I heard
recently about a young boy who was standing in his church’s narthex, admiring a
large wooden plaque with bronze plates, each bearing someone’s name. Curious, he asked an usher, “Why are all
these names here?” Smiling, the usher
replied, “Those are the names of folks who died in the service.” The boy paused, then—seeking clarification—inquired,
“Was it the morning service or the evening service?”
It’s true that sometimes church services can seem
somewhat dead. It’s true as well that we
who gather to worship can sometimes appear lifeless. Our founder, John Wesley, was well aware of
this; he wrote in his directions for singing (which can be found in the front
of The United Methodist Hymnal) that
Christians should beware of singing as if they were “half dead, or half asleep.”[1] The fact is, sometimes our hearts just aren’t
in it. Sometimes, when we assemble, we
don’t do so in a way that’s truly given to God.
And when this happens, our gatherings miss the mark of what worship
ought to be. What’s worse, we come away
from those experiences feeling no different from when we arrived.
But today, as
we gather, we should gather with rejoicing.
Because today, as we gather, we celebrate life. We celebrate life in the waters of baptism,
as this afternoon two young ladies from Brooks Chapel will respond to God’s gracious invitation to relationship—joining themselves to
the body of Christ. That, in itself, is
cause for thanksgiving—and we indeed give thanks to God for them.
But we also celebrate
life today in the origins of our denomination.
The Sunday preceding May 24 is known as Heritage Sunday, a day upon
which we call to mind the rich history of Methodism, and the men and women who
shaped the movement—paving the way for those who’d follow.
Still,
there’s more. For this is also a day
upon which we celebrate life in the birth of the Church. Today is Pentecost, whereupon we
remember the Holy Spirit’s descent and the mighty power which filled those
who’d gathered to receive it.
Traditionally, we point to Pentecost as the day that the Church as we
know it—the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church—was born through the
appearance of the life-giving Spirit of God.
The coming of that Spirit changes things.
The fact is that whether we’re talking about the Church
in a very broad and general sense—one which includes all Christians across
temporal and spatial boundaries; across theological or doctrinal barriers,
denominational lines, and other means of separation we’ve constructed—or
whether we’re talking about it in a more localized sense (e.g., First Baptist
Church, or St. John’s Episcopal), we know that we’re changed, strengthened, and
propelled forward by only one source: the Spirit of God, promised by Christ,
poured out on the day of Pentecost; the Spirit—who inspires our hearts to sing
a new song, and to give ourselves fully to the One who formed the heart.
But I must confess: for as much joy and jubilation as
usually surrounds it, I’m not entirely comfortable with the Pentecost story as
scripture portrays. I wrestle with it
and am tested by it. And there are a
couple of reasons for this. One is
because it challenges my perceptions of the Holy Spirit: of the character and
nature of the Spirit.
Now we all
know what the Spirit does, as Jesus describes this for us; prior to leaving
them, he told his disciples that the Holy Spirit would arrive to be an Advocate
or Helper, and that this Spirit would teach and remind. He told them that they wouldn’t be orphaned: that the Spirit would be their Comforter.
St. Paul says it’s by the Spirit that we’re led, that we’re kept from
fear, and given witness of our being God’s own.
What’s more, it’s the Spirit who imparts (as the Spirit sees fit) gifts
of wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, working of miracles, prophecy,
discernment[2]—things
that Jesus was referring to when he said his followers would do even greater
things than he did. I have no qualms
with any of this.
The rub, for me, comes chiefly in the way the Spirit arrives. We’re used to—and more at ease with—thinking
about the Spirit in terms of a quietly descending dove. We’re more prone to speak of the Spirit as a
still, small voice. Even the biblical
words for “spirit” (in Hebrew, ruach;
in Greek, pneuma) carry gentle
connotations, as they’re often translated “breath.” And to be sure, the Spirit is frequently subtle—nudging and
prodding, instead of demanding.
But the Spirit is here portrayed as anything but gentle. The Spirit is neither timid nor meek—and
doesn’t seem to provide much comfort. In
the Pentecost story from Acts, God’s Spirit is wild and loud—invasive—shaking
the lives of those first followers of Christ, whether they’re ready or
not. I mean, look at the words which are
used: suddenly, rush, violent, wind, fire.[3] None of these terms are particularly calm or
serene. They don’t seem to align well
with Jesus saying “Peace I leave with you.”[4] Honestly, they convey a sense of that which
is beyond human control or containment.
They certainly don’t conjure up—for me, anyway—images of something able
to be confined, or pocketed for use when it’s convenient. Nor do they cause me to imagine something
peaceful or passive. When I hear these
words, I get very different sorts of pictures—ones which are potent. Dominant.
Even destructive.
