The final stretch. My last three weekends to preach at Southport. And then what God has in store for me in terms of preaching, I don’t really know. I know I’ll be working on preaching, writing about preaching, teaching about preaching. But will I actually be preaching? I don’t know. I would assume so, but that remains to be seen. Seems ironic, I know. But there it is.
So, given that this is it for a while anyway, what should I say? What words, themes, ideas would I want to go out on? What would I leave my congregation with as I shuffle off to new and unknown horizons? Well, I decided on some basic, almost embarrassingly basic truths. Truths so simple they are likely to bring a snort of derision as I trot them out these three weeks. Truths so fundamental that I believe we sometimes forget how radical they are, on the other hand. What do I mean? Well, here’s truth number one: You are alive.
Uh, really? That’s it? Yes, really. That’s it. You are alive. But of course there’s alive and there’s alive. If you get my meaning. Oh, you don’t? Or you want a little more information? OK, let’s start with Pentecost. This is Pentecost weekend in the church. A story of power and wind and fire. Kind of a “huh, how about that” most of the time, a “well, my goodness, wouldn’t it have been cool to be there, back when God seemed more ... alive.”
There’s a dynamic in the Bible stories that grips us. It is as though the barrier between this world and the Kingdom world is thinner somehow. As if all you have to do is reach out your hand and then you can feel Someone take hold. All you have to do is be quiet enough and you can hear a voice that calls your name. All you have to do is ...
Well, take a look, or a read. See how present the Spirit is. See how close the Kingdom is. Take a look:
Acts 2:1-13 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.
5 Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. 6 And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. 7 Amazed and astonished, they asked, "Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? 8 And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? 9 Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, 10 Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, 11 Cretans and Arabs-- in our own languages we hear them speaking about God's deeds of power." 12 All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, "What does this mean?" 13 But others sneered and said, "They are filled with new wine."
But that was then. Now it is a lot quieter. Or a lot noisier. Quieter on the divine side, noisier on our side. When was the last time that you were amazed and perplexed by something that God was doing in your life? When was the last time that you were blown away by the presence of the Spirit? It seems like that sort of experience is left for others. For the heroes of the faith, or for those who profess a Pentecostal faith that seems wrapped up in signs and wonders and woefully out of touch with how the world really works.
Is that what we are supposed to hear on Pentecost Sunday? That “slain in the spirit” and “speaking in tongues” kind of faith? Is this a call to live like that? Maybe. But I don’t really think so.
Our story is in two parts. The first four verses tell of the coming of the Spirit on the little band of followers who had lost their way when they lost their leader. Only four verses that function as the fulcrum around which the whole story of the church pivots. Before that these twelve did almost everything wrong. They missed the point, they ran and hid, they got in the way, they didn’t score too well on the disciple aptitude test. Before this moment in the story, you just know that if Jesus was serious about leaving this whole church thing in their hands, disaster was sure to follow.
But then something happened. The something described in the first four verses of chapter two of the Acts of the Apostles. Something noisy, like a violent wind. A tornado, that sounded like a freight train roaring through the room. Something that gives a simple choice - get out of the way, or get on board.
Then tongues, Luke says, tongues as of fire, divided, meaning coming from a common source but able to spread out, like a vine and its branches, reaching out to touch each one. And these tongues, these fire-like divided branches rested on each of them. Rested. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? Rested on each of them. Not, dove right down to the core, not, cut through to where soul and spirit meets, joints and marrow, not, cleansed them like a purifying fire, washing them like fuller’s soap. The sound was violent, but the tongues rested.
The second part of the story is what spills out into the street. That’s when you know it is a good party, when you can’t contain it in the house. At the Pentecost party, the neighbors complained - well some were cynical and sarcastic, but others were curious. Some passing by wanted to join in, they were peering in the windows, hoping for some of what they were having. They were amazed, they were captured, they saw something beyond the surface - some of them did anyway. “We hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.”
But only some. Maybe things weren’t closer to God in those days. Maybe it just seems that way because they find a God excuse, or a God explanation for everything that happens. Maybe if we decided to start looking deeper into everything that happens, we’d realize that the Spirit is closer than we realize. We think we are alone because we don’t hear the freight train, but the Spirit is actually resting upon us, close as a breath, close as a heartbeat.
Breath. Something about a breath. “Then the LORD God formed man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being.” (Genesis 2:7) In the Greek version of the Old Testament this verse ends with a curious phrase. It essentially says “the human being became an alive living thing.” An alive living being. Meaning we can be living and not alive. It is the breath of God that makes us alive. The breath that wakes us up to what is really going on in the world around us. That’s what happened at that first Pentecost, the Spirit made them alive again. Alive the way they were intended to be, the way they were created to be.
This is the life that Jesus came to bring us, “ I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10) He was talking to living people, but they weren’t alive. Do you see? I know it sounds like semantics, but there is a deeper reality than just words. There is a deeper truth that we often forget. In our noisy world, in our just getting by world, in our going through the motions hoping that one day we’ll make it to wherever we are heading and it will finally make sense world; we lose track of the sense of being alive. The consider the lilies aliveness, the wind like a freight train aliveness and fire like a comforting friend aliveness.
Now you’re thinking, how do I get me some of that? Well, here’s the truth you need to hold on to: you’ve already got it. The Spirit came, the wind blew, the breath breathed on you. You’ve got it. You are alive! Now live as an alive living thing. Open your eyes, open your heart, open your mouth and breathe it in and breathe it out. So that everyone comes alive because of you. You are alive. So, for heaven’s sake, start living.
Shalom,
Derek
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