Acts 2:1-4 When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. 2 And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. 3 Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. 4 All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.
That’s how it began, at least according to Luke, who is the only one who captured the second act of the Jesus story. The other Gospel writers run out of steam when Jesus leaves. But Luke keeps plugging away. He is just as fascinated by the fumblings and stumblings and the falling and rising of the motley band of disciples as he was by the God-enfleshed, baby in a manger who becomes the friend of sinners and outcasts and then gives himself away for the least of these - meaning you and me. He is like the parent or friend who gives a gift and then is not content with seeing the joy in the unwrapping and admiring. “Try it on,” he shouts. “Let’s play,” he cries clearing a space in the rubble so the pieces can be spilled out and the board unfolded.
It’s not just receiving Christ for Luke, he wants to know what we are going to do with Him. He wants to know how we are going to live today, in this present time. That’s a hard leap for many of us. We read the stories of the Bible, especially the stories of Jesus and we enter in, like watching a movie that’s so good the world disappears. “Tell me the stories of Jesus I love to hear; things I would ask him to tell me if he were here.” If he were here. We look around our lives and wonder if he is here. We stumble out of the darkened theatre and are surprised to find the world different than the one we watched while we munched our popcorn.
If he were here. The Spirit seemed so evident that first Pentecost day. Wind like a freight train, roaring through the room. We imagine the faces of the disciples distorted like those pictures of the effects of wind blown acceleration. Tongues of fire light lightning, crackling down on each of them, making their hair stand on end and sparks fly from their fingertips, their eyes light up, their bones glow under their skin. Then the babbling, languages fast and furious, spilling out of them in a Niagara effect, and the passers-by awash in the torrent of words. It is surreal, mind-blowing, head shaking. Ah, some muttered, they must be drunk. This must be chemically induced. They are on something. People don’t act like they have the answers to all their prayers, unless they are so plastered they forgot those prayers. They must be drunk, muttered the cynics passing by the party room full of spirit intoxicated disciples. What an odd sort of day, with an odd sort of presence.
The Spirit doesn’t show up like that anymore. Today is full of unanswered prayers. No, not so much unanswered as unspoken. Unprayed prayers, because, why? I mean really, why? The cynics of today are as likely to be inside the room as they are passing by on the street. Inside the room until they wander out, never to return because ... well because the Spirit doesn’t blow through our worship so much any more. “Something’s missing.” That’s the latest explanation for a departure from our congregation. Something’s missing. Is it? Is the Spirit a memory, a story we read once a year, an object of a wistful sigh about what once was, if it ever was? Something’s missing.
Romans 8:18-27 I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. 19 For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; 20 for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. 22 We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; 23 and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. 24 For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? 25 But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. 26 Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. 27 And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.
This present time. It is Memorial Day Weekend here in the US. An event which began as Decoration day for the civil war dead in 1868. A chance to honor, to remember, to decorate the graves of those who had died in that terrible war. When it began there were competing dates for Union remembrance and for Confederate remembrance. But somewhere in the early 20th Century the war ended and the dates merged together. Memorial Day has been an official national holiday for more than 40 years. We remember, we honor, we weep for those who have died serving their country. Our country. Our home. And we pray for an end to war. But still they die. So, that we hardly know how to pray any more. Or how to pray without despair. Without anger, without a desire for vengeance. We don’t know how to pray with hope. That one day no new names will be added to the lists of those for whom we pray.
I consider the sufferings of this present day... Paul acknowledges that living in these days isn’t easy. The sufferings of this present day. He acknowledges that there is something missing, something not yet, something on the way. At least he still believes it is on the way. If you read Paul closely, when he starts writing his letters to the churches, he is full of the immediacy of the kingdom. Jesus is on his way, get ready. It’s almost here, maybe in the morning, maybe later today. Just get ready, wash your hands and be ready. But as time goes on he starts talking about how we need to learn to live together in community. He tells us we need to shore one another up, we’ve got to figure out this church thing, this worship and service thing. We’ve got work to do. Not because he’s given up hope. By no means, to use one his favorite phrases. But the hope now becomes what sustains us in the living through the sufferings of this present day.
And he knows we get tired of holding on to hope. Our grip loosens and we fall into the darkness of the day instead of remembering the light that we bear. The light that we are. The glory about to be revealed to us is such a powerful idea. The kingdom, heaven, the reign of God, Your will be done on earth, on earth for heaven’s sake. But keep reading and he says that that glory is us. The world is waiting for us. Creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God. That’s us, that’s them. That’s us showing them that it’s them. The world is waiting for us to reveal their inheritance. For us to turn on the light, so that they can live not only in the sufferings of this present day, but in the hope of the end to suffering, the end to rejection, the end to hate, the end to war, the end to dying and to killing because we don’t know any other way to live in this present day. Those are the words that the passers by are longing to hear come pouring down over them this Pentecost, in languages they can understand, in words that resonate with their own souls, not just in the words we know. We need to learn new languages so people can hear the word we know, can see the light we see, the light we are. And to hear it with such joy and love and acceptance that they will wonder if we are a little bit tipsy.
Except where is the wind? Where are the tongues of fire? Why can’t we be empowered like they were empowered on that first Pentecost. It’s also Aldersgate Day, this Sunday. Memorial Day, Pentecost, Aldersgate Day. Aldersgate Day, the day we remember our founder, John Wesley, stumbling to a bible study he didn’t want to go to. And hearing someone read from a commentary written by Martin Luther of all people. And that in the midst of the reading and that hearing, something happened. Something broke through. Wesley reclaimed these words, this hope. He was included in God’s loving act of salvation, in the hope for eternity and an abundant life. It wasn’t wind and flame. He described it as a warming of the heart. An unexplained, strange warming of the heart.
Maybe that’s what we should lean into. Not wait to be knocked off our feet, to be blasted into speaking of glory and hope, but a warming. The Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. Maybe we should keep sighing, for the sufferings of this present day, even as we hope for the glory about to be revealed to us. To us. Not just me, not just you, but us. We’re in this together. Linked, gathered, committed to hoping together. Like a marriage. Yeah, I got there. It is also my anniversary. Our anniversary, La Donna and me. Thirty five years. This present day. And there is and has been suffering, but also glory. And we live in hope, together.
Happy Anniversary, La Donna. Happy Birthday, church. Hopeful Memorial Day, nation. There is more to come.
Shalom,
Derek
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