Destructive? It
doesn’t seem to wash on a day that’s supposed to be about birth, creation, and
things being made whole. It doesn’t make
sense, until we remember what Jesus says: that death is necessary for life;
that leaving behind the old must take place, to make room for the new. The Spirit of God often crashes into our
lives like a wrecking ball, to destroy the rotten structures which aren’t fit
for habitation: to level to the ground those walls behind which we attempt to
hide from our true selves, from others, and from God.
And this is precisely
what makes the words used so disconcerting; I want to be who and what I want
to be. I want to do what I want to
do. But in order for me to be who and
what God wants me to be—in order for me to do what God chooses for me to do—those
towers I’ve constructed need to come down.
And truly, it can hurt when they begin to tumble. But, in their place, something new and
beautiful is built: something forged neither by my own hands, nor by my own force
of will. It’s a life breathed by God,
which I’m graciously invited into: which we’re each invited into, and which we live into, as we call upon the
Spirit to inspire our hearts.
And this is really where the other challenge of the
Pentecost narrative comes in. The first,
as I’ve been describing, is a challenge to perceptions of how the Spirit works. But the second is a challenge to perceptions
of what the body of Christ—the Church, formed and led by the Spirit—should look
like.
Were I to guess, I’d say most of us likely have little or
no problem with the notion of the Spirit giving us strength and boldness, zeal
and passion, and endowing us with gifts and graces. And indeed, the Spirit gives all of these in
abundance. But it’s neither the strength
nor the zeal that, for me, primarily defines the Church. For me, what defines the Church is that it be
a reflection of the kingdom of God: a glimpse of what God desires on earth, as in
heaven. And just what does God desire?
I believe that, more than anything, God desires the
redemption of all that God has made. I
believe as well that God desires that all would turn to their Maker, and
live. And I believe that every person
has their part to play in bringing this about.
Through the mouth of the prophet, God reveals something of this, when
it’s said:
In the last
days, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your
daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old
men shall dream dreams. Even upon my
slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my spirit; and they
shall prophesy…then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.[5]
 |
| Detail of Pentecost by El Greco (ca 1596) |
Everyone. Not
some. Not those whom we deem
worthy. But, unfortunately, that’s a
common mindset in some congregations and in some denominations. Among certain faith communities, they’d like
to limit who’s in and decide who’s out.
But this isn’t what God has in mind.
God paints a picture which includes all flesh—sons and daughters, young and
old, men and women—not only among
those who are called to salvation, but also among those who are called to
service; among those who are called to be prophetic voices, admonishing God’s
people to holiness of heart and life.
The apostle says it this way: “In the one Spirit we were all baptized
into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of
one Spirit.”[6] To state it simply, the Church as envisioned
at the New Testament Pentecost is one wherein everyone is graciously included,
and everyone’s gifts are incorporated.
Within the Church, everyone should have a place at the table.
But the Church in the twenty-first century doesn’t always
measure up to this ideal. The regrettable
reality is that we often divide and segregate, leaving some on the outside
peering in. And we do this in many
ways—some unintentional, and some very intentional. Some based on differences beyond our ability
to control like skin color and gender; others based on what a person has in her
or his bank account, what sort of family they come from, or their political
affiliations; still others based on deeper differences, be they theological,
moral, or the like. But we know these
things. And we know whether or not we’ve
been individually or corporately guilty of it; I certainly know those answers
for myself. I know that I have, in
myriad ways, placed limitations and restrictions on people based upon little
more than preconceived notions, stereotypes, statuses, or some other sort of
agenda that has nothing to do with that person being a child of God, called to
God’s service. I know that I’ve
discriminated, and dealt unjustly.
And I also know that in the midst of my self-serving ways
and over-inflated sense of importance, the Spirit comes to swing that wrecking
ball and obliterate those tendencies.
The Spirit comes to blow the winds of change, and to ignite a fire that
both incinerates the trash in my life while rekindling the flame that once
burned with holy fear. The Spirit comes
to inspire my heart, such that my vision of who and what the Church is—and what
my place among the Church ought to be—might stand corrected. The Spirit descends—sometimes gently,
sometimes forcefully—but always to provide us with everything we need to be made
anew, sustained on our Christian journey, as we go on to perfection.
Those first
disciples of the Christ were gathered in that place some two thousand years
ago, and they were waiting—just as Jesus had instructed them to do. Still, waiting—as it pertains to what the
Spirit of God designs to do in and through us—is by no means the hardest
part. The challenge lies in welcoming
the Spirit who comes, even if we’re discomforted and distressed by the message
that’s brought. The challenge lies in
welcoming our hearts to be inspired—and our lives to be changed.
This is overflowing with good meat for the soul. With a little adaptation, this could easily be published in a Christian magazine.
ReplyDelete