Seventh Sunday of Easter
Ascension — Rev. Brent Gundlah
Gospel Reading (Luke 24:44-53/NRSVUE)
Second Reading (Acts 1:1-14/NRSVUE)
This may be the understatement of the year, but so 2026 hasn’t exactly gone as I’d hoped it would. And let’s be honest, 2025 was no bargain either.
If 2026 were going as I’d hoped it would, then we wouldn’t be at war in Iran (oh, and let’s not forget Venezuela); we wouldn’t be paying over four dollars a gallon for gas and exorbitant sums for everything else; science would still matter; and the Great Salt Lake wouldn’t be drying up.
If 2026 were going as I’d hoped it would, then ICE wouldn’t be snatching people off our streets; our votes would actually mean something; freedom of speech would still be a thing; and the human rights of our LGBTQIA+ siblings wouldn’t be under constant attack.
Yeah, 2026 is definitely not going as I’d hoped it would. And I’d bet that many, if not most, if not all of you would agree with me on that.
The stark differences between our prior hopes, on the one hand, and our present reality, on the other, have led to a wide array of emotional responses on our part — many of them far from positive.
There is much frustration over the way things are now and a great deal of anxiety regarding what might happen next. There is a whole lot of sadness (and even anger) about all that we’ve lost.
And while all of these negative feelings about unforeseen problems might be offset, to some extent and for some people, by unexpected joys, this is, for a wide variety of reasons, not the case for everyone. And nice things certainly don’t just make all of the not-so-nice things go away.
Let’s face it, it’d be tough to finding a whole lot of people who are totally and unequivocally happy about the way life in this world is going right now.
When our vision of the future is of the “hopes and dreams” variety — when it’s about all of the great things we thought were going to happen — and those hopes and dreams are suddenly dashed to pieces upon the rocks, its really hard for us not to feel disoriented and disappointed.
Making this already bad situation even worse is the fact that it often doesn’t seem like there’s a whole lot we can do to make it better. So on top of feeling disoriented and disappointed we also get to feel powerless and impatient, which is awesome.
But this is hardly a new set of feelings for humankind to contend with. Indeed, as the book known as the Acts of the Apostles begins, Jesus’ first disciples are feeling much the same way.
Acts and Luke were actually written by the very same person. Acts is basically the sequel to Luke, picking up where the Third Gospel left off — talking about the aftermath of Jesus’s death and resurrection. Our readings for today reflect this reality: the first being the very end of Luke and the second being the very beginning of Acts.
Unsurprisingly, these opening words of Acts are, to some extent, a recap of the closing words of Luke — kind of like how the serial dramas we watch on TV tend to start out with a brief summary of what happened in the last episode prefaced by a statement along the lines of, Previously, on The West Wing or Grey’s Anatomy or whatever.
Here’s the situation: The disciples had been told that Jesus was the Messiah, God’s Chosen One, the great king who had come to save them and to restore Israel to it’s rightful place in the world.
But when this king rode into Jerusalem on a humble donkey instead of a regal stallion; when this king was nailed to a cross like a common criminal instead being seated upon the throne of David, it started to become clear that things weren’t going to turn out as they’d planned. And when Jesus died, all of their expectations for salvation seemed to die right along with him.
But then this king surprised everyone by defying death and returning to his disciples. As Luke tells us, “After his suffering he presented himself alive to them by many convincing proofs, appearing to them during forty days and speaking about the kingdom of God.” Interestingly, Jesus also orders his disciples “not to leave Jerusalem, but to wait there for the promise of the Father.”
Now that Jesus is back, the disciples figure that he’s going to do what they’d always expected he would do. So as Jesus stands right there before them they ask him, somewhat impatiently, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”
Suffice it to say that the answer Jesus gives them isn’t exactly the one they’d been either hoping for or expecting to hear. He replies, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority,” which is both a marginally more polite way of saying, “None of your business,” and a slightly less direct way of saying, “Nope. You’re going to have to wait.”
In the meantime, though, Jesus also informs the disciples there’s going to a lot for them to do; the Holy Spirit is going to show up soon and send them in various directions to be Jesus’s witnesses to the ends of the earth. But, at least for now, they’re going to have to wait.
And then, just like that, Jesus is lifted up and a cloud takes him out of their sight. Can you imagine what they must have been thinking as they stood there looking skyward in disbelief? I can only guess that it was something along the lines of, “Aww, come on. You’ve got to be kidding. When is he planning on coming back this time? When is he actually going to make everything right?” But this is not for them — or for us — to know. I say this because it’s two thousand years later and we’re still waiting.
Two angels then appear to these stunned men of Galilee, asking them why they’re all just standing there looking up toward heaven (in fairness, though, I probably would have been doing the same thing). The angel’s point being that they have more important things to do, which, of course, they do. But, at the same time, they’ve also been told to wait. So, the disciples head back to Jerusalem, no doubt feeling disoriented, disappointed, powerless and impatient.
And what do they do when they get there? They join up with the women disciples, and with Jesus’ mother and brothers, and they pray together — not in the temple, but in the Upper Room of the house where they stayed. After all, we can pray anywhere we happen to find ourselves, we can devote ourselves to God wherever we might be — can’t we?
I wonder if it felt like laziness or cowardice to these disciples — all of this waiting and praying. Maybe they would have rather been getting out there and doing things; perhaps they felt like they should have been going to the temple to worship God as devout Jews like them had always done.
Waiting and praying. Saying it this way makes these two acts sound inconsequential; in fact, it makes them sounds as if they are hardly acts at all.
But, make no mistake about it — they are acts, and important ones at that. I wonder when these first disciples actually realized this? I wonder when we might actually realize this?
You see, waiting and praying — for Jesus’s first followers and for us right now —
is an admission of the fact that we don’t have all the answers and likely never will;
it is an affirmation of the truth that power over all that happens in this world doesn’t ultimately reside with us;
it is an acknowledgement of the reality that our expectations are not always in line with God’s plans;
it is an acceptance of the idea that what we want is not the only thing that matters;
it is a bold declaration of the belief that we are a part of something far bigger than us;
and it is an incredibly faithful way of approaching God and each other in light of the circumstances in which we presently find ourselves.
Waiting and praying.
It’s certainly not the only thing we should be doing right now, but it is hardly doing nothing.