Pentecost
Rebecca Clancy
Acts 2:1-11
As much as I like to run and bike and swim, I must confess that I’ve never taken much of an interest in spectator sports. Since so many people have told me over the years that I’m crazy not to like them, I’ve given some thought as to why I don’t. I’ve formulated a theory that since I have a bad sense of direction and often mistake my left for my right that my spatial perception is impaired, and I can’t process properly what’s happening on the field or court. But in the last analysis, who can account for likes and dislikes? All I know is that spectator sports of whatever kind make me bored and restless, petulant even. So I don’t watch them, and no one expects me to any more.
Some years back though I felt certain I’d have a change of heart. It turned out that a son of mine was pretty good at football and was predicted to make a sizeable contribution to his high school team. I wouldn’t so much be watching a spectator sport, I thought. Rather, I’d be watching my son, my own flesh and blood, my pride and joy. Surely this would override my impaired spatial perception. But by the first game, I discovered I was wrong. I guess there are limits to maternal devotion. Before the first quarter was over I was bored and restless, petulant even. But of course I could scarcely beg off of his games. What would my son think? Never mind my son, what would the other mothers think? There’s no peer pressure like the peer pressure of other mothers. So I determined to make a heroic sacrifice and attend his games.
I learned quickly never to sit near the dads. They tracked every play and second guessed every call. They’d have zero tolerance for my like. I therefore sat with the other mothers, chatting occasionally to pass the time.
One night, there was a lull in the chatting, and I happened to glance out on the field. Just then all the stars aligned. The opposing team was about to score a touch down and win the game. It was all but a done deal. They were on the 10 yard line, and there were two minutes left. They threw a pass to a player in the end zone, and suddenly from out of nowhere someone soared high into the air and intercepted the pass. It was my son. Before anyone knew what was happening, he was on the move, dodging and ducking, zigging and zagging. Soon he outmaneuvered the pack, and was running, like I’d never seen him run, down the field. Three players were in hot pursuit -- gaining and gaining, but just as they were at his heels he somehow widened the distance between them and then left them behind.
By this time, I was on my feet. I was screaming at the top of my lungs. My eyes were bulging out of my head. I was jumping up and down. And I was not the only one. When he scored the touchdown there was rampant joy and hysteria. You’d think Christ had just numbered us among the sheep. When I went down to congratulate him he was talking with his coach. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” his coach said. “I didn’t,” my son replied. “The group spirit somehow carried me down the field.” I guess there was that one day I took an interest in spectator sports.
All this was, as I said, some years back. My son lives on his own now in New York City. I think life is a bit tougher than he thought it would be. He lives paycheck to paycheck working very hard at a job he doesn’t like much, though he knows he’s lucky to have a job at all. Being at the epicenter of the economic meltdown, he has many reminders of the high unemployment rates.
We spoke recently and happened to reminisce about that football game. “It was such a big deal to me at the time,” he said, “but in the long run it was nothing.” “It wasn’t nothing” I said. “It was an accomplishment.” “Maybe,” he said, “But it didn’t change anything for me.”
It’s hard growing up, I thought, as I listened to him. At least when you’ve been grown up a long time like most of us, you accustom yourself to life’s limitations and disappointments. Though as I reflected upon his words later, I realized that, disillusionment aside, he had a point. Even if it had somehow changed something for him, it would have just deferred the question. Because if you think about it, how can anything that is IN the world and OF the world really change the world? In the last analysis, it’s always going to be the same old story, and the same old story will end the same old way.
It’s like old Ecclesiastes from our Old Testament lesson realized. “A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever….What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; There is nothing new under the sun.” There is nothing new under the sun. That’s how my son felt, and how we may be tempted to feel from time to time or all the time. But it’s not true. It’s not right, and it’s not true. There is something new under the sun. It began the first Pentecost, and the apostles prove it.
Take the apostle Peter. There’s nothing in the record about it, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he was once in the spotlight. He was the leader. He was the one with the charisma. He was the one who took charge. But then life caught up with him, and before he knew it all that was left was a caricature of his former self; all that was left was his half cocked attempt to assert himself before those who now took little notice of him. All four gospels capture the same embarrassing portrait. Some of them even go so far as to make apologies for him.
Look what spectacle he made of himself at the Transfiguration. Jesus went with some of his disciples to a mountain top. Suddenly he was transfigured and there appeared at his right hand Moses and at his left Elijah. Some great epiphany was at hand! What did Peter say? He said, “Boy it’s sure good that I’m here.” It was sure good that he was there? There stood the Son of God and standing in his midst the Father of Prophecy and the Father of the Law, and it was sure good Peter was there? And why? So he could build each of them a little tent.
