There are moments, I think, when nearly every Christian has envied the Twelve Apostles. We imagine that faith would be simpler if only Christ stood visibly before us as He once stood beside St. Peter and St. Andrew by the sea or walked with the disciples on the road to Emmaus. We think to ourselves: “Surely I should be a braver Christian if I could hear His voice with my own ears. Surely sorrow would lose some of its sting if I could look upon His face and say plainly, ‘Lord, help me.’”

And so the Ascension, the great mystery which the Church celebrates this Sunday, can, at first glance, appear a rather melancholy feast. For it speaks of departure. Christ is taken from sight. The disciples remain below, gazing upward like helpless children watching the sun disappear over the horizon.  Yet that is only how it appears from the earth. We are creatures of space and time, and therefore we naturally suppose that if Christ were standing three feet away from us, then He would be more present than He is now. But the story of the Ascension tells us precisely the opposite.

For while Christ remained on earth in the flesh, His bodily presence was necessarily limited. He could be in Galilee or Jerusalem, but not both at once. But by ascending to the Father in Heaven, He did not abandon the world any more than the sun abandons the earth when it sets in the evening twilight. Rather, He ceased to be present merely as one man among others and became present in a deeper way to all who belong to Him.

This is why Pope Leo the Great  could say in the 5th century that “what was visible in our Redeemer has passed into the sacraments.” The visible Christ has not vanished; He has, in a sense, hidden Himself. Hidden—not absent. The same Lord who once healed with His hands now heals through water, bread, wine, absolution, and the quiet workings of grace within His Church.

Indeed, the Ascension was not Christ withdrawing from human life but drawing humanity upward into the life of God. The Son returned to the Father carrying our nature with Him. Human flesh, the very thing so often wounded, tempted, and humiliated, now sits enthroned in Heaven. One might almost say that the Ascension is Heaven’s declaration that humanity has not been discarded after all. Man is not merely a beastly brute, bred for earthly banality, but destined for the heavenly beatific vision of eternal blissful bewilderment. 

This is why the sacraments matter so profoundly. In the Eucharist, Christ does not merely remind us of Himself; He gives Himself. In Baptism, we do not simply enact a symbol; we are united with His death and resurrection. In Confession, it is not only a man who speaks forgiveness, but Christ Himself who restores the wounded soul. The modern man often says, “If only I could see, then I would believe.” But Christianity turns the sentence upside down. We learn, gradually and painfully, that sight is not the highest form of knowing. Love itself teaches us this. The deepest realities are often those we cannot hold in our hands. And so the Ascension calls us away from the childish notion that God is absent unless He is visible. Christ is not less near because He cannot now be touched. He is nearer than ever—nearer than our own thoughts, nearer than breath itself. The disciples stood looking into Heaven because they thought the story was ending. In truth, it was only then beginning.