A father of four was accused of a crime he did not commit. At his trial, false evidence was brought against him, and evidence that could have cleared him was suppressed. He was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison. In the years that followed, every misfortune that struck his wife and children was blamed on him. Though forgotten most of the time, whenever tragedy struck, he was remembered—only to be blamed again. Why weren’t you there? Why did you let this happen? No one stopped to ask whether they, not he, bore the blame—for they were the ones who locked him away in the first place.
This story is, of course, an analogy—and like all analogies, it falls short in some ways. But I think it says something important about the way we sometimes treat God. When faced with tragedy—personal or communal—we naturally look for someone to blame. Sometimes we blame those who caused the suffering. But often, we also blame those we feel should have stopped it. And many times, that includes God. Where were you, God? Why did you let this happen?
As we reflect on the mystery of the Ascension today, we might be tempted to think of Jesus as having left us behind. If He has ascended into heaven, does that mean He has abandoned the earth and its troubles? That He’s turned His back on us?
What’s striking is that the disciples didn’t see it that way at all. In our first reading, they watch Him ascend with reverence and awe. In the Gospel, we find them worshiping Jesus and then returning to Jerusalem with great joy. They were “continually in the temple praising God.” No sorrow. No despair. No sense of abandonment.
Why such joy at a moment we might think of as a farewell?
Because the Ascension is not about absence—it’s about fulfillment. Jesus did not ascend to distance Himself from us. He ascended to bring our humanity fully into heaven. The union of heaven and earth that began in Mary’s womb reaches its completion in the Ascension. Like two rings interlocked, heaven and earth are now inseparably joined.
Imagine a train moving through a long, dark tunnel. Jesus is the engine at the front; through baptism, we are the cars linked behind Him. He reaches the light at the end of the tunnel, and because we’re connected to Him, we can trust that we, too, will emerge into that light—so long as we stay linked to Him.
But if Jesus has made space for us in heaven, the question we must ask is: have we made space for Him on earth?
Too often, we’ve pushed God out of our homes, schools, and public life. We’ve confined Him to the corners of our lives—or even put Him on trial for being an obstacle to our freedom. And then, when things go wrong, we point the finger: Where were you, God? Why didn’t you stop this? But we rarely stop to ask if we’re the ones who shut Him out in the first place.
This mindset has deep roots. Over two centuries ago, the philosopher Immanuel Kant defined “enlightenment” as the courage to use one’s own reason without relying on the guidance of others. That idea—that no one, not even God, should tell me what is true or how I should live—has gradually taken hold in our culture. The result is the world we see today: a world often marked by division, confusion, and violence.
If no ultimate Truth unites us, then we are left to fight for our own version of the truth. And if no one—not our parents, our Church, or our God—can guide us, then unity becomes impossible without force.
But the fruit we see today—disorder, despair, and division—did not grow overnight. They came from seeds planted long ago. And if we want to change the fruit, we need to dig up the roots.
The Ascension reminds us that Christ has not abandoned us—He has gone ahead to prepare a place for us. And He invites us to prepare a place for Him. That begins by giving Him space in our hearts. From there, it spreads: into our families, our schools, our culture, our nation, and our world.
True enlightenment is not found in rejecting all external guidance. It is found in submitting ourselves to the One who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Jesus, the Light of the World, has gone before us into glory—not to leave us behind, but to bring us with Him.
So let us follow Him with confidence and joy. Let us be like the disciples—praising God, not saddened by His absence, because we know He is still with us. He is not gone. He is ahead. And He is waiting for us.
Amen.
