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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.
5 Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven. 6 When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard their own language being spoken. 7 Utterly amazed, they asked: “Aren’t all these who are speaking Galileans? 8 Then how is it that each of us hears them in our native language?


How can I help people overcome their fear of the Bible?

Perhaps I should be more specific: how can I help people overcome their fear of reading difficult place names in the Bible? I’m not naming names, but someone with a name that suggests long ears and love for carrots was very quick to ask if there were any difficult words in the assigned reading. Hmmm.

So, I was given two choices: play fast and loose with the truth or change the reading. So I changed the reading. So here is the next section of Acts 2, largely dreaded by even the most seasoned scripture reader:

9 Parthians, Medes and Elamites; residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia,[b] 10 Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya near Cyrene; visitors from Rome 11 (both Jews and converts to Judaism); Cretans and Arabs—we hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!” 12 Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, “What does this mean?”

Akin to mind-reading, the text anticipates our question, saying, “what does it mean?” A violent wind filling the whole house, something appearing as tongues of flame, and languages, so many languages, speaking to those with ears to hear. The Spirit speaks in the native tongue of those present, familiar and disconcerting all at once, adding to the general confusion of the day—until Peter speaks:

22 “Listen to these words, fellow Israelites! Jesus of Nazareth was a man whose divine authority was clearly proven to you by all the miracles and wonders which God performed through him. You yourselves know this, for it happened here among you. 23 In accordance with his own plan God had already decided that Jesus would be handed over to you; and you killed him by letting sinful men crucify him. 24 But God raised him from death, setting him free from its power, because it was impossible that death should hold him prisoner.”

Naturally, this message fell harder on some than others. The ones staring at their feet were likely members of another crowd, shouting “crucify him” just a few weeks ago. They were “cut to the heart” it says, and they asked Peter what they must do to make it right:

“Repent and be baptized,” Peter said, “every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. 39 The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call.”

St. Luke tells us that some three thousand were added to their number, baptized and joined to a fellowship that extends down to today. They dedicated themselves to teaching and prayer, the breaking of bread—and sharing all they had. They praised God, enjoyed the esteem of others, and “the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.”

In other words, a happy ending. But the thing about happy endings is they tend to overshadow the circuitous path required to get there. The awkward drama of Pentecost, the risky sermon that turned out okay in the end, even the bountiful harvest of new believers—all point to the unpredictable God we serve. Who knew these on-again-off-again friends of Jesus would be the foundation of a faith? Who knew lives could be interrupted with wind and flame and never be the same? Who knew that the crucified one would reign as Lord of All?

God knew. And no doubt, the days that followed were filled with far more questions than answers, as three thousand came to terms with being transformed, along with all the changes that come following an encounter with the Living God. It put me in mind of a wonderful quote from Bishop Will Willimon, who seems to capture the mood of Pentecost and some of our questions:

A God whom we couldn't have thought up on our own has turned to us, reached to us, is revealed to be someone quite other than the God we would have if God were merely a figment of our imagination—God is a Jew from Nazareth who lived briefly, died violently, and rose unexpectedly. And it scared us to death but also thrilled us to life.

This is the printed version of his quote, a quote that he occasionally weaves into his latest talk or topic. When I heard him last month, the topic was ministry: the kinds of people God chooses to enact God’s mission to the world. Dr. Willimon was obviously in a mood, because the quote morphed into this: “God is a Jew from Nazareth who lived briefly, died violently, and rose unexpectedly, then returned to the same losers that betrayed him.” The only thing better than a good quote is an adaptable quote.

In other words, God did the hard work of redemption (“lived briefly, died violently, and rose unexpectedly”) and then looked around and settled on ordinary women and men to pick up the work. We who are “scared to death but also thrilled to life” have been entrusted with this fragile vessel called the church, baptized in the name of Christ, and filled with the gift of the Spirit. Somehow, we need to make it go.

It should not surprize you that three weeks into the racing season, the leading metaphor I share is “the church as a fragile vessel”—and that somehow, we need to make go. Last Wednesday it was increasing wind, and the adjustments needed as the nature of the race changed. The week before, it was no wind at all—just rain, three layers including my trusty foulies, and my ever-stylish sailing touque. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter how good you look on board, because without wind, you’re not sailing. Styling, but not sailing.

And that put me in mind of something else Dr. Willimon shared: the ever-present danger of moralism. Moralism means encouraging better human behaviour without mentioning that we are always dependent on God’s grace. “Privileged people,” Willimon said, “love to be told that they are the solution.” And they love to believe that everything they need to “be the change” already exists inside of them. But the problem with this “stone soup” style of theology is that it’s not theology at all—it’s humanism.

In other words, you may be sitting on a boat, imagining you know everything that needs to be known about how to make the boat go, but without wind, your just sitting on a boat. Maybe styling, but not sailing. At one time, we thought we were God’s church with a mission in the world, but now we see that God’s mission has a church in the world—and that’s us. A fragile vessel seeking wind, the wind of the Spirit that blows through our weary world to make all things new.

The message of Pentecost is receive the Holy Spirit—the wind that makes the church go. Accept the promise of new life in Christ—for you, and your children, and for the generations that follow—everyone whom God calls. And trust in God: to give you the words and the wisdom required to reach others, drawing them into our fellowship.

Speak to them in a language they can understand: people of Weston and Mount Dennis, residents of Emery and Thistletown, Pelmo Park and Silverthorn, Humber Heights and Rexdale, visitors from Humberlea and Kipling Heights, the Junction, and even Baby Point—declare to them the glory of God and the wonders of life in the Spirit, in Jesus’ name. Amen.


*http://day1.org/7417-will_willimon_preaching_to_confront_racism

posted by michael jacob kooiman @ 4:54 AM