“Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, ‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day... You are witnesses of these things. And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised...’ Then he led them out as far as Bethany, and, lifting up his hands, he blessed them... While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.”
—Luke 24:45–51

There’s something powerful about a blessing.

Not a rushed goodbye or a polite “take care,” but a real, heartfelt moment where someone speaks words of love and hope over your life. That’s what Jesus does here. As he prepares to return to heaven, he doesn’t leave his disciples in confusion or fear—he leaves them with a blessing.

Let’s be honest: most of us don’t love change. Even good changes can feel a little scary. Transitions—such as graduations, retirements, new jobs, and loved ones passing—can leave us wondering what comes next and if we’re truly ready for it.

And here’s Jesus, standing with his friends on a hillside, lifting his hands not to wave goodbye but to bless them. And while he’s still blessing them—right in the middle of that holy moment—he rises into heaven.

And the disciples? They don’t panic. They don’t fall apart. They head back to Jerusalem filled with joy. That part always amazes me.

Why joy? Because Jesus reminded them that the story wasn’t ending—it was just beginning. He had opened their hearts and minds to everything they had lived through together, and he promised they wouldn’t be alone. The Spirit was coming. They were ready, even if they didn’t feel ready.

And maybe that’s a word for us, too.

You might be standing on the edge of something new today—something exciting or something bittersweet. You might be carrying questions, fears, or just that ache that comes with change. But hear this: Jesus doesn’t just send us out—he blesses us forward. He goes with us. And what’s ahead? It may be unknown, but it’s not empty. The Spirit is still coming. The promise still holds.

Jesus,
Sometimes, change is hard.
Help me remember that you don’t send me out alone.
Thank you for the blessing you speak over my life.
When I feel unsure, please fill me with your peace.
And when I step into something new, remind me you’re already there.
Amen.

​Grace and Peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
When I was a kid, my friend Heather and I spent hours playing by the creek on her family's farm. It was one of those winding, shaded streams where your boots always got stuck in the mud no matter how careful you were. We'd build dams with sticks and rocks, race leaf boats, and dig our fingers into the wet clay along the banks.
But what I remember most was what lived underneath.

If you sat still long enough and let the water settle, you could start to see it if you were patient. Fish darting between stones. Crawdads scooting backward under the shadows. Tiny tadpoles, slow and wiggly, like little commas in the water. There was a whole world under the surface, alive and moving, even when it looked still at first glance.

And I remember thinking, "How much of life is like that?" How much is hidden? How much is happening beneath the surface, even when we can't see it?

That memory came rushing back to me this week as I sat with today's Gospel from John. Because that's what Jesus is telling us, too. Listen. Watch. Trust. Even when you can't see everything.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled."

That's how the chapter began. In today's reading, we hear Jesus continuing his farewell message to the disciples. The Last Supper is ending. The cross is near. The world is about to be turned upside down. And yet, Jesus says: "Peace I leave with you; the Peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives." I'm not sure about you, but I find that sentence both beautiful and utterly perplexing. What does it mean that Jesus gives peace "not as the world gives"?

Let's be honest: the world gives Peace conditionally.

• Peace is negotiated.
• Peace is earned.
• Peace is bought.
• Peace is temporary.

We see it in our politics, relationships, and even our hearts. The world's Peace is often just the absence of conflict, not the presence of wholeness. But the Peace Jesus gives? It's not the kind you can broker or bargain for. It's not dependent on circumstances. It doesn't require everything to be OK. It arrives most powerfully when everything is not OK.

Jesus is preparing his disciples for chaos. And yet, what does he promise? Not a plan. Not a guarantee. It's not a road map. He promises his presence.

"Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them."

Home. Make our home with them. What a powerful image. Jesus knows that soon, the Temple curtain will be torn. That the physical place of worship will be eclipsed by something more profound. That God will not dwell in buildings made of stone but in the fragile, faithful hearts of ordinary people. In you. In me.

Florence was a member of one of my first congregations. She had thinning white hair, the kindest blue eyes, and a laugh that always came with a hand squeeze. She lived alone in a small house just outside of town. Every week, I brought her communion, and every time I walked in, she'd smile and say, "Pastor, come in and sit a spell. I've got a story and some cookies with your name on them."

On one visit, I found Florence sitting silently in her chair. No cookies. No smile. Just tears. Her memory was beginning to slip. She'd forgotten the names of her grandchildren. She was scared. Angry. And she no longer felt that God was far away. I sat next to her, and we read today's passage together. When I got to the part that says, "We will come and make our home with them," she stopped me. They looked right at me with surprising clarity and said, "You mean Jesus still wants to live here—in me? Even if I can't remember Him?" And I said, "Yes. Exactly that." She closed her eyes and whispered, "Then I'm not alone."

Jesus promises the Holy Spirit—the Advocate. The Comforter. The Teacher. The Reminder. He doesn't leave us orphaned, even when we feel like we've lost everything else. Sometimes, we think the Holy Spirit only shows up in significant ways—tongues of fire, dramatic conversions, dazzling miracles. But most of the time, the Spirit is the still, small breath reminding us we are not forgotten. Jesus is still at home in us, even when the windows are cracked, the roof leaks and the walls feel shaky.

Peace I leave with you. My Peace I give to you.
Not the world's Peace. Not Peace based on performance or perfection.
But Peace is rooted in presence. A Savior who stays. A Spirit who whispers, "You are mine."

Beloved, this world is full of anxious hearts and troubled minds. We don't always get to choose what storms come our way. But we do get to choose what we hold onto.
So listen. Watch. Trust.
Something is happening beneath the surface.
Jesus is still rowing the boat.
Still making his home with you.
Still whispering, "Do not be afraid."