Monthly Archives: May 2016

Feast of Corpus Christi

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To listen to today’s homily, please select the audio file below:

A man I know built himself an oven and bakes bread “the old way,” he told me. He goes about the process meticulously: the flour’s carefully chosen, the right amount of water is used, the fire that bakes the bread is just the right temperature. It takes time, but what a feast results!

Bread

I mentioned to him how so many homilies on the Eucharist from the days when they baked bread “the old way” see profound spiritual mysteries in this same process. The flour represents creation itself; the water and the fire represent the work of the Holy Spirit whom we invoke in this sacrament. “The Sacraments are a privileged way in which nature is taken up by God to become a means of mediating supernatural life.”(Laudato Si 235.) Simple created realities like water, oil, bread and wine speak for all creation.

In our prayer over the bread at Mass we say: “Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, for through your goodness we received the bread we offer you, fruit of the earth and work of human hands, it will become for us the bread of life.”

The bread we offer, the wine we offer are signs of creation and the human efforts involved in creation. They’re signs of everything that the “God of all creation” gives us and of everything that comes from our hands. “The word bread stands for everything,” Augustine said in one of his commentaries on the Lord’s Prayer. (Epistle to Proba) No wonder Jesus chose these two precious signs to give himself to us.

The bread and wine stand for everything. Think what that means. Scientists say that our universe came into existence about 15 billion years ago. The bread and wine stand for the 15 billion years our universe has been in existence. About 3.5 billion years ago life began on our planet. The bread and wine represent that 3.5 billion years of life on our planet. When they’re brought to the altar the whole universe is brought here. About 200,000 years ago human life emerged on our planet. 200,000 years of human life are represented in the bread and wine. Our lives are part of the human story represented in the bread and wine .

We believe that when Jesus sat down with his disciples at the Last Supper and took bread and wine into his hands he took all creation, all life, all human life into his hands.. “This is my body.” “This is my blood,” he said. He is God in human flesh giving himself to us and to everything that God made. In love poured out, he renews the covenant God makes with us and with creation.

Pope Francis in his letter “Laudato Si.” emphasizes the cosmic dimension of the Eucharist. Our created world is there with the dignity and purpose bestowed on it. As he takes bread and wine into his hands, Jesus takes the whole universe to himself. “ Joined to the incarnate Son, present in the Eucharist, the whole cosmos gives thanks to God. Indeed the Eucharist is itself an act of cosmic love: Yes, cosmic! Because even when it is celebrated on the humble altar of a country church, the Eucha¬rist is always in some way celebrated on the altar of the world. The Eucharist joins heaven and earth; it embraces and penetrates all creation. The world which came forth from God’s hands returns to him in blessed and undivided adoration: in the bread of the Eucharist creation is projected towards divinization, towards the holy wedding feast, towards the unification with the Creator himself.” (LS, 236)

We celebrate this great mystery on the “humble altar” of our church. The created universe as it was, as it is and as it will be is before us. A marvelous sacrament, so simple in appearance and so tremendous in reality.

Friday Thoughts: Running with the Lord

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cezanne bather-with-outstreched-arms 1878

Paul Cezanne, “Bather With Outstretched Arms”, 1878

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“…into your hands I commend my spirit”

and when he had said this he breathed his last.

—Luke 23:46

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Years ago when I was living in San Francisco, a group of us used to go hiking out in Marin County, just across the giant red expanse of the Golden Gate Bridge. We went often. A group of both men and women, mostly single, mostly without a care in the world. I think every one of us was under thirty, or thereabouts.

My favorite part was running down. Don’t get me wrong, the hike upward was terrific too, that’s when we discussed ideas and dreams and laughed almost all the while, breaking up into smaller groups of two or three or maybe even four, and then drifting back together—like a herd of elk, for they too have not a care in the world—only to once again drift apart, this time usually paired up with a different companion or combination thereof. None of it was planned or had any real intention of course, it just happened: laughter, ideas, silence, stops, gazes outward, waiting, speeding up, sipping water, laughter, drifting apart….it was divine.

 Like the elk, it all seemed to be instinct.

But something special happened when we reached the top. After we reached the top. After we caught our breath, removed our backpacks, and viewed the scape. After we had eaten a little snack or a small sandwich, something light, usually along with an apple or granola bar, maybe even a small handful of assorted nuts and a few of those purple chips that all San Franciscans seem to love. It was time to descend.