And he made a like spectacle of himself at the foot washing as well. It was the night before Jesus’ execution. The disciples were gathered together with Jesus in the upper room. Premonition hung in the air. The disciples awaited from Jesus some sign, some cue, some signal. Jesus arose and removed his outer robe. He poured water in a basin and began to wash their feet. He sought to symbolize in his actions what he before he departed wanted his disciples to learn -- that servants are not greater than their masters, nor messengers greater than the one who sent them. But when Jesus got to Peter’s feet, Peter refused to let Jesus wash them. Jesus assured him that he would come in time to understand what he was doing. Peter continued to balk. When Jesus insisted, Peter said he would permit it only as part of a full body wash. At this point I’m surprised that the evangelist John did not record the rolling of Jesus’ eyes.
And these spectacles were nothing compared to the spectacle he made of himself after Jesus’ arrest. Just prior to his arrest, he proclaimed to Jesus, and I quote, “Even though I must die with you, I will never deny you.” And we all know what happened after Jesus’ arrest. He denied him not once, not twice, but three times.
Jesus may have given Peter a special place of honor among the disciples, but it was not for any merit on Peter’s part. That wasn’t the way Jesus operated. It was because he looked at Peter and all people with compassion and forbearance. He saw that a special place of honor among the disciples was what Peter earned but needed.
But then came Pentecost. The disciples were gathered again in the upper room when suddenly it was just as we heard described. There was the rush of a violent wind. Divided tongues as of fire rested upon each of them. We just heard it described, but we didn’t hear described what happened next.
Peter had never been much of an orator, and that was probably for the best. What he said in private dialogues was bad enough; forget public speeches. But suddenly he was a great orator, and his words backed a punch. In his very first sermon, which is the very first sermon recorded in the Christian Church, he stood before the same crowds who had executed Jesus for a messianic imposter and declared to them that David himself had foreseen that the messiah would be the one that death could not hold. “Let the entire house if Israel know with certainty,” he concluded, “that God has made him both Messiah and Lord, this Jesus whom you crucified.”
And that was just the beginning. Peter too was never known for his bravery. Just the opposite, he was known for his cowardice. But when questioned by the religious authorities about a miraculous healing he had performed, he stood before them his chest out, his head held high, and as brave as any man, and declared, “…let it be known to all of you, and to all the people of Israel, that this man is standing before you in good health by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified…The stone that the builders rejected has become the corner stone. There is salvation in no one else.” And when they demanded that he henceforth keep silent about Jesus Christ, he went on. “Whether it is right to listen to you rather than God, you must judge, but I cannot keep from speaking about what I have seen and heard.” The religious authorities were so confounded they let him go on his way.
There was indeed change for Peter and change for his world. Into the degenerate Roman world there came through the apostles something new! It was not change from within which is no change at all, but change from above, change from the Spirit of Pentecost. It was in and of God’s world. It was the Spirit of the Pentecost.
Friends in Christ, first the bad news. We don’t have it in us. We might think for a time that we do. We might hope for a time that we do. We might have our triumphs. But we don’t have it in us. We can make nothing new under the sun.
But now the good news: But the Spirit of Penetcost has entered history. And by it and through it we do have it in us. We can make something new under the sun. We can do nothing less than bring heaven to earth. This is the good news for Pentecost. Amen.
