The Ascension and Your Monday Morning: Why the Cradle Catholic's Boring Life Actually Matters
By: Keith Abell, RPh MI
Posted on May 16, 2026
You're reading this between meetings, or maybe while your kids are doing homework, or perhaps you've carved out fifteen minutes before bed. You're a cradle Catholic — you've been Catholic your whole life — and somewhere between your baptism and right now, the story of the Ascension became just another thing you hear about once a year in May.
Jesus went up into heaven. Angels said He'd be back. Now what?
I get it. I really do. Because I used to think the same thing.
But here's what changed for me: I realized that the Ascension isn't a story about Jesus leaving. It's the story about how He became more present to you than He ever could have been if He'd stayed on earth. And it changes everything about your boring, busy, mundane life — if you're willing to see it.
Let's talk about that.
The Gap Between Sunday and Monday
You know the experience. Sunday morning, you're at Mass. Maybe the music moves you, or maybe you're just trying to keep the kids quiet. You receive the Eucharist. For a moment — a real moment — something shifts. You're aware of grace. You're aware of God.
Then Monday hits.
You're in traffic. Your boss is demanding. Your spouse forgot to take out the trash. Your teenager rolled their eyes at you. The dog ate your lunch. None of it feels sacred. None of it feels like it matters to God.
And that's where most cradle Catholics live — in that gap between the transcendent Sunday and the tedious Monday.
But the Ascension is telling you something crucial: that gap doesn't exist. Or rather, it shouldn't. Christ didn't ascend into heaven and leave you stranded on earth. He ascended so that He could be everywhere — including in your traffic jam, your difficult conversation, your exhausted afternoon.
The early Church Fathers knew this. They lived it. And they left us wisdom for exactly this moment in your life.
What Happened at the Ascension, Actually
Let me back up for a second, because most of us — even cradle Catholics — don't really understand what happened on that mountain in Galilee.
The disciples watched Jesus disappear into a cloud. It was a physical departure. For forty days, they'd been touching Him, eating fish with Him, walking with Him. He was there. Real. Solid. And then — He wasn't.
A lot of us think the Ascension is sad. The disciples got abandoned. Jesus went to heaven and left them alone.
But that's not what happened. And it's definitely not what happened to you.
Here's the theological reality that changes everything: Christ had to leave the earth physically so that He could be present to all people spiritually — everywhere, all the time, forever.
When Jesus was on earth, He could only be in one place. He was in Jerusalem, not in Rome. He was teaching in Galilee, not in Egypt. But once He ascended, something radically different became possible. He could be:
- In the tabernacle of every church in the world
- In the Eucharist you receive
- In the person sitting next to you on the bus
- In your own heart, right now
- In the poor, the sick, the prisoner
The Ascension is the hinge on which the entire sacramental life of the Church turns. Without it, there is no Eucharist. There is no universal, eternal presence of Christ. The Ascension makes it all possible.
Saint Augustine of Hippo, writing in the fifth century, understood this deeply. He lived in a time not so different from ours — chaotic, uncertain, filled with mundane struggles. And here's what he said:
"Christ is now in heaven, yet he has not left us. He is sitting above, yet he is here below. In a marvelous way, what we say is true: he did leave us, and he did not leave us. He went away in body, but he remained in his divinity, his power, and his love."
Augustine got it. Christ didn't abandon you. He just changed how He's present to you.
Your Work Is Not Meaningless
Let me ask you something: What did you do today that felt important?
Maybe you closed a deal at work. Maybe you finished a project that you'd been struggling with. Maybe you got through a difficult conversation with grace. Maybe you simply showed up and did your job well.
Or maybe — honestly — it felt like you were just going through the motions. Doing what you had to do. Making money. Getting through the day.
Here's what the early Church Fathers would tell you: Your work is not beneath God's notice. And the Ascension proves it.
When Christ ascended, He didn't leave His carpenter's hands behind. He didn't say, "Well, that's done. Now I'm moving on to more important things." He took the entire human experience — including work, labor, sweat, struggle — into glory with Him.
Augustine wrote about this extensively. He insisted that a cobbler making shoes, a farmer tending fields, a mother nursing a child — all of it was participation in Christ's redemptive work. Why? Because the ascended Christ had validated human work by taking it into heaven.
