A few months back, a friend of mine was asked to review a re-issued novel—The Edge of Sadness, a Pulitzer Prize winner I’d never heard of. The title itself had me curious, but when I found out it was told through the eyes of a Catholic priest, I was all in (for obvious reasons). All of that coupled with my friend’s glowing review, and I couldn’t resist picking up a copy and diving into its nearly 400 pages.
Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for THE SOLEMNITY OF THE ASCENSION OF THE LORD (June 1, 2025). Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.
And for those who prefer listening, you can find the audio version on SoundCloud HERE or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes HERE. Your comments, messages, and the way you’ve embraced these homilies continue to inspire me. Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim
What surprised me most was how quietly gripping it was. There’s no dramatic twist, no grand adventure—just the daily life and reflections of Father Hugh Kennedy. He moves through his routines, haunted by old relationships, especially with the Carmody family: Charlie, the father, his four children—including Fr. John, Hugh’s old classmate from seminary. The story really picks up when Charlie unexpectedly reaches out and invites Father Hugh back into their lives after years apart.
I won’t spoil the ending, but I will say this: I can’t remember the last time reading a novel actually moved me to tears – it is so beautifully written and has some thoughtful and moving reflections. Yet what’s stuck with me most isn’t just the story itself, but something deeper running underneath it. Every character—Father Hugh, the Carmodys, even those on the edges of the narrative — seems to live right up against this edge of sadness. They’re weighed down by disappointments, regrets, by the sense that life hasn’t quite lived up to their hopes. And what’s most striking is how much of that sadness comes from waiting — waiting for someone else to fix things, to give their lives meaning, to lift them out of their troubles. All the while, they overlook the gifts and abilities they already have within themselves.
If I’m honest, that edge of sadness is familiar. Maybe it is for you, too. We all have moments when we feel stuck—waiting for life to change, for relationships to heal, for answers to come. Maybe it’s the parent hoping a child will finally reach out. Maybe it’s the young person unsure what’s next, or the older person wondering if their best years are behind them. Maybe it’s the person longing for healing, for forgiveness, for a sense of belonging that always seems just out of reach. Sometimes we wait and hope so long that we forget God has already placed gifts and strength within us — gifts meant not just for us, but for the world around us.
That’s what struck me as I sat with today’s scriptures. Isn’t that exactly where we find the apostles this morning? In the Acts of the Apostles, they stand there, staring at the sky as Jesus ascends—paralyzed, uncertain, maybe even a little lost. They’re caught between what was and what’s next, unsure how to move forward. In Luke’s Gospel, we sense their confusion and longing, their hope that somehow God will make it all clear—maybe send a sign, or just tell them exactly what to do.
And then comes that gentle but powerful nudge: “Men of Galilee, why are you standing there looking at the sky?” The angel is asking them Why are you waiting around? Why are you standing still?
The Ascension is a turning point. Jesus entrusts His mission to the apostles, but He doesn’t leave them empty-handed. He promises the Holy Spirit—God’s own power and presence—to guide, strengthen, and embolden them. Paul, writing to the Ephesians, prays that
“…the eyes of your hearts be enlightened,
that you may know what is the hope that belongs to his call,
what are the riches of glory in his inheritance among the holy ones,
and what is the surpassing greatness of his power
for us who believe,”
The same power that raised Jesus from the dead is alive—right now—in you and me.
This is more than just spiritual poetry. It’s a reality that can change how we see ourselves and our lives. The feast of the Ascension isn’t about saying goodbye to Jesus—it’s about recognizing that in His going, He makes space for us to step up, to live our faith out loud, to become His hands and feet in the world.
So what does that look like, practically? For one thing, it means refusing to let disappointment or regret define us. It means asking: Where am I waiting for someone else to change, or for the perfect circumstances, before I act? Where do I already have the gifts, the opportunities, the Spirit, to make a difference right where I am?
Maybe it means reaching out to someone you’ve lost touch with, or forgiving a hurt that’s kept you stuck. Maybe it’s taking the risk to discern a vocation to the priesthood or religious life, to serve in a ministry, or being present to someone who’s lonely or grieving. Maybe it’s speaking honestly about your faith, or simply choosing hope when cynicism seems easier. Sometimes the Spirit moves us in big, dramatic ways—but more often, He works in small, daily acts of courage and love.
And let’s be honest: stepping away from the edge of sadness, into hope, can be scary. The apostles didn’t suddenly become superheroes. They were still the same flawed, uncertain people. But they trusted that God’s promise was true—that the Spirit would show up, even if they couldn’t see exactly how.
Maybe that’s the invitation for us this Ascension Sunday. To stop waiting for someone else, or for life to get easier, or for the perfect sign from heaven. To believe that God has already given us what we need—the Spirit, the mission, the grace for today. To step forward, even if it’s just one small step, and trust that Christ goes with us.
And so I find myself asking—not just you, but myself as well: Will I stay on the edge, waiting for life to happen, or will I trust the Spirit and step into the story God is writing through me? Will we let disappointment or regret define us—or dare to believe that God’s power is already at work in our ordinary, imperfect lives?
The Ascension isn’t an ending for any of us. It’s a beginning—the moment when Jesus entrusts His work to us all, and promises that we will never be left alone.
Let’s not stand here gazing at the sky, wondering what might have been or waiting for life to finally begin. Instead, let’s open our hearts to the Spirit—right here, right now. Together, let’s ask God to enlighten the eyes of our hearts, so we can see the hope, the power, and the purpose He’s already placed within us. And let’s take a step forward, even if it feels uncertain—trusting that Christ is with us, and that His Spirit is alive in our ordinary, imperfect lives.
Because in the end, the Ascension isn’t about losing Jesus; it’s about discovering that we are not meant to linger at the edge—of sadness, of uncertainty, of longing. We are called to step beyond it, trusting that the Spirit meets us there, and leads us into a life of hope, mission, and joy. May we have the courage, together, to leave the edge of sadness behind and walk forward in faith.
