Sermon for Ascension Sunday 2025
preached by the Vicar, Fr Christopher Woods
There was a wonderful video doing the rounds at the end of the week on Facebook showing a very dramatic liturgy in a Church in Bavaria. It was a celebration of the the Feast of the Ascension marked by a dramatic liturgical reenactment: a statue of the risen Christ was being hoisted through an opening in the church ceiling, during the Gospel reading symbolizing Jesus' ascent into heaven. This practice, known as the "Ascension play," was especially prevalent in the Middle Ages. I will be looking into doing something similar next year, but for this year, the most we could muster was taking the statue of Jesus away from the Easter Garden.
Such dramatic overstatement within the liturgy is of course understandable and even attractive, because it helps us to put a tangible visual on to something so incomprehensible. Like the disciples, we struggle to make sense of what it means. There is no getting away from the fact that at surface level, we can be forgiven for thinking that the Ascension seems to offer something of an emptiness.
The Lord has ascended in glory. The Spirit has not yet come in fire. And here we are, caught in a pause, between earth and heaven, between absence and promise. Today we are invited to look upward and outward, to fix our eyes on the Risen Christ and to listen closely for what he prays over us in that great priestly prayer from John’s Gospel from today:
“That they may be one, as we are one.”
Christ has gone — visibly gone — but yet somehow not withdrawn. He is not hiding in a corner of heaven. He is enthroned, reigning, praying, embracing. The curtain has not closed; it has opened wider. The Ascension is not the disappearance of Christ, but a widening of his universal presence, unbound by time and place.
And so today’s Gospel — Jesus’ final prayer for his disciples — becomes a kind of key to understanding what it means to be the Church now, in this moment after his Ascension.
Jesus prays, “Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory.” This is not a prayer of departure, but of intimacy. Not separation, but communion.
Before Jesus dies, before he rises, before he ascends — he is already praying for us. “I ask not only on behalf of these,” he says, “but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word.” That is you. That is me. Christ is praying for us. That prayer echoes still.
That we may be one, as he and the Father are one — an almost impossible union, but one we are drawn into by grace. That we may see his glory — not the thunder and lightning sort of glory, but the glory of love poured out, of wounds transfigured, of peace that passes understanding. And that the love with which the Father has loved the Son may be in us — the love that has no origin, no end. That is the life we are being offered.
But Jesus is not indulging in a pious fantasy. He is commissioning us to be the answer to his prayer. He’s asking us to become one. And that kind of unity — in a fractured world and a divided Church — takes courage, effort, and a surrender of ego.
That brings us to Stephen in the reading from Acts.
Stephen, the first martyr, is being stoned to death. And in the moment of greatest pain, he sees heaven opened. Not closed — opened. And what does he see? Jesus standing at the right hand of God. Not sitting, as one might expect a king to do, but standing — as if risen in solidarity, alert to his suffering, ready to welcome him.
Stephen sees the glory of the Ascended Christ, and he becomes Christlike: he forgives, he commends his spirit, he dies in love.
Stephen’s vision becomes a kind of mirror of Christ’s prayer from the Gospel. He is being torn apart by hatred, like so many innocent people today in our world, yet he dies with unity and mercy on his lips. That’s not just courage — it’s sanctity. It's the pattern of the Ascended Christ etched into a human life.
In Revelation we’re reminded of the urgency and tenderness of the divine desire. “The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come.’” Christ longs for us, and we are invited to long for him in return. The invitation is thrown wide open: “Let everyone who is thirsty come.” This is not about religious credentials. The gift is free — the water of life, flowing not from a hidden spring but from the throne of the Lamb.
Do we still believe in this free-flowing invitation? Do we still speak with that deep longing — both Christ’s longing for us, and our longing for him? Are we willing to be a Church that thirsts and offers drink?
The early Church Fathers often spoke of the Ascension as the exaltation of all humanity. St Leo the Great says this:
“Christ’s ascension is our promotion. The glory of the Head is the hope of the Body.”
In other words, where Christ has gone, we are destined to follow. Heaven is not a far-off dream, but our true home, made ready. And the way there is through love, unity, and holy longing.
But let us not imagine that the Church’s task in the meantime is simply to wait passively, hands folded. No — we are to embody the prayer of Jesus in the here and now. We are to be a community of reconciliation, of deep listening, of welcome. The Church must not just speak of Christ’s glory — it must reflect it, in humble, luminous love.
We might ask today: what would it look like for us to answer Christ’s prayer for unity? Not uniformity — not everyone thinking or voting or worshipping the same way — but a trusting mutual belonging that overcomes suspicion and celebrates difference. What would it mean to say, “We are one, as the Father and the Son are one”?
We are the ones standing with our eyes turned upward — but our feet planted on the ground. Christ reigns. The Spirit is promised. And we, the Church, are called to live with hearts lifted high. So let us lift them and pray for unity, for glory, for love.
