It is not hard to imagine the weight of that moment. Nor is it far from our own experience. There are times in life and in the Church when something real and life-giving seems to be taken from us. A chapter closes. A voice is no longer heard. A familiar way forward gives way to uncertainty. We are left looking, as the disciples did, into a space that feels both full of meaning and strangely empty.

The Ascension allows us to stand there for a moment to acknowledge the loss. Yet it also gently turns us toward what is hidden within it. For what appears to be absence is not the end of Christ’s presence, but its transformation. The risen Lord is not leaving us behind. He is drawing us into a deeper way of being with him. He is present in all places. No longer seen with the eyes alone, he is known in word and sacrament, in community, and in the quiet work of the Spirit.

This is not an easy shift. It asks something of us. It asks us to trust. The promise of the Ascension is not that we will always feel certain or see clearly, but that Christ remains faithful even when he is hidden from our sight. “I am with you always,” he says. That promise does not depend on our ability to perceive him, but on his enduring love for the world he has redeemed.

In ascending, Christ carries our humanity into the very life of God. Our struggles, our joys, and our fragile and finite lives are not left behind. They are gathered up and held within the communion of the Trinity. In him, our future is already secured, even as we continue to walk through the uncertainties of the present.

The disciples are told not to remain staring into heaven. They are called to return, to wait, to pray, and soon to go out as witnesses. The space left by Christ’s going becomes the space in which their calling takes shape. Perhaps that is where this feast meets us most clearly. In the spaces where something has changed, where something has been lost or loosened, we are also being invited into a deeper trust and a renewed calling. The absence we feel may, in time, reveal itself as a different kind of presence. The uncertainty we face may become the ground in which faith takes root more deeply.

As a Church, and as a people, we do not move forward with everything resolved or made clear. We move forward with a promise. Christ has gone ahead of us. Christ remains with us, and Christ is drawing all things toward their fulfilment in God. So, we hold on to the promise of the Ascension with honesty and hope. We name the sense of loss, but we do not stop there. In that trust, we continue on together, sustained by the promise that nothing given in Christ is ever truly lost. In that promise, we find our hope.

Blessed feast of the Ascension.

The post Trusting the Promise Hidden in Loss appeared first on Anglican Life.

In the Gospel of Matthew, the women approach the tomb carrying grief and uncertainty. They were not expecting resurrection. They were simply showing up in love. Then the earth trembled, the stone was moved, and the angel spoke words that echo through history: “He is not here; for he has been raised.” (Matthew 28:6).

The stone was rolled away not so Jesus can get out, but so the disciples can see in. God makes space for them, for us, to witness new life. Easter asks us gentle but searching questions: what stones feel heavy in our lives and in our Church right now? Where do we feel sealed in by fear, fatigue, or doubt? Where does the future seem unclear? Resurrection does not pretend that those stones have never existed. Good Friday was real. The cross was real. The grief was real.

We are living in a season that calls for patience, humility, courage and deep trust in God. Across many parts of the Church, communities are discerning what faithfulness looks like in changing times. It can be tempting to hold tightly to what once felt strong and secure, or to become anxious about what the future may bring. In places where numbers have declined and familiar patterns have faded, hope can feel fragile.

Yet the empty tomb speaks directly into that space. The risen Christ remains faithful when we feel uncertain. He is present when energy feels low. He goes ahead of us into a future we cannot yet see clearly. Resurrection does not deny loss but proclaims that none of those realities are ultimate. God is still able to move what we cannot.

The stone rolled away is a sign of divine initiative. Before the disciples organized themselves, before they understood what had happening, God had already acted. Resurrection is not our achievement. It is God’s gift. That means we do not have to solve every problem or map out every step before God begins to move. The first Easter did not wait for clarity, consensus, or confidence. It unfolded while hearts were still confused and plans were still undone. God intervened in the middle of their uncertainty.

This Easter, we are invited simply to look into the open tomb and listen again. To hear the promise that life is stronger than death. To trust that even where we see obstacles, God sees possibility. To step forward, as the women did, with fear and great joy intertwined.

May we have the grace to see what God is opening before us. May we walk into that future together, trusting that the One who was raised from the dead is still living and leading amongst us.

The stone has been rolled away. Alleluia! Christ is risen indeed!

Mickton+

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This renewal is not the same as avoiding tiredness or pretending everything is fine. It is not a call to push ourselves harder. Instead, it is the promise that God meets us precisely where we feel worn, stretched, or uncertain. The strength God offers is the kind that settles into the bones slowly, much like the warmth of a wood stove after coming in from the cold. It does not erase the demands of life, but it steadies us so that we can face them without being overwhelmed. Many people across our province know what it is to walk through seasons when energy is thin: caregivers who spend long nights supporting aging parents or loved ones; families navigating financial pressures that keep them awake long after the rest of the house has gone quiet; parish volunteers who continue to give their time faithfully even when responsibilities pile up; and those carrying grief that resurfaces without warning. In all these places, the promise of Isaiah is not abstract. It is deeply personal: God knows. God sees. God strengthens.

Epiphany, which follows closely after Christmas, helps us understand how this strengthening happens. The season celebrates the ways Christ reveals himself: Sometimes boldly, like the star that guided the Magi, and sometimes quietly, like a whisper in prayer or the unexpected kindness of a neighbour. God’s presence in our lives is often small and steady rather than dramatic. A familiar hymn that brings comfort. A scripture verse that settles the heart. A conversation that lifts a burden, even slightly. These small signs become reminders that God has not stepped back from our lives but walks with us through every valley and every storm.

We carry a long history of perseverance. We know how to press on when the weather turns, how to help each other without being asked, and how to hold hope when the road ahead is not entirely clear. Isaiah’s words honour that resilience but also reframe it. Our ability to keep going is not meant to rest entirely on our own strength. God does not expect us to manage everything alone. Instead, we are invited to lean on the One who never grows tired and never loses track of us.

As we step into this new year, may you find moments when God renews your spirit in ways both gentle and profound. May the light of Christ guide your steps, ease your burdens, and steady you for all that lies ahead.

Wishing you a gentle and hope-filled New Year.

The post Finding Strength in The Quiet Light of Epiphany appeared first on Anglican Life.