Romans 8:25 Waiting on the Lord Many years ago, almost too many to count, I had the opportunity to study the Old Testament at the University of Edinburgh. That means that I had the opportunity to live in Scotland for a time -- so I am here to tell you that there is more to Scottish culture than kilts and bagpipes. There is the Scottish national dish -- Haggis to be precise. In case you’re unfamiliar with Haggis, it is made from the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep. They pack them into the sheep’s stomach, toss in a little oatmeal, and boil it. I only tried it once. Once was enough. Then there’s the Scottish national flower – the thistle. You see thistles everywhere -- on flags, coats of armor, dishware. They were once even featured on the currency. I would have thought that heather would have been a better contender for the Scottish national flower -- it is everywhere, and it’s much less prickly -- but no one consulted me. Then there’s the Scottish national poet, Bobby Burns. Burns wrote in Old Scottish. I actually picked up quite a bit of Old Scottish during my time in Edinburgh. I pride myself that I can recite much of his poetry by heart. Old Scottish is unintelligible to the modern ear, but the Scots still love him. I used to walk past the Scottish National Gallery of Art on the way to class. You could peer in the front door and see the famed portrait of him. If you’re unacquainted with his work, he wrote, To a Mouse. To a Louse. And, I kid you not, Address to a Haggis. And then, of course, there’s Greyfriars Bobby. I guess you could call Greyfriars Bobby the Scottish national dog. Grayfriers Bobby was a good Scottish breed -- the Skye Terrior. He and his master were inseparable, and after his master’s untimely death, Greyfriars Bobby remained at his master’s graveside -- day in and day out -- for 14 years, until he himself died. Greyfriars Bobby is a testament of devotion and loyalty not just to the Scottish, but to everyone. A statue of Greyfriars Bobby stands in the heart of town. At the funeral of his master, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place, Greyfriars Bobby gave way to grief. He whined, whimpered and pawed at the grave. Beyond his grief, however, Greyfriars Bobby settled into a daily routine. Every day, when the 1:00 gun was fired, a man by the name of William Dow, who had befriended Grayfriers Bobby, picked him up at the cemetery. They strolled together to a local coffee shop, where Grayfriers Bobby ate his daily meal. After a bit of socializing, they strolled back to the cemetery. Greyfriars Bobby settled back onto his master’s gravesite and watched the sunset. There were attempts to lure Greyfriars Bobby away from his master’s graveside, especially in inclement weather, but they were fruitless. Greyfrirs Bobby refused to leave. Greyfriars Bobby is all the proof I need that dogs go to heaven. Do you really think that he when arrived at the Pearly Gates to be reunited with his master, Peter, who Jesus entrusted with the keys to bound and to loose, turned him away on the grounds that he was a dog? That makes no sense to me. And I’m sure it made no sense to Peter. There’s a lesson we can learn this morning from Greyfriars Bobby. And lest you register skepticism that there’s a lesson we can learn from dogs -- this is the whole point of the book of Ruth – that we can learn lessons in unexpected places. Ruth was a despised foreigner. She was feared. She was suspected. She was accused. Yet there were lessons that the people of Israel learned from her. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. At least that’s what the Bible proclaims. And it’s not just Ruth. It’s Ruth, yes. But it’s also the Good Samaritan; it’s the Magi, it's the Roman Centurion, it’s the Canaanite woman, it’s the Ninevites, it’s the Ethiopian eunich, it’s Cornelius. And if the Bible hits you over the head with something that many times, and you still refuse to accept it, you’re just being stubborn. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. And the more unexpected the place, the more important the lesson. Sure, there’s a lesson we can learn from Greyfriars Bobby about loyalty and devotion, but there’s also a lesson we can learn from him about waiting for someone. Because if you think about it, we are all waiting for someone. Every one of us. It could be someone who is angry with us – someone who holds a grudge against us, someone who dislikes us, someone from whom we are estranged. It could be someone who is stationed at a far-flung corner of the earth -- someone who is called to serve and sacrifice, someone who has placed himself in harm’s way, someone we may never see again. It could be someone who has fallen prey to an addiction – someone who is facing an uphill battle, someone who has made strides only to fall back, someone whose potential and possibility are under siege. And it could be, like with Greyfriars Bobby, someone that we lost – someone who is irreplaceable, someone who enriched and defined our lives, someone who spared us from loneliness and aimlessness. We are all waiting for someone. And so, we can learn a lesson from Greyfriars Bobby, and it is this. Yes, for a time we grieve their absence. We weep. We mourn. We despair, even. We do all these things…for a time. But then we must get back to the business of living. As Langston Hughes reminds us, Life is for the living. We must get back to the business of living – of caring for others, of speaking the truth, of practicing fairness, of sacrificing for others, of sharing our abundance, of striving for peace – of doing the best we can to prove, day by day, that we have heard the upward call of Jesus Christ. While all the while we are waiting for someone. But here’s the thing. We don’t wait in vain. Because we wait, ultimately, through Jesus Christ -- so we wait for our eternal home in heaven where those for whom we wait are waiting for us. And we will know that joyous reunion that Greyfriars Bobby and his master now know. Amen.
John 20:1-18 But why? Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? There is, of course, the easy answer. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb because, arriving at the tomb, she discovered that Jesus’ body had been stolen. But that’s the easy answer. Easy answers are, as often as not, simplifications; and simplifications are, as often as not, distortions. So, let us look beyond the easy answer and ask again, Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? Mary was one of those people whom nature had favored. And nature does play favorites -- that much is undeniable. Mary was tenacious, discerning, steadfast, spontaneous, courageous – not to mention brimming with natural affections. Yes, she was one of those people whom nature had favored, but sometimes that is not enough. Mary had a bad start in life, and that tends to temper even nature’s most generous gifts. When Jesus first encountered Mary, she was not of sound spirit. She was afflicted and tormented. But Jesus performed a miracle that recalled her to life. She became his passionate and devoted follower. