everyday places where we live most of our lives.

At work.

At school.

At the baseball field.

At the grocery store.

In conversations with friends.

In moments when someone is hurting and we have the opportunity to listen.

In moments when someone is lonely and we have the opportunity to notice.

Anytime we see a need that we can help fill, there’s an opportunity to participate in the healing work of Jesus.

This is the work of the Gospel.

We are sent out as missionaries.

When we hear the word missionary, it’s easy to imagine that mission work only happens somewhere else.

In another country or part of the world.

And certainly, God calls some people to that kind of mission work.

But first and foremost, I believe God calls us to share the Gospel right where we are.

In our own towns and communities.

In our own daily lives.

Because there’s plenty of work to do right here.

There are plenty of people in our own community who are hungry—not just physically but emotionally and spiritually as well.

There are people who feel overlooked and forgotten.

People who are lonely, anxious, and afraid.

People who have been cast out and told they are worthless.

There are people who have been made to believe they are unworthy of God’s love and have no place in the church.

And we have the opportunity, wherever God leads us, to help heal those wounds.

We have the opportunity, here and now, to be instruments of God’s healing and mercy.

To remind people that they are loved.

To remind them they are worthy of God’s love.

To offer forgiveness and hope to those who feel worthless and beyond redemption.

To proclaim, not only with our words but with our lives, that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

We may not have a sign in our parking lot that reads, “You are now entering the mission field.”

But we do have words that remind us of what we are called to do. We hear them every week in worship.

At the end of the service, after the closing hymn, we hear the words of the Dismissal.

“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

It’s not just a nice way of saying the service is over.

It’s a re-commissioning.

It’s a reminder that the work of ministry—the work of discipleship—is not confined to this building.

It extends beyond our walls into a world that is desperate for good news—a world full of people who are harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.

A world that God longs to heal and make new.

So when we come to the end of today’s service—and every Sunday for that matter—may those words be planted in our hearts.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

Go into your homes.

Go into your workplaces.

Go into your schools and neighborhoods.

Go into the ordinary places of your life with compassion and mercy.

And carry with you the Good News of God in Christ.

“The kingdom of heaven has come near.”

Amen.

A Sermon for the Seventh Sunday of Easter (Year A)
May 17, 2026

Text: Acts 1:6-14

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This past week, I came across a comic strip on Facebook that imagines the Ascension of Jesus in a way that’s both funny and thought-provoking.

In the comic, Jesus is standing with his disciples, just before he ascends into heaven. He looks at them and says, “Gotta go, dudes. Don’t forget what I taught you.”

And then, as he’s being lifted up into the air, he calls back down to them and says, “See you in the funny papers!”—which, of course, is a little nod to the fact that this is a comic strip.

The disciples stand there watching him go, and one of them waves and says, “Bye, boss.” Another one says, “Bye!”

Then, after Jesus has vanished from their sight, they begin to talk among themselves.

One of them asks, “So…what did we learn?”

Another one answers, “Pretty much, it’s love God and love your neighbor.”

Then, someone else says, “Well, that seems pretty simple. I don’t see how we can mess th…”

And just as he’s about to finish, another disciple points and says, “Uh-oh…here come the theologians!”

I love that comic because it made me laugh, but I also think there’s something important to learn from it.

Now, just to be clear, the joke about theologians is funny, but theology matters. The Church has always needed faithful people—scholars, priests, writers—to help us think deeply about who God is and what God calls us to do.

At its best, theology doesn’t lead us away from the heart of God. It leads us more deeply into it.

But, sometimes we make following Jesus a little more complicated than it needs to be.

It can be easy for us to get tangled up and lost in all the questions, and when we do that, we can lose sight of what’s really important and what Jesus first taught us to do, which is love God and love our neighbor.

Or, as a priest I once knew used to say, “Love God. Love your neighbor. Everything else is commentary.”

That line has stayed with me for years, and I thought about it this week as I prepared for today’s sermon.

In our reading this morning from the Acts of the Apostles, we hear the story of Jesus’ Ascension into heaven.

And while the comic strip tells that story with humor, it also points us toward a very real question the disciples had to face after Jesus ascended:

What now?

Jesus had been raised from the dead. He had appeared to them. He had taught them. And now, the time had come for him to return to the Father.

But before Jesus ascends, the disciples ask him one more question:

“Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”

In other words: Is this it? Is this the moment we’ve been waiting for? Is this when everything finally gets fixed? Is this when all the pain and confusion and uncertainty are swept away? Is this when our enemies are defeated, our hopes are fulfilled, and all our questions are finally answered?

Is this when the kingdom comes in the way we expected?

Because that’s really what they’re asking. They’re not asking a random question. They’re asking from a place of hope and longing.

They’ve followed Jesus for all this time. They’ve watched him heal the sick, feed the hungry, forgive sinners, welcome the outcast, and challenge the powers of this world.

They’ve experienced his death and resurrection.

And now, after all of that, they want to know: Is this finally the moment when God makes everything right?

It’s understandable, because we ask it, too.

When we look at the world and see suffering, violence, and division, we wonder, “How long, O Lord? When will things be made right? When will God’s kingdom finally be fulfilled? When will this broken world be restored to what God intended it to be?”

The disciples wanted to know if that moment had finally arrived.

Jesus doesn’t shame them for asking. But he does redirect them.

He says, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority.”

That probably wasn’t the answer they wanted to hear.

They wanted a timeline.

Instead, Jesus gave them a mission.

They wanted to know the future.

But Jesus gave them work to do in the present.

“You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you,” he says, “and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

That is their calling.

And that’s why the Ascension matters.

It’s not just about Jesus leaving. It’s not Jesus abandoning his disciples. It’s not him saying, “I’ve done my part. Now it’s time for you to figure it out.”

The Ascension tells us that, after Jesus completed his earthly ministry, he returns to the Father. He is lifted into the fullness of God’s glory. He intercedes on our behalf. He carries our humanity with him into the very heart of God.

And before he ascends, he promises his disciples that they will never be alone.

They will receive the Holy Spirit.

They will be given power.

And they will be sent out as witnesses.

And I think that’s what the comic strip from earlier gets right.

The disciples ask, “So…what did we learn?”

Love God.

Love your neighbor.

And show the world—by your life and example—what the love of God in Christ Jesus really looks like.

It sounds simple enough.

But simple doesn’t always mean easy.

It’s not always easy to love God with our whole heart, soul, mind, and strength.

It’s not always easy to love our neighbors as ourselves, especially when our neighbors are difficult or different from us or hard to understand.

It’s not always easy to love when we’re afraid.

It’s not always easy to love when being right or winning an argument matters more than being reconciled.

And maybe that’s why Jesus tells his disciples to go and wait for the Holy Spirit.

Because the mission he gives them is simple, but it isn’t always easy.

They’ll need to rely on more than just their own strength in order to do God’s work.

They’ll need the power of the Holy Spirit.

After Jesus ascends, the disciples stand there, looking up toward heaven, and two men in white robes appear and say, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”

In other words, don’t just stand there. You’ve been given a mission and a promise.

Now go and pray and wait for the Holy Spirit.

And that’s exactly what they do.

They return to Jerusalem. They gather together, and they devote themselves to prayer as they get ready for what’s about to happen.

And then finally, when the Holy Spirit arrives, they bear witness to what they’ve seen and heard. And we’ll hear more about that next week on the Day of Pentecost.

Dear friends, that’s the life of the Church.

We pray.

We gather together in worship.

We put our trust in God to give us what we need in order to live good and faithful lives.

And God grants us the gift of the Holy Spirit, strengthening and empowering us for the work of ministry and sending us forth into the world to share the Good News.

We’re still living in that time between the Ascension of Jesus and the fullness of God’s Kingdom.

We still have questions and struggle with doubt.

We still wonder what God is up to in the world around us.

We still look at the world and hope for things to be made right.

But Jesus doesn’t give us a timeline.

Instead, he gives us a promise—just like he did with his disciples.

He promises to never leave us or abandon us to do this work alone.

He gives us the gift of the Holy Spirit to bring us comfort and peace in our lives and to strengthen us for the work of ministry.

He gives us the gift of one another—a community of faith to lean on for strength and support.

And, by God’s grace, he gives us holy work to do.

The disciples couldn’t stay where they were after Jesus ascended, and neither can we. There is a world around us that needs mercy, forgiveness, and hope.

So we go forth to bear witness to the love of God is Christ Jesus—not just in what we say, but in how we live our lives.

We join in the work of building up God’s Kingdom, on earth as it is in heaven.

And that work really can be summed up in five simple words.

Love God.

Love your neighbor.

Everything else is commentary.

Amen.