My friends used to laugh and say that it was because I’m an Indian. They would go on and on about my “Cherokee” blood, and the fact that the first three letters of my first name spelled “how” only served as additional fodder. But there was some truth in it. Not only because I actually do have some American Indian blood, but more so because at that time I was very much a native. Primitive. Raw. Free.

That’s why I would run down.

I loved it. I would run as fast as I could go. Cutting back and forth, hopping over logs, propelling myself around turns by pivoting hard on the corner tree. I loved it. I loved the way I felt. I loved that my weight added to the speed, that what normally would slow me down, would normally make me huff and puff, now drove me forward, propelled me toward from whence I came.

It was wonderful. I was free. I was free. I was free. It was the closest this man ever came to flying.

This morning, almost twenty years later, in urban New Jersey—just across the Hudson River from Manhattan—I went for a jog. They just opened a new circular path around the old reservoir resting slightly higher than its surrounding cities of Weehawken and Union City. It is very pleasant.

I wasn’t sure how far I’d be able to make it. And after a very short distance I thought to myself, “Oh boy, I’m gonna have to stop already.” But I didn’t. I thought about posture. I thought about positioning of hands. I thought about breath. I quickly realized that the Lord has taught me much.

The posture of prayer is important. How we position ourselves is powerful. And breathing is everything.

I made it around three times. I smiled almost all the way. My pace was pretty good. I did alright, not bad for a man I thought just a few minutes before was getting old. I think even the newly-minted goslings admired my gait. And even if they didn’t, it was nice to be in a place to think that maybe they did.

I walked a lap and then began to make my way back toward my home, my one bedroom apartment that I share with my most recent and till-death-do-us-part hiking companions: my beautiful, delicately strong bride of twelve years, and my precious little girl, who at six-and-a-half runs and laughs like the wind.

I was a few streets away, coming down 18th and crossing Summit, when it happened. I never really noticed it before. The next two blocks were a steady, fairly steep decline. I began to run.

I loved it. I ran as fast as I could go. Cutting back and forth, hopping over the cracks in the sidewalks, propelling myself around the turn by pivoting hard on the corner stop sign. I loved it. I loved the way I felt. I loved that my weight added to the speed, that what normally would slow me down, would normally make me huff and puff, now drove me forward, propelled me toward from whence I came.

It was wonderful. I was free. I was free. I was free. It was the closest this man ever came to flying.

For a moment I thought I was on the outskirts of San Francisco.

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And with that he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit…”

—John 20:22

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—Howard Hain

Trinity Sunday

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A story’s told that St. Augustine, the great philosopher and intellectual, was walking along the seashore one day when he saw a little boy playing in the sand, taking water from the sea in a small bucket and pouring it into a hole he had dug. Back the forth the boy went.

“What are you doing?” Augustine asked, “Do you think you can put the whole sea into that little hole?”

“No,” the little boy answered, “And neither can you put God into that small mind of yours no matter how smart you think you are.”

The story reminds us that our minds are limited before the mystery of God, even the smartest, most brilliant mind. God is beyond us. The Feast of the Holy Trinity is, first of all, a reminder of our limits before the mystery of God.

And yet, this feast also says that God invites us to know him, as Father, Son and Holy Spirit. As Father, God is the creator of heaven and earth. All creation ultimately comes from God’s hand. Creation itself is God’s gift;  through the created world we come to know God.

God has also invited us to known him in Jesus Christ, who was born of Mary over two thousand years ago, who walked this earth and died on a cross, who rose from the dead and remains with us.  We have his words, his actions, his promises. He’s our Savior and Redeemer, a sign of God’s love;  he’s promised us life eternal..

The Holy Spirit also is God with us, within us, guiding us and our world to our common destiny.

Yet, though God reveals himself, we’re still like the little boy on the seashore. We’re looking at an unmeasured sea that we approach with the little buckets of our minds. We can’t grasp it all. Even the most accessible person of the Trinity, Jesus Christ, remains a mystery to us.

Remember the story of the conversion of Paul the Apostle. Saui, the unbeliever, was on his way to the City of Damascus to persecute the followers of Jesus, when suddenly a blinding light throws him from his horse. “Who are you, Lord?” Paul cries out. “I am Jesus whom you persecute, “ the voice from the blinding light says.

