Now what?

Sermon by Pr. Michelle Sevig on the Seventh Sunday of Easter + Sunday, May 17, 2026

Sometimes, I wish I could just pick up the phone and call my mom. She died ten years ago; and even though we didn’t talk on the phone every day, or even every week, there are times now when I wish I could simply talk with her again. To hear her voice. Or tell her about my kids, who are now young adults; she’d be so proud and delighted. Or to ask her how she made the potato salad taste just right.

Maybe you’ve experienced something similar with a loved one who is no longer present in the way they used to be, and now you long for the “old days” or the previous ways of connecting. Maybe you’re a recent college graduate and miss the days of hanging out with roommates and friends on a daily basis. Or you're a parent who has helped your child leave the nest and live on their own, and now it really does feel empty around the house. Or there’s a colleague or friend who has moved to a new job or location, and now the relationship has shifted.

Today we have two readings from scripture that invite us to feel what the disciples might have felt. In his farewell prayer the night before he dies, Jesus prays for his disciples–that they may be one, that they may know God more fully, that they may have eternal life in relationship with God and each other. And in the reading from Acts, Jesus is lifted up and ascends out of their sight and into the heavens. What might they have felt in those transitional moments? Grief, and despair? Curiosity and hope? Did they feel abandoned?

Before his ascension, Jesus was with them, healing, teaching and loving. Then he’s crucified and buried in a tomb. Then he’s alive again, eating broiled fish and opening the scriptures to them for understanding. And then…gone again. I can imagine that they were longing for the “old days,” for the previous ways of connecting, learning and loving as they used to do.

At the end of this Easter season, we encounter stories of transition and farewells. The Feast of the Ascension marks Jesus’ final leave-taking, and it happens exactly 40 days after Easter–on a Thursday. I’m sure you all had that marked on your calendar, right? Just like a birthday or anniversary? I can assure you, no one showed up at church on Thursday, like they do on Easter Sunday, to observe this great event in Jesus’ life. Though we don’t celebrate it as fully as we celebrate Easter, the Ascension is a core belief that Christians confess in both the Apostles’ and Nicene creeds.

Pastor Tim Brown wrote, “The Feast of the Ascension follows the Biblical pattern of 40, and finds itself a square 40 days after Easter. That Biblical pattern of 40 is meant to be a touchstone for those who pay attention. 40 days and 40 nights of the floating ark. 40 years of wandering for Israel. 40 days of temptation in the desert for Jesus. This is not coincidence,” Tim says, “but rather a way for Biblical writers to say, concisely, that 40 is when you're at your wit's end and you can't take anymore. It's kind of like the Divine has ‘had enough.’”

In the ascension, as Jesus is blessing the disciples, he gazes down on them and knows they are ready to go on without him. He’s shown God’s love for the whole world and sends them out to be witnesses of these things–love, forgiveness, freedom. If Jesus had stuck around, the church would never have learned to lean on one another. The absence of Jesus makes room for the possibility of his presence through his people. The relationship has changed; there is a new way of loving, and being in the world now, because Christ has shown the way.

And maybe that is where the words from 1 Peter meet us today. Because the disciples were not simply losing Jesus’ physical presence; they were becoming something new. They were becoming disciples who would need to keep going without seeing Jesus standing beside them in the same way as before.

Peter writes to people who are struggling, anxious, and uncertain about what comes next. He tells them, “Keep alert.” Not because danger is everywhere and God has abandoned them, but because a life of faith requires attentiveness. It is noticing where Christ is still at work, even when things have changed. Especially when things have changed.

And Peter tells them to remain “steadfast in your faith.” Steadfastness in faith is not flashy or dramatic, but most of the time it looks like ordinary people continuing to love one another when it would be easier to give up. It looks like showing up to worship when your heart is tired. It looks like praying when you’re not sure what words to say. It looks like continuing to trust that God is present, even when you cannot hear God’s voice as clearly as you once did or as clearly as you’d like.

The disciples had to learn that too. After the ascension, they could no longer rely on gathering around Jesus at the dinner table or walking beside him down dusty roads. They had to learn to recognize Christ differently–in bread broken together, in strangers welcomed, in forgiveness shared, in courage rising up among fearful people.

And maybe we are still learning that now. There are seasons in life when it feels like everything familiar has shifted. Relationships change. Communities change. Our bodies change. The church changes. We grieve what was. We long for the “old days,” and wonder whether we are equipped for whatever comes next.

But Peter reminds weary disciples that suffering and uncertainty are not the end of the story. He writes, “After you have suffered for a little while,the God of all grace…will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you.” Not that life will never hurt. Not that transitions will be easy. Not that we will always feel brave and faithful. But that Christ himself will restore us. Support us. Strengthen us.

The disciples stood staring into the sky after Jesus ascended, probably wondering, “Now what?” And perhaps we ask that same question more often than we admit. Now what? What do we do after loss? After change? After disappointment? After the life we expected gives way to something unfamiliar?

We keep alert for signs of grace. We remain steadfast in faith. We lean on one another.
And we trust that the risen Christ is still blessing us, still calling us forward.

Because in both scripture and in our own lives, leaving is often intertwined with blessing. Endings can become openings. Space is created for something new. The disciples lose the visible presence of Jesus, but they are being prepared for the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. And we, too, are reminded that God continues to meet us in transitions, in uncertainty, in all the places where we feel stretched beyond our comfort.

In closing, I’ll share this poem by Jan Richardson that’s perfect for Ascension, inviting us to be open to the holy things that carry with us when life changes. 

In the leaving
in the letting go
let there be this
to hold onto
at the last:

the enduring of love
the persisting of hope
the remembering of joy

the offering of gratitude
the receiving of grace
the blessing of peace.