Acts 2:1-21
May 24,
2015/Pentecost Sunday
I had a different opening planned
for my sermon this morning. But last night when the sirens went off, I went
into my bathtub, which is about the only semi-safe spot in my house, put
pillows over my head, and waited. While I was lying there – and I admit that I
went back to the bathtub even though the sirens were no longer going off – I
listened to this fierce wind blow and bluster and rage around my house. It was
so loud, like this never-ending roaring. I wondered if maybe this was a taste
of what the disciples heard when they were sitting together, waiting. I don’t
believe I’ve ever really given much thought to the noise of that wind from
heaven before, but it must have been deafening. This cacophony of sound and
noise was not limited to the wind. From the hissing of the flames as they
descended to the jumbled tones of all of them suddenly speaking different
languages at the same time; I cannot begin to imagine that enormous sound. But
I can imagine this. I can imagine that all of that noise was probably more than
a little frightening to some. Maybe the people who were witnessing this were a
bit scared. Maybe the disciples themselves were scared at what was happening to
them and in them and through them. I would have been. But whoever said that
Pentecost, the coming of the Holy Spirit, wasn’t scary?
Scary isn’t usually a word that we
associate with Pentecost, is it? Honestly, it has become one of my favorite
feast days in the whole church year. It’s a celebration like Christmas, but
gifts are not required. We have a cake, and in some churches the congregation
will sing “Happy Birthday” to the church, but I don’t have to buy anyone
presents. We get to wear red, and I love wearing red. And I don’t have to buy
anyone presents! Pentecost is fabulous! But last night in my bathtub, that wind
was not fabulous, it was frightening. I couldn’t tell what was happening
outside of my house, all I could hear was the wind, and it was scary.
It must have been frightening for
the disciples, heck it must have been terrifying. When Jesus ascended, he told
them that they would be baptized with the Holy Spirit. So they knew that was
what they were waiting for, but what would the coming of the Spirit be like?
Let’s face it, Jesus told the disciples many times that he would be crucified
and resurrected, and they could not grasp that until it happened. I suspect
that it was the same with the coming of the Spirit. They were waiting, but for
what? Then when it came?! This loud, rushing wind; these tongues of flame
dancing above their heads; their sudden ability to speak languages they could
never speak before; Pentecost is scary, people!
When I say that Pentecost is scary,
I don’t mean that it is scary in a horror movie kind of way. It is scary
because it can’t be controlled, because the Holy Spirit blows where it will,
because it calls and compels us to do and speak and act in ways we could not
fathom before. The truth is, if we don’t find Pentecost a little scary, a bit
unnerving, then we have lost what it means for the Holy Spirit to come into our
midst. If we are not shaken up by the coming of the Holy Spirit, then we are
probably guilty of domesticating that Spirit, of trying to tame it and lasso it
to do our bidding.
I suspect that we do that often,
don’t we? I know I do. I pray for the power of the Holy Spirit to be with us
and work through us just about every week. But I’ve realized that often what
I’m really praying for is not that Holy Spirit will work through me or guide
me, but that the Holy Spirit will just come along on the path I’ve chosen.
Instead of praying, “Come Holy Spirit, come,” I think what I’m actually praying
is, “Follow, Holy Spirit, follow.”
But maybe the Holy Spirit coming is
more like what it was when I was lying in my bathtub last night. It’s
unnerving. It’s loud. You don’t know what’s happening, and you’re afraid to get
up and look. Yet even when I was lying there, praying, I had a deep sense of
trust that it would be okay, that I would be okay. I know that if a tornado had
actually hit, my house and my person might not have been okay. But I still
trusted. Me, the one who struggles to trust, who struggles to let go of my need
to control, trusted that somehow all would be well. A mess true, but still I trusted it would be
well. Eventually. I think that’s the
key. Trust. The Holy Spirit is not a tame little breeze that we can manipulate
to do our will. The Holy Spirit is God rushing into our midst. The Holy Spirit
is God pulling us, pushing us, calling us, compelling us to go a new way, do a new
thing, live a new life, answer a new call. The Holy Spirit is God’s great
whoosh of strength and courage and love. Thanks be to God for God’s almighty
whoosh of the Holy Spirit, and may we go in trust where it calls. Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”
Amen.
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