Think about that. Your work matters. Not because it makes you money. Not because it impresses people. But because the ascended Christ is present in it, sanctifying it, drawing it into His cosmic work of redemption.
Saint John Chrysostom, who preached in fourth-century Antioch, had a way of making this concrete. He was a preacher who understood ordinary people — people like us, with boring jobs and endless responsibilities. And he said this:
"A Christian should do his daily work with the same attitude as a monk in his monastery. Whether you are sweeping floors or managing a kingdom, you are serving Christ."
When Chrysostom says this to his congregation — people who were merchants and farmers and servants and slaves — he's not being pious or disconnected. He's telling them: Your Monday matters. Christ is present in it.
Think about your week. What's the most boring, repetitive thing you do? Driving to work? Doing laundry? Sitting through meetings? Processing paperwork?
The Ascension is telling you: that's where Christ is too.
Not in some abstract, spiritual way. But really. Actually. Present.
See Christ in the Boring and the Difficult
Here's where Chrysostom gets really specific — and really challenging.
He's preaching about honoring the Eucharist, about treating the Body of Christ with reverence when you receive it at Mass. And then he says something that probably made his congregation squirm:
"Do you wish to honor the body of Christ? Do not ignore him when he is naked. Do not pay him homage in the temple clad in silk robes while neglecting him outside where he is cold and ill-clad. He who said 'This is my body' is the same one who said 'Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.'"
In other words: You just received the glorified, ascended Christ in Holy Communion. You felt moved. You felt holy. You felt God's presence.
Now on Monday, when you encounter a homeless person, or a difficult coworker, or a family member who irritates you, or someone who disagrees with you — that's the ascended Christ again, in a different form.
I know. This is uncomfortable. This is why Chrysostom said it.
Because what he's doing is collapsing the distance between the sacred moment at Mass and the mundane moment at work. He's saying: There is no gap. Christ is in both places. You can't honor Him in one and ignore Him in the other.
Let me be real with you for a moment. This is where the Ascension stops being a nice theological concept and starts asking something of you.
Your spouse, when they're being difficult — that's Christ.
Your teenager, when they're ungrateful — that's Christ.
Your coworker, when they're taking credit for your work — that's Christ.
The person in line ahead of you at the grocery store, when they're slow and you're frustrated — that's Christ.
Not metaphorically. Not in some vague spiritual sense. But really, truly, the ascended Christ present to you, asking you to see Him and love Him in that person.
Chrysostom would say: If you can't see Christ in the difficult person in front of you, then you haven't really understood the Ascension.
When Your Life Is Hard
But what about the suffering? What about the parts of your Monday that aren't just tedious — they're painful?
The Ascension has something to say about that too, and it's probably more comforting than you'd expect.
Saint Gregory of Nyssa, a fourth-century theologian, wrote extensively about the Ascension. He lived in a time of real persecution — Christians were being hunted, martyred, displaced. And he had a congregation that was struggling, scared, wondering where God was in all of it.
And here's what he told them — and what he's telling you:
The disciples faced real hardship after the Ascension. Persecution, misunderstanding, loneliness. The physical presence of Jesus was gone. But — and this is crucial — they were more aware of Christ's presence than ever before.
Why? Because suffering, when united to the ascended Christ, becomes redemptive. When you suffer faithfully, you're not isolated in that suffering. You're suffering with Christ.
Gregory taught that your pain is not meaningless suffering in a world abandoned by God. It's suffering with Christ, who sits in glory and is actively interceding for you.
Think about this: When you're exhausted from parenting, or frustrated in your marriage, or disappointed at work, or grieving a loss, the Ascension is saying that the ascended Christ is present in that suffering. Not explaining it away. Not making it feel good. But making it matter.
Saint Paul wrote: "Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the church" (Colossians 1:24).
The Church Fathers understood this to mean: When you suffer faithfully, you're not just enduring. You're participating in Christ's ongoing intercession for the world.
Your patience with a difficult person, your acceptance of injustice, your endurance through illness — these are being offered with the ascended Christ to the Father. They're not wasted. They're redemptive.
