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Pentecost

Acts 2
When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. 2 Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. 3 They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. 4 All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues[a] as the Spirit enabled them.

Psalm 104
27 These all look to you to give them their food in due season; when you give to them, they gather it up; when you open your hand, they are filled with good things. When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. When you send forth your spirit, they are created; and you renew the face of the ground.


I worry that I may confuse my son.

Some years ago, quite unexpectedly, I said to Isaac “I didn’t give birth to you for you to turn around and do something as foolish as that.” I don’t recall what the ‘that’ was, but the saying sort of took on a life of its own and has been repeated many times.

And it seems to fit into the new thinking where men are reminded that they too have having a baby, not just wives and partners. So I think the “I didn’t give birth to you...” is actually very ‘au courant,’ if you pardon my French. Maybe we should all say it, particularly if you have foolish children. We owe it to them.

I got thinking about childbirth because it appears in the reading from Romans 8, it’s hinted at in Psalm 104 and it appears in wonderful passage in Isaiah that fits with our Pentecost theme. And as metaphors go, childbirth seems to perfectly describe the chaos and the promise of that day long ago—the day the Christian church was born.

So perhaps we should begin there:

When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them.

Suddenly they are describing the wonders of God in a cacophony of languages—from every nation—in a list that makes even the most confident Bible-reader break out into a cold sweat. “Parthians, Medes and Elamites; residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya near Cyrene; visitors from Rome (both Jews and converts to Judaism); Cretans and Arabs. It’s good to practice.

And then Peter speaks. In what may be one of the most unintentionally funny verses in the Bible, he says “These people are not drunk, as you suppose. It’s only nine in the morning!” Obviously Peter never attended Grey Cup week or Octoberfest. Nevertheless, his point stands: these people have been overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit, enlivened and enabled to proclaim the Good News in every tongue.

Peter shares an extended quote from the prophet Joel (“I will pour out my spirit on all people”) and then introduces them to Jesus Christ. He mentions signs and wonders, and then does something very risky: he reminds them that they—with help from wicked men—put him to death by nailing him to a tree. You might worry that he has lost the crowd at this moment, but he carries on: God raised him from the dead, proving that death was ended.

And it falls to St. Paul the finish the thought:

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption.

In other words, everything that has come before has been moving toward this moment: creation, covenant, liberation, law, land, prophecy, exile, return, renewal, incarnation, reconciliation—all necessary steps that lead to this moment of rebirth. The Spirit moves and we are adopted as God’s own, children of the living God.

Adopted, named, and led by the Spirit—we then must begin to understand this God we praise, this God who has led us to this moment. The journey has been long—maybe a thousand pages—and we can be forgiven for wondering out loud about the nature of this God we follow.

What led me to this question was a lecture I attended last week with Walter Brueggemann, a name you have heard more than a few times from this pulpit. Brueggemann spoke on the topic of ‘fidelity and certitude’ two ideas that describe our sense of God and God’s nature. He argued for fidelity and said some very unpleasant things about certitude (seems he has a bit of a potty mouth). You might argue that he was giving each of us something to say on the morning of Pentecost, and for that, I’m grateful.

Certitude—absolute certainty or conviction that something is the case—is a something that quite naturally enters the room every time we talk theology. We crave certitude, the knowledge that everything can be defined or explained away in a way that brings comfort and a sense of security. We long for a God who is firmly in control—all-knowing, all-powerful, all-present—but the scriptures just don’t bear this out. As Dr. Brueggemann said, “this God operates in freedom” and cannot be contained by theologians or preachers.

Listen to the psalmist wrestle with the same question, describing the life of God’s creatures, which I assume includes us:

When you give food, they gather it up;
when you open your hand,
they are filled with good things.
When you hide your face,
they are dismayed;
when you take away their breath,
they die and return to their dust.
When you send forth your spirit,
they are created;
and you renew the face of the ground.

The joy of Pentecost appears in Psalm 104, the very reason we recite it this morning. “When you send forth your spirit, they are created,” breathing new life into the dust, renewing the face of the ground. Wonderful stuff, but all held in the context of those words that are hard to hear and at the same time very familiar: “When you hide your face, [we] are dismayed.”

This is the opposite of certitude—absolute certainty—and speaks instead to fidelity, the promise when God says “I will be your God as you will be my people.” (Ex 6, 2 Cor 6) So listen to the psalmist again, and this time think about the difference between the God who is exactly who we want God to be and the God who simply wants to be in a relationship:

When you give food, we gather it up;
when you open your hand,
we are filled with good things.
When you hide your face,
we are dismayed;
when you take away our breath,
we die and return to the dust.
When you send forth your spirit,
we are created;
and you renew the face of the ground.

God gives us good things, but God is unknowable. God can’t solve the problem of mortality, but God gives us the Spirit to renew the face of the earth.

And this brings us to the other great childbirth passage, this one from Isaiah 42. Listen to this most unusual God describe God’s inner life, God’s own thinking:

14 “For a long time I have kept silent,
I have been quiet and held myself back.
But now, like a woman in childbirth,
I cry out, I gasp and pant.

16 I will lead the blind by ways they have not known,
along unfamiliar paths I will guide them;
I will turn the darkness into light before them
and make the rough places smooth.
These are the things I will do;
I will not forsake them.

God will lead us along unfamiliar paths, bring light to the dark places in our lives, make smooth the rough places in our lives, and we will never be forsaken.

This the nature of our relationship with God: a source of blessing, but not all the answers; a source of light, but shadows remain; and a source of hope, even when God’s face is hidden.

May the Holy Spirit attend our rebirth this day, and from the chaos and the mess of it, may we be made new. Amen.

posted by michael jacob kooiman @ 4:16 AM