Pentecost is one of the church’s great stories, isn’t it?
Dramatic! People with fiery halos, out in the streets, preaching the gospel with enthusiasm and vigor. Traffic stops and people from all over the known world listen, and hear, and understand, and get involved!
The punch line of this story - one they leave out of the selection we hear today, but one I can’t forget - is that three thousand people were baptized in response to this dramatic witness. Three thousand people join in, and the church is born as the faithful believers grow by something like 2,000 percent.
This is amazing! Right?
So why doesn’t God keep doing it? What should be happening to us?
If the Holy Spirit is supposed to be among us too, why isn’t Calvary growing by the thousands?
Why aren’t we lit up like fireworks?
Why aren’t there more of us out and about telling the good news in the streets and on TV?
Why aren’t we lit up like fireworks?
Why aren’t there more of us out and about telling the good news in the streets and on TV?
Why - instead - is our world’s religious news so often about how the church is failing?
Maybe those things don’t keep you up at night, but I confess that every time we read and hear this story, I get preachers’ envy.
Because, you know, I’ve never stopped traffic with the gospel, never seen conversions in the thousands, and some weeks, it’s all I can do to wake up to preach, much less be fired up like those disciples were.
It’s a tough story to measure up to, especially if - as I suspect - this is God’s standard for all Christians, not just preachers; for all of us who know the gospel story, and know we’re not supposed to keep it to ourselves.
So I’m always a bit anxious preaching on Pentecost, and a little resentful that the Holy Spirit doesn’t light up the room or the street for us the way we hear about in the Bible.
Until I re-read the beginning of the story, and remember that these are the people who’ve spent much of the last seven weeks hiding out in locked rooms in Jerusalem: hiding out in fear of the temple authorities, huddling because they’re weirded out by Jesus coming back from the grave,
worrying about who’s going to serve on the vestry, and praying, because they haven’t got a clue what’s going to happen next, and they’re still not over Jesus leaving them (again).
I sit at my computer wishing for the dramatic appearance of the Holy Spirit - until I remember Jesus telling those disciples that the Spirit doesn’t come unless Jesus goes, until they’re left leaderless and grieving.
And I fantasize about God’s holy fire making church growth and evangelism easy, until I listen to Paul talking about labor pain, and how the Spirit helps us at our weakest, when we can’t even find the words to pray.
And then I’m a little less envious of Pentecost, and a little more cautious about how I pray, because the truth of these stories, the truth of the fire and the spectacle and of Jesus’ teaching, is that the Holy Spirit shows up not when we’re looking for something to happen, but when we are vulnerable, fragile, uncertain, lonely or afraid.
The amazing thing about that story of disciples preaching in the streets isn’t just the language miracle, or the conversions, or even the visible fire around their heads - the most amazing thing is that these are folks who were - perhaps still are - afraid to leave the safety of their rented room. These are mostly under-educated, marginal folks who have no business in the public forum, just as likely to get arrested for disturbing the peace as to get a fair hearing. Anxious and at risk at the same time they are alight with the Holy Spirit.
Perhaps the Holy Spirit is indeed among us now, as Jesus promised, but needs us to be that vulnerable, be risky, lonely, terrified or helpless, before we’re ready for the power and transformation that make miracles.
Perhaps the promise of Pentecost, the miracle of the Holy Spirit, is not about results: proclamation, publicity, and conversion. Perhaps it’s actually a reminder that God’s business is with our vulnerability, not our confidence, our pain, not just our work, our empty spaces, even more than our successes.
Some of the best preachers I’ve ever known weren’t professionals, but people at our prayer desk, who’ve heard God respond to a prayer they couldn’t even name, a pain they didn’t even know.
People telling stories of love and loss at funerals.
People reacting - just reacting - to the experience of being vulnerable in the presence of God.
I’ve seen God more clearly, more transformatively, when you have let me help you than when you’ve been strong; more powerfully in apologies than in competence; more vividly when you’ve asked for my prayers, when we’ve made mistakes together, than when we keep it all running on tracks.
That’s what Pentecost is like, you know:
that huddle of disciples, fretting, waiting, wondering, hiding, are just reacting to the sudden powerful experience of the presence of God in their time of uncertainty and loss, fragility and suspense, and because of that, thousands of people see that being foolish is grace-filled,
and being vulnerable lets God act.
That sounds a little scary, but it sounds like good news to me.
Since, like those disciples in Jerusalem long ago, I’ve got a LOT more vulnerability than success in my life - despite how good this life truly is - and an ample stock of doubt, grief, and fear.
And I’ll bet I’m not the only one.
Is there some vulnerability in your life, right now?
Some very present pain or loss, or some lurking, barely conscious fear or anxiety?
Are there things that feel too risky, things you just won’t do, because you’d be embarrassed, or lonely? Things you avoid, in case you fail, or in case you just don’t really succeed?
Believe it or not, those are the places in which Pentecost happens.
The cracks in our lives and hearts where we’re afraid that pain can get in are the openings through which the Holy Spirit pours out grace for us and others.
So maybe what you and I are called to do for Pentecost isn’t necessarily to run out preaching in the streets (if you want to, please do! But) maybe we’re called to embrace those cracks and limits, not avoid them.
To make friends with the pains or the doubts you try not to dwell on - we don’t have to face them head on, just sidle up to them, and be present - and remember that the Spirit prays in you in those raw and helpless places, prays too deep for words.
And when you respond to that,
God is revealed in glorious, wonderful ways.
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