Bless Your Heart: Pentecost

Acts 2:1-21

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. 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. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.

Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs — in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.” All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, “What does this mean?” But others sneered and said, “They are filled with new wine.”

But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them: “Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:

“‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that 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. And I will show portents in the heaven above and signs on the earth below, blood, and fire, and smoky mist. The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood, before the coming of the Lord’s great and glorious day. Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.’”

When the Day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. It’s a familiar opening to a familiar story. The Christian day of Pentecost has been coming, year after year, like clockwork for nearly 2,000 years. Year after year we acknowledge the disruptive presence of the Spirit in a room in Jerusalem long long ago. But this year that same story feels different. It feels a little closer, both more immediate and further away. This time, there’s so much that feels the same, but different.

The disciples were waiting. Something big had just happened. Many somethings big had happened. Jesus had been killed. He’d be raised. He’d showed his scars and shared meals with them again. He told them to go and wait for something new and big and important to happen. Then he ascended into heaven, just like, floated up into the clouds.

So they’re waiting for what’s next. I feel that. We’ve had some big things happen. Global pandemic. Racial Reckoning. More pandemic. Economic instability. An attempted insurrection. Presidential transfer of power drama. Climate disasters. Blood and fire, smoke billowing in the Middle East. Many somethings big have happened. But we’re not together in one place. 

Some of you are here in the Minneapolis sanctuary.

Some of you are here in Minnetonka.

Many of you are online in the Twin Cities, in greater Minnesota, all over the U.S., and beyond. We’re not all together in one place, in one physical location like those disciples.

But we ARE all together. We’re in this liminal space, this space between what was and what will be. We are in the mental, emotional, spiritual space that is 2021 together. We have all been disrupted by big somethings. And we’re waiting, eagerly and anxiously, with excitement and trepidation and all the feelings in between.

Something is about to happen. We are together, paying attention, waiting for a glimpse of what’s still to come.

The late great theologian Phyllis Tickle used to say the Holy Spirit has a rummage sale every 500 years. She blows around putting sales stickers on everything that has served a purpose, but isn’t necessary for what’s next. 

It’s been 500 years since the Protestant Reformation, since that Medieval Rummage Sale, since the word was translated and unleashed, given into the hands of the people; since indulgences were challenged and heretics bet their lives on God’s grace.

The whole church groaned and growled and bitterly fought through the messy decades of change and loss and rebirth. They prayed and argued about what really mattered and why. They let go of the only way they’d ever known, trusting that God really could make all things new.

For decades now, the church has been sensing a new thing; wondering what God has in mind for the next generation of church, hoping to glimpse a vision of what’s still possible. 

I have been expecting a slow and murky transformation, our Christian institutions pulled into the next great change kicking and screaming. We’re human, after all. But this year has been like a wind, like a refining fire, sweeping all of us into one place, marking us with a common vulnerability and weary wonder. It’s accelerated any timeline for change I ever imagined. 

And we are in it now, folks. The change that always comes, taking the assumptions and patterns and concerns we have been storing up and then selling them on the front lawn! All proceeds go to the God who is making room, freeing up space, preparing for what’s next. 

The Reformation happened on an inflection point. We’re standing on an inflection point. Pentecost happened on an inflection point. 

This is where the wind starts blowing. This is where the Spirit shows up with fire and breath and a whole lot of noise and lands on a people who have been waiting. The Spirit lands on a people who have been pressed down and stirred up by big somethings. The Spirit lands on a people who don’t know what they’re supposed to do or say next, who need courage and a vision to speak what is true and holy and sacred.

And on that first Christian Pentecost the disciples were given words, but not just any words, they were given words that were for other people. These other people, from other tribes and other towns and other families heard words from home, words that reminded them of where they came from, words that tied them to their roots to their people. They were words spoken by strangers that honored the distinctiveness of who they were and where they came from.

Some people got it, or at least they were curious and asked, what could it mean? Others were skeptical and wondered if the leadership was drunk. Possible, but Peter ever the pragmatist says, we’re not drunk, it’s only 9:00 am. It’s one of my favorite lines in scripture. I was actually tempted to use it as my confirmation verse. But my mother prevailed. 

But then Peter offers a sermon that’s anything but practical. He quotes the prophet Joel and speaks about blood and fire and smoky mist. He paints a picture of the moon turning to blood and the sun growing dark.

Then he says something really radical. This Spirit, this presence of God, this power of the crucified and risen Christ is for all people. Like all people. It’s for women, it’s for slaves, it’s for the young and the old, it’s for the people that the church got really good at excluding really quickly. It is for all people. 

Because when the sun turns dark and the moon is bloody and the pandemic comes and the systems of oppression that we’ve built begin to crumble and wars rage, we see that there’s nothing left. There’s us and God and that’s it.

And that’s when Peter delivers the line. There, when we clearly see that there’s nothing left, then and only then, everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.

Look, we wish there was an instruction manual for these moments of upheaval, these moments of reformation, these rummage sales, but there’s not.

There is no clear path around the pain and loss of trying and failing and learning and growing. And so we plod on like our friends in the Book of Acts, practicing grace and forgiveness for one another, trusting that God cares more about including us in the process than the arrival time.

The truth is, there is no arrival time. There is no sure destination in this work of unbecoming and becoming, of dying and rising, of breaking and mending that is the church in every age.

Every generation struggles and strives and falls apart from one another, a mess of good intentions and mortal limitations.

And every generation is loved back to life by a God who continues to make things new, who keeps setting us free, who gives us back to one another with glimpses of heaven that keep us moving forward. 

Friends in Christ, we are a generation in need of the church. And I’m not talking about our buildings and our polity — I’m talking about the incarnate promises of God. I’m talking about you — people who are conduits for the language of mercy, the fires of justice, the winds of peace. 

We have spent the last 500 years coming apart — differentiating, dividing, and discerning what we are not. What if this reformation gives us back to each other, shows us what it means to be all together in one place, a place where every gender, every age, every station, every race, everyone is valued and set ablaze with a new purpose by the same gospel?

Friends in Christ, I have never been so weary or filled with wonder. I know some things will stay the same and some things will be completely different. And I know I don’t get to decide what stays and what goes. That’s the Holy Spirit’s business. I’m so glad to be part of the church in this generation, paying attention and ready to speak a new word about what we see.

It’s going to be okay. It always is. 

God is in the business of making something out of nothing. Jesus promises to make a way where there isn’t a way. The Holy Spirit’s habit of giving us back to one another.

God bless you, Church; you weary and wonderful church. For you are the disciples anointed for this season, for this something big, for this breath and word rushing in to reclaim the world with heaven’s love.

Some things will be the same. They always are.

At its core, the church has always been a people, a body, a community of people who make mistakes and discern together, trusting that God goes with them. We know that the church is rooted in worship, the breaking of bread, prayers rising up, generous giving that proclaims enough for everyone, and service in the world God loves. 

Even while the cosmos changes, on the days the sun disappears and the moon turns to blood, we remain the body of Christ, the word made flesh, the breath of heaven and hearts that beat to the rhythm of Christ coming, not just once at the end of things, but again and again, in every generation.

These things — the gathering, the singing, the feasting, the proclaiming, the serving, the praying, the loving, the becoming together — they are our birthright and blessing until the end of days, Church.

Some things will change. They always do.

How do we worship across space and time, together in our buildings and together online? 

Do our relationships with our buildings change? How do we decide when and where to gather in-person?

For those of you tuning in from beyond the Twin Cities, what do you need to feel spiritually supported by this congregation? How do we meet you where you are with connection and good purpose for your faith and daily life? 

For those of you gathered in our sanctuaries, what will leadership and hospitality look like in the months and years to come?