Jesus Christ is like the blinding light of the sun. Yes, he is human like us, but he shares in the nature of God, who is brighter than sunlight. He blinds us when we try to see him. God dwells in light inaccessible, the scriptures say, and so even though we know much about Jesus, even though the scriptures and great saints and scholars describe him, he’s still beyond anything we can know.

Like the sun, Jesus is a blinding light, and yet, paradoxically, his light shines into the darkness of creation to give life and light.  St. John says: “No one has ever seen God. The only Son, God, who is at the Father’s side, has revealed him.” (John 1,18)

As people of faith we’re not like those who say you can’t know God at all or like those who say God doesn’t exist because my mind cannot grasp him. Yes, we have to admit that we are children of the Enlightenment, that movement in our western world that says there’s no need to pay much attention to God. Pay attention to the world at hand. Pay attention to yourself. That’s what’s important.

As people of faith we know God is important. God reveals himself to us little by little. God is the most important reality we can know and love.

The Feast of the Holy Trinity is a reminder of God’s invitation to know him, to serve him in this life, to pray to him and to be with him one day where we will know him much more. It’s an invitation God extends every day, all our lives. Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
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Friday Thoughts: Grace

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Water and Wine, oil on canvas—Richard Baker (Born 1959)

“Water and Wine”, oil on canvas—Richard Baker

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So they said to him, “What can we do to accomplish the works of God?” Jesus answered and said to them, “This is the work of God, that you believe in the one he sent.”

—John 6:28-29

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It’s all grace.

God’s mercy.

His will.

Us?

Our role?

Yes, we certainly have one.

We need to cooperate.

We need to participate.

We must partake.

And we do so thru acknowledgment.

The acknowledgment that it is all grace, God’s mercy, His will.

A mystery made flesh each and every time we acknowledge our utter dependence on Him.

And yet we are free to choose.

Free to choose not to acknowledge.

Let us then say “yes” to acknowledging Him today.

“Lord, You are real. You are the source of all. You are Kindness beyond comprehension. Your plan is perfect. I love You. Forgive me for not believing. Forgive me, Lord, for not using Your gift properly. I need Your grace to choose to acknowledge You, to not doubt You, to believe that You can and really do forgive me time and time again. I need You. I need You to love You. Come to me, please. Come, Lord, come to me—to me—Your little creation in this little part of Your little world. You are so big. I am so small. O, Good Lord, help me! Help me truly accept Your awesome gift of faith!”

Amen.

Thank You, Jesus.

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“By the mystery of this water and wine may we come to share in the divinity of Christ who humbled himself to share in our humanity.”

—Liturgy of the Eucharist, preparation of the altar and the offerings

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—Howard Hain

Pentecost

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Audio homily here:

The Pew Research Center regularly reports on trends in America and in the world and recently they reported on how Americans see their place in the world. Most Americans, the report said, think that we should deal with our own problems and let other countries deal with their problems as best they can. Reports like this don’t make a judgment whether this is a good trend or a bad trend, they just tell us the facts. But the trend seems to indicate that there’s an increasing fear in us that the world in becoming unmanageable, and so we should beware of taking on too much.

Today we’re celebrating the Feast of Pentecost, the coming of the Holy Spirit, whom Jesus promised to send not only to his disciples but to the whole world. The Holy Spirit comes not only to us as individuals, to guide us on our way, to teach us all things, to help us to pray, but the Spirit also is sent into our world. Our temptation, unfortunately, is to see faith as just a personal thing and not affecting our whole world.

As we were preparing for this feast, I have been thinking how differently we know the Holy Spirit from the way we know Jesus and, to a certain extent, God the Father. Jesus is God come to us in human flesh, and so he has our “likeness” as St. Paul says. He’s born a child, lives as a man, reacts to events and people around him, he speaks in human words, he suffers and dies and rises. However distant the time of Jesus is from ours, we see and hear him as human like ourselves.

God the Father is also described in human terms. God is “Father”, a description we know is an analogous term. Calling God “Father” doesn’t mean that God is masculine, but the term itself offers us a human reference for God, the creator and sustainer of all things.

But the description of the Holy Spirit is more difficult to grasp, I think. What does “spirit” mean? The scriptures use symbolic ways to describe the Third Person of the Trinity. Our readings for the feast speak of the Spirit as a driving wind, tongues of fire that empowers the disciples to speak with wisdom, with new words, and to act bravely instead of fearfully.

I have been thinking lately of other symbolic ways the Spirit is described. One is a familiar symbol found in the New Testament and in art. The Spirit is a dove who rests on Jesus when he’s baptized in the Jordan by John.

There’s a bird feeder outside the monastery where I live in Queens, NY, and in the early morning before Mass I usually go out with a cup of coffee to watch the birds. Mostly house sparrows, but there’s a pair of doves who are regular visitors. Every once in awhile a hawk flies over and immediately the sparrows disappear. But the doves are the last to go and first back at the feeder. You might call them simple or dumb. But you could also say they’re fearless. They’re not afraid of the hawk.

Remember the bible story about Noah in the ark. Noah wonders if the flood waters are gone, so who does he finally send out? He sends out a dove, who returns with a twig from an olive plant. There’s life there, you can get out of the ark. The dove is not afraid of dangerous places or floodwaters. The Holy Spirit is not afraid of the chaos of our world, but recreates from the chaos.

The Spirit who appears at Jesus’ baptism as a dove also leads him into the desert, the realm of Satan. The scriptures say Jesus is hungry there, but he’s not afraid. Jesus defeats Satan in his realm.

Where are the disciples of Jesus in today’s gospel? They’re locked up in a room in fear when Jesus, risen from the dead, comes into their midst. He breathed on them. “Receive the Holy Spirit,” the Spirit whom he promised to give them. And what did they do? They left that room and went out into the world they feared, a world that the Spirit promises to recreate.

Friday Thoughts: A Bouquet of Marys

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Pierre-Auguste Still Life of Roses in a Vase 1910-19 Renoir

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, “Still Life of Roses in a Vase”, 1910-19

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Fount of Life
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Fire of Love
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Sweet Anointing From Above
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Come Holy Spirit!
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Come Holy Spirit, living in Mary!
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A simple thought. At times that seem complex:
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If every Mary in my life is praying for me, then all will turn out well.
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I find that some of the most challenging times are times of serious discernment, when decisions have to be made—not made-up manufactured dilemmas, the conjectures of our overactive and self-obsessive minds endlessly playing shell games with hypothetical possibilities—but substantial concrete decisions, those times of choosing one real and reasonable path as opposed to another, equally real and equally reasonable.
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These times can be quite unsettling, even if both paths are seemingly sunny. For if we desire to do God’s will and attempt to put aside our personal preferences, quite often the “right” choice is not crystal clear.
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We use our minds, we use our experience, we research the facts, we reach out to trusted spiritually-solid Christian brothers and sisters for opinions and guidance, but ultimately it is not a simple matter of calculation. It is not a matter of which option has more pros and less cons, of which path offers more or less in terms of provision, obstacles, enjoyment, sacrifices, etc. Sure those things should be taken into consideration, thrown into the pot if you will, and stirred well—on low heat for that matter, and over a good amount of time.
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But it is all about God’s will, and God’s will may defy logic, especially the logic of lists.
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So what is left but prayer, prayer and waiting for the peace that should accompany sound, Holy Spirit-led decisions?
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So we stir the pot, we pray, and we wait. We take a sip and see if it settles peacefully into the stomach. And we stir some more…
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But sometimes, the time for the decision to be made comes before we feel properly prepared—or in dinner-party terms, the guests are at the front door and we feel that the soup hasn’t yet properly stewed.
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It’s times such as these that we need our mothers.
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I gather up my list. No, not the pros and cons, but one of the most important lists that I can assemble: the list of Marys in my life. I think about the women God has placed all about me: my earthly mother, my wife, my mother-in-law, a nun I know well, my sister-in-law, my landlady, a woman I see regularly at the bakery, several ladies from my parish who gather faithfully for Mass and to recite the Rosary.
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These are my Marys. I gather them together: I ask our Blessed Mother, as guided by the Holy Spirit—her heavenly spouse—to unite them to her and with her in prayer. I then ask each one of them. One by one, as I see them or speak to them by phone. And I ask. I ask simply that they pray for me, that I do God’s will.
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Then I rest assured. I sit back. I smell something delicious. But it’s not the soup. No, what my nose savors is the scent of a beautiful bouquet. My bouquet of Marys.
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No matter what happens from here on out—I know I come out smelling like roses.

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Hail Mary, all my Marys
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Full of Grace
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The Lord is with thee, all of thee
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Blessed art thou amongst women
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And blessed is the fruit
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Of thy womb, Jesus!
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O Holy Marys, pray for us sinners…now…and at the hour of our death.
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Amen
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———.

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Dedicated to all the Marys in all our lives, during this “Magnificat” month of May, a month full of days filled with grace.

Happy Mother’s Day!

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—Howard Hain

7th Week of Easter: Last Instructions

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To listen to today’s homily, please select the audio file below:

The Ascension of Jesus into heaven is recalled briefly in Mark’s gospel (Mark 16,19) and described in more detail in Luke’s gospel (Luke 24, 44-53} and in the Acts of the Apostles. (Acts 1, 1-14) As he leaves his disciples, Jesus promises to send them his Spirit.

What are his final instructions to them before he ascends into heaven? They are to be witnesses to him. They will have power from the Holy Spirit to witness, but there’s no promise of security, safety, or immunity from fear or suffering. Just the opposite, Jesus sends them on a mission that’s insecure, unsafe and hard.

Here’s what Jesus says in Mark’s gospel, “Go into the whole world and proclaim the gospel to every creature.” “The whole world?” we might say. “To every creature?” It’s a dangerous world out there, and there are creatures in it I don’t particularly like. Yet, that’s the mission Jesus entrusts to his disciples–and us.

“These signs will accompany those who believe,” Jesus continues. “In my name they will drive out demons, they will speak new languages, they will pick up serpents and if they drink any deadly thing, it will not harm them. They will lay hands on the sick, and they will recover.”

That seems to mean if you really believe in Jesus you confront the evil in this world, you learn new things all your life, you deal with snakes–they’re out there too, you can recover from the deadliest experiences, and you can bring healing to those who need healing.

In Luke’s Ascension account in the Acts of the Apostles the disciples wonder if this is the time when God’s kingdom will come now, her and now. Heaven on earth. “Lord, are you at this time going to restore the kingdom to Israel?”

We have hopes like that too, don’t we? That God’s kingdom come here and now, and everything will be perfect. Jesus tells his disciples they wont know the day or the hour. Perfection doesn’t happen here on earth.

As the disciples stand looking at the Lord ascending, Luke writes, angels ask them “Why are you standing here looking up into the sky?” Jesus will return. Go back into the city and live as he asks you to live. You will receive what he promised there. No standing looking up into the sky. Stay where you are; that’s where the promises will be kept.

Luke goes on to describe the disciples making their way back to Jerusalem and praying there with Mary, the mother of Jesus. Prayer prepares them for the Spirit who comes. Prayer prepares us too.

Friday Thoughts: A Good Cry

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Walter_Langley_-_Never_Morning_Wore_To_Evening_But Some Heart did Break 1894

Walter Langley, “Never Morning Wore To Evening But Some Heart Did Break”, 1894

 

Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.
—Romans 12:15

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Sobbing is quite an amazing act. When someone really let’s go. The back shakes, the stomach heaves, giant tears rain down. The sound is unlike any other. The cry of the truly poor. The wailing. The bursting forth of what no longer can remain contained. The release. The death. The life.
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“With a loud cry Jesus died.”
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God…something to truly behold.
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The man. The woman. Rachel refusing to be consoled.
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And then it stops. Like a torrential downpour that “just can’t last that long”. The hard, fast, terrible roar of a summer thunderstorm. It comes and goes. The floods flash, then creation smiles once more—it almost winks, as if nothing ever happened at all. Brother Sun reappears. The black clouds scurry into the distance. Streams of light, sunbeams, tunnel through whitewashed clouds. Sister Moon prepares a crystal clear night.
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“And Jesus wept.”
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I imagine that Jesus also laughed.
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Perhaps as a child He even giggled.
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Yes, I like to think of Jesus as a small boy. A funny, kind, sweet, happy child. Yes, I imagine He liked to laugh. Yes, I can see that. Imagine it, right? Little Jesus and Mary laughing, Joseph laughing too—maybe even lovingly shaking his head a little as he walks past the two of them on his way back to the shop—enjoying the sight of his bride and boy bathing the monotony of domestic life in tender moments of lightness such as these.
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Yes, I imagine that they even had those small humorous encounters that only the inner members of an intimate, tightly-knit family can engage. Those little looks and quiet soundless chuckles that release the tension of living in too-close quarters, among people you love so much that the temptation arises of becoming annoyed at even their genuine goodness.
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Perhaps though I am biased. For some of my fondest memories as a child are of being together in the same room, the six of us: four boys, and Mom and Dad. And what was best of all was the laughing, especially the uncontrolled laughter of children engaged in outright silliness, the kind that Mom and Dad—even though they we’re saying “come on, stop it now”—they themselves couldn’t help cracking smiles. Sometimes those fits of laughter were self-induced or at least group-induced, via my elder brothers tickling us nearly to death.
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For there is a type of laughter that can only be laughed by a child. And as I am sure most of us can recall, the second those tickling sessions began we’d beg for mercy for it to end. And the second it was over we would ask for more.
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Uncontrollable sobbing.
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Uncontrollable laughter.
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They are quite similar. In fact, they sometimes occur simultaneously. And often when they continue past a certain point, the person begins to cough. I guess, physiologically, it’s caused by some kind of gasping for air that both prolonged sobbing and deep laughter call for, but it is a whole lot more.
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It is a purging, a clearing out. As if the crying and laughing chip loose and shake free those emotional “buildups” lodged in our souls, plastered to the inner walls of our spirits.
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And whether we are brought to our knees by bouts of bitter wailing or fits of uncontrolled laughter, or both, something remains after they go, like the pavement after those quick, fierce summer storms on brutally hot days. For whether those storms rain on our parades or provide our flowers with a desperately needed drink, it’s always a beautifully peaceful sight to see the hot ground, sidewalks, and driveways slightly smoking—a haze of mist signaling that a deeply hidden storm, a raging fire deep below, has met its match.
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We dry off, and begin again.
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—Howard Hain

The Ascension of Our Lord

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audio homily here:
In a Barnes and Noble Bookstore awhile ago, in the religion section, I noticed a good number of books on heaven. Most of these, as far as I could judge, are accounts of people who say they’ve been there or just about, and are reporting on their experience. Looks like heaven is an item of some interest today.

The Feast of the Ascension is our basic book on heaven. Jesus promises us a home there. The Ascension is part of the Easter mystery. On Easter Sunday, Jesus rose from the dead and for forty days, scripture say, he ate and drank and met with his disciples to build up their faith. Then, he ascended into heaven.

Rising from the dead was not the end of his story. He rose from the dead but did continue life on earth as before. He didn’t rise like those whom he raised from the dead, like Lazarus whom he called from the tomb, like the little girl and the dead son of a widow of Naim. They went back to ordinary life. Jesus did not.

No, after he rose from the dead, he ascended into heaven to sit at the right hand of the Father, our creed says. He entered another world beyond this one, a world greater than this one. There, from a place of great power, he extends his promise and power to us here on earth.

When I was a boy, I remember my father buying a record player. It was the mid 1940’s and times were hard; I’m sure he broke the family bank to pay for it. For a good while he only had a couple of those old vinyl records he would play over and over.

One of them was a haunting black spiritual sung by Marian Anderson called “Heaven.”
“I got shoes, and you got shoes, all God’s children got shoes.
When I getta heaven gonna put on my shoes
and gonna walk all over God’s heaven, heaven.
Everybody’s talking bout Heaven ain’t goin’ there.
heaven, heaven. Gonna walk all over God’s heaven.”

I still remember the hope in that great singer’s voice and in the song she sang. She was singing the song of barefooted slaves who were looking for something more. It wasn’t just a pair of shoes that would wear out after awhile. These were shoes God gave you in heaven, a place of completed dreams. Once you put on those shoes you could walk freely and walk everywhere.

The Feast of the Ascension points to heaven as our final home, where all our dreams are realized, where tears are wiped away, where sadness is no more, where wrongs are righted, where reunion with those we love takes place, where we enjoy the presence of God and all the saints.

For now, we only have hints of heaven. We only have assurances of faith. And it’s not enough, as the spiritual says, just to talk about it, we must walk in the steps of Jesus. Walking in his steps brings us, not to a grave, but to the place where he is. That’s heaven.

I wonder why our first reading stops where it does, because the next line says that the disciples walked back to Jerusalem, to the place where they were living. “Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away. When they entered the city they went to the upper room where they were staying.”

Before we walk in heaven, we have to keep walking on earth.