Delivered 26 May 2007, the Saturday service based on the readings for Pentecost Sunday.
Welcome
Bonsoir. Guten Abend. Buona sera. G'Day. Noite boa. Buonos noches. How about
Good Evening? This is Pentecost, so I just said "Good Evening" to
you in seven languages. Well, six languages and Australian. No, I'm not drunk,
and it's good that we're here.
The Lectionary
Look them up
The Sermon
Grace and peace to you from God our Father, and from his son Jesus the Christ, and from the Holy Spirit. Amen
Growing up it's really easy to get the idea that Christmas is the most important day of the church year. When you're six years old, it probably is. A few years later, you might come to the conclusion that Easter was the real deal. A new hat for Mom, a new dress for the girls, and everybody got to eat the head off a chocolate rabbit.
Many of you know that I was the one that pushed for celebrating the Easter Vigil soon after I came to the island. You have endured my saying that this one service, even more than Easter morning, was the Queen of Festivals, the ne plus ultra, the unchallenged pinnacle of the church year.
I lied.
What's the big deal at Christmas? Sure, the Immaculate Conception was a neat trick, but we don't pay much attention to that. At Christmas we're remembering two kids, incredibly poor by our standards, unmarried, having a baby without benefit of anesthesia or gynecologists, or even a midwife. That happens every day.
Easter? Sure, resurrections don't happen every day. But at Easter, we're spectators, hopeful that when the time comes we'll be swept along. But we don't have to do anything other than behead chocolate rabbits.
Pentecost? Now that's a different story. That’s a story about us. That's a story about changing the world. That's a story about us changing the world. Us. You and me, a bunch of illiterate fisherman from Galilee. We're talking about scraping the bottom of the barrel here. Homemakers, retired teachers, network technicians, cabinet makers, secretaries, actors. Cast the net further, we're talking politicians, faggots, car salesmen, Democrats, crack addicts, lawyers, maybe even television evangelists. Most of us smell better than the typical Galilean fisherman of the year 33, but until this spirit comes upon us, not much more likely to change the world.
So the spirit has visited us, called us, brought us together. Here we are, week after week, listening to the stories that rotate through the three-year cycle of the lectionary. Here I am, proud of myself for investing the time and overcoming the fear of speaking, getting up here a few times every year to talk to you. Uh oh! We've missed half the point! We're not called to just tell the story to the folks that look and act just like us.
Think back to that reading from Acts. Paul tells us those ragged fishermen were talking to Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and parts of Libya, visitors from Rome, Cretans and Arabs. Wow, that's quite a busload. We're supposed to be talking to them? Well, I guess it's a good thing that most of those don't even exist anymore, isn't it?
Guess again! Some are called to carry the Gospel to distant lands, to learn new languages and endure hardships, to risk martyrdom. But look more closely at today's story. Those fishermen hadn't gone anywhere other than where they would normally have gone. Admittedly, they weren't at home on the shores of Galilee, they were in the big city. They'd walked a fair piece to get there. But this was Jerusalem, the political, religious, and social capital of the region. And they didn't go there to tell the story, they started telling the story right where they happened to be, to whoever was gathered there, when the Spirit gave them voice.
What does that mean nearly two thousand years later? We may not like it. It doesn't just mean sharing the Gospel with our families, and hearing it at the church we always go to. It means telling the story to other homemakers, retired teachers, network technicians, cabinet makers, secretaries, actors, politicians, faggots, car salesmen, Republicans, crack addicts, lawyers, maybe even television evangelists.
Scary? Yes, even if you heard the words of today's Gospel. But be brave, hear these words again: "I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you. I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you."
Yes, ours is a trinitarian church. Right there on the sign it says Trinity Lutheran Church. It says Trinity because we firmly believe that the one true God comes to our world as Father, Son, and now, as of Pentecost, the Holy Spirit. It's a mystery and a miracle, and some of us need to make certain gestures to remind ourselves. The sign says Church because that's what places like this are called, and it says Lutheran because we deeply believe in the redeeming power of coffee and covered dishes shared at potlucks. But first it says Trinity, because we believe that the Father created all things, that the Son came to redeem us, and that the Holy Spirit is in us and in this place right this minute.
Is it still scary? You bet! My fear of standing up here to proclaim what I see in today's lectionary has ebbed as I've done it more often, and hopefully have gotten better at it. But it's still scary enough that I spend hours preparing for these few minutes of your attention, and the thought of telling these things outside this place to crack addicts, Libertarians, or car salesmen is still overwhelming.
Are we waiting for tongues of fire to dance on our heads? Do we need the gift of speaking perfectly the language of whoever we speak with? Can we wait for absolute confidence before we share our faith? No, no, and no. You and I, where we are and who we are, are called to the sometimes-frightening prospect of sharing the story of the Creator and the Redeemer, and step by step, by the power of the Holy Spirit, we will be braver and better able to speak the words that those around us will understand.
Don't panic, and don't fret that you can't save everyone you meet this week. This work belongs to the whole church, not to any one of us alone. We've been given plenty of time, one word here, one nudge there, and over the centuries great works have been done. We've got millions of people to share the task with, we've got every day of our lives, others will follow to continue our work, and we have the Spirit with us. We just need to speak that one work, make that one nudge, give the one smile, invite that one person to join us.
One part of today's reading from Acts has always bewildered me. Whenever I drink too much, my speech tends to slur. Not once in over thirty-five years of dedicated research has wine caused me to speak the language of Parthians, Pamphylians, or Medes. Given that the disciples suddenly speaking in tongues were Galileans, apparently it was easier for the crowd to accept this as the result of some miracle drink than accepting the idea that these illiterate fishermen would start speaking in such a range of foreign languages. I can't imagine anyone coming to that conclusion, but then I know the miracle of Pentecost was not found in skins of new wine. And the greatest miracle of Pentecost is that we are those illiterate fishermen.
We have heard the story, and we accept the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. And then we tell that story. For most of us, this does not mean to become an ordained pastor and tell that story as a profession. It probably does not mean we should give up our jobs and travel to distant lands, taking great risks for the Gospel. We are called to tell this story right where we live and work, both in our words and in the example of our lives. As Pastor Jim said last week, they're watching. Our children, but also our hair dresser and the rude motorist that cuts us off in the ferry line, the clerk at the post office and the deputy that cites us for speeding, the drunk that stumbles against us leaving a restaurant, our next door neighbor who we've just met and the close friends we've known for decades.
That is the miracle of Pentecost, the central miracle of the one holy trinitarian and catholic church. We're just a bunch of dumb fisherfolk, sometimes stumbling, maybe seeming drunk to some, but we have a story to tell, a world to change, and a powerful advocate, the Holy Spirit, provided for us.
And this is what we call Good News. This is the Gospel of the Lord. Amen.