Gregory of Nyssa would tell you: Your Tuesday afternoon struggle is not separate from the cosmic work of redemption. It's part of it.
You're Not Alone in the Battle
Here's something that might surprise you: the Church Fathers saw the Ascension as the beginning of a battle, not the end of one.
Saint Athanasius, defending the faith against tremendous opposition in the fourth century, emphasized that the Ascension was Christ's enthronement as King. And a king rules. He fights. He conquers.
Athanasius would remind his congregation — people living under oppression, facing real spiritual and physical danger — that the ascended Christ is actively at war against sin, death, and the devil on their behalf. The Ascension isn't passive. It's the moment when Christ took the throne and began actively subduing all things under His feet.
What does this mean for you?
When you struggle against anger, lust, pride, or despair, you're not fighting alone. The ascended King is fighting with you. When you resist injustice, you're participating in His cosmic victory. When you choose to forgive instead of retaliate, to love instead of hate, to hope instead of despair — you're standing with the One who has already won.
Augustine would say: Your small acts of virtue are not insignificant. They're votes cast for the kingdom of the ascended Christ in a world that still resists Him.
The Paradox That Changes Everything
Here's the paradox that confused the early Church — and should confuse us too, until we really get it:
How can Christ be absent and present at the same time?
He ascended into heaven. He left. And yet, He promised: "I am with you always, until the end of the age."
Saint John of Damascus, writing several centuries after the Fathers we've mentioned but heir to their tradition, resolved this beautifully. He said that Christ's physical departure was necessary so that His spiritual presence could be universal.
"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. And now, having ascended, He dwells in us spiritually, present everywhere through His divinity, His grace, and His love."
Apply this to your Monday morning: You can't see the ascended Christ walking beside you at work. But He's there. You can't hear Him speaking to you directly in an audible voice. But He speaks through conscience, through Scripture, through the counsel of wise people, through the movements of grace in your heart.
The Fathers would say: Your Monday is not godless. It's saturated with the presence of the ascended Christ, even when you can't feel it.
The Rhythm That Keeps You Sane
So how do you actually live this? How do you go from understanding intellectually that Christ is present in your mundane life to actually experiencing it?
Saint Benedict, writing his Rule in the sixth century, understood that monks — and ordinary Christians — need a rhythm that keeps them aware of the ascended Christ.
Here's what a rhythm might look like for you — a busy, modern cradle Catholic:
- Sunday Mass is your mountaintop moment.
- Daily prayer — even five or ten minutes — keeps the connection alive.
- Your work and relationships is where you actually live the Ascension.
- Confession — maybe monthly, maybe more often — is where you receive mercy.
- Moments of solidarity with suffering — when you serve the poor, visit the sick, comfort the grieving.
What the Fathers Really Believed
They believed that Christ didn't leave you. He became more present.
They believed that your work matters.
They believed that you can encounter Christ in the difficult person in front of you.
They believed that your suffering, when joined to Christ's, becomes redemptive.
They believed that you're in a battle — but that the King who fights with you has already won.
They believed that Christ's absence is a gift, not a curse.
And they believed that your boring, mundane, ordinary life is sacred.
"The whole life of a Christian is holy warfare. Wherever you are — at home, at work, in the marketplace, in the fields — you are a soldier of Christ. Every action, every moment, is a battle fought with the ascended Lord at your side." — Saint Augustine
The Question You Need to Ask Yourself
What is the most ordinary, tedious, or difficult part of your daily routine — the thing that feels most distant from God? And how might the Ascension be inviting you to see Christ's presence and purpose hidden within it?
Because He's there. The Fathers staked their lives on it. And if they're right, your Monday morning is less boring than you think.
BornCatholic.com exists to help cradle Catholics rediscover the faith they've inherited and live it with conviction. If this post resonated with you, share it with someone who needs to hear it.
A Prayer for Your Monday
"Ascended Lord, I believe that You are present to me now, even though I cannot see You. Give me eyes to see You in the person in front of me. Give me strength to choose love over anger, honesty over convenience, hope over despair. Help me to remember that my work matters, my suffering matters, my choices matter — because You are present in all of it. And help me to trust that You are fighting with me in this battle, because You have already won. Amen."
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment