Based on Acts 1:1–11 | Ascension

The beginning of something new

Welcome and Opening Silence.

(2–3 minutes)

Create a simple, quiet space. Perhaps light a candle.

Facilitator says:

“We come as we are—curious, uncertain, waiting, hopeful.
As we reflect together, may we listen with open hearts to the Spirit’s leading.” Silence for a short while.

Scripture Reading.

(3–5 minutes)

You may wish to read the extra resource “The beginning of something new” and let people’s imaginations enter into this before the bible reading. Giving 10 mins or so to read it slowing and with pauses.

Read Acts 1:1–11 slowly, pausing briefly at natural breaks.

Optionally say:

“Let’s listen to this passage as if hearing it for the first time, attending to any word or phrase that stirs something in us.”

Heart-to-Heart Conversation.

(30–40 minutes)

Introduce this time gently:

“This isn’t about having the right answers. It’s a space to notice what resonates for you, and to share that with someone else. Speak from the heart. Listen with your whole self.” Listening pairs or small groups. Use these prompts to guide conversation:

A. From Scripture to Story

• What part of this passage draws your attention today?
• I wonder what the disciples were feeling—still confused, still waiting—when Jesus left them?
• The angels say, “This Jesus… will come in the same way.” What kind of Jesus are we waiting for? What does “in the same way” mean to you?

B. Connecting to Experience

• Have you ever had a time when God felt absent, and you were waiting for something to change?
• How do you respond when you don’t have clear answers, only a promise?

c. Deepening the Reflection

• What does it mean to you that the Ascension doesn’t end the story—it launches a mission?
• What difference does it make that the Spirit is promised before the mission begins?
• Is there a part of your life where you’re being invited to step out or let go?

Listening for the Heartbeat.

(3–5 minutes)

Invite a time of shared silence.

Facilitator says:
“Let’s take a moment to listen deeply. What do you sense is the heartbeat of God in this conversation?
Is there a word, image, or feeling you’d like to hold onto this week?”
Allow brief responses if people wish to share.

A Shared Prayer

(3 minutes)

Invite intercessions:

“Let’s name the people, places, or longings that rose up in our hearts as we talked.” Conclude with this prayer:

Prayer

Risen Christ,
You left your friends gazing upward in awe—
but you also left them with a promise, and a purpose.
Send your Spirit upon us again.
Help us wait faithfully and walk courageously,
trusting that your mission still unfolds in our lives,
and your presence still goes with us,
even when hidden from our sight.

Amen.

Sending

(1 minute)

“As we leave this space, may we go with open hearts, ready to wait, ready to walk.
May we live as pilgrims, carrying the hope of Christ wherever we are sent.”

Optional Blessing

“May the God who calls us into the unknown walk beside you in every step, and may the Spirit stir within you until the promise is fulfilled.”

Extra resource : you may wish to read this before the bible reading and give time for people to enter into the Ascension theme.

The beginning of something new

I can still feel the wind on my face from that day—the day that Jesus departed from our sight. It had been exactly forty days since he had risen from the grave. Forty—a number woven into our faith story again and again, marking wilderness journeys, floods, fasts, and revelations. I sensed something holy was coming.

For those forty days, he had moved among us—sometimes in flesh and touch, sometimes in mystery. He came through closed doors, sat at tables, broke bread, and kindled our hearts. We heard his voice, saw the light in his face, and placed our hands near the wounds that love bore into his flesh. He spoke often of the kingdom—God’s reign not far off, but unfolding around and within us.

That morning, he invited us to walk with him once more—up the familiar slope of the Mount of Olives. We followed, just as we had in Galilee. He gathered us, his voice full of calm urgency. There was warmth in his gaze, but also a kind of farewell—not of absence, but of transformation.

We still had our questions, as ever—questions about the future, about power, about restoration. And still, with patient compassion, he turned our eyes toward what was coming: Wait. Wait for the promise of the Father. He spoke of the Spirit as if it were breath itself, drawing near.

His final words were clear and unforgettable: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be my witnesses—to Jerusalem, to all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

And then—it happened.

He was no longer with us in the way he had been. It was not that he rose into the sky—though that’s what our eyes told us—it was more that he passed into the fullness of divine presence, into that hidden space where time and eternity meet. A cloud, like the one that overshadowed the mountain in the days of Moses, enfolded him. Not absence. Not distance. But union. Communion. Completion.

It reminded me of that day on the mountain with James and John—Tabor. The brilliance. The voice.

The sense that the veil between heaven and earth had grown thin.

We stood there, rooted, breathless, searching the sky for what our hearts could no longer hold. And then I heard voices—gentle, startling. I’m still not sure if it was another of the eleven, or a stranger or even the voice of God : “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up? This Jesus, who has been taken from your sight, will return just as you saw him withdraw.”

Their words grounded us again. He had gone—but not in abandonment. He had returned— returned not to a place, but to the heart of the Mystery, from which he had come. Hidden now, but still with us. Known in absence. Present in promise.

And so we went back to Jerusalem—our hearts full, our steps quiet. The air felt different—thick with a kind of stillness that trembled on the edge of becoming. He had promised. We trusted that promise.

And as the wind brushed my face that day, I think now it was more than a breeze—it was the whisper of what would come ten days later. Not a memory, but the beginning of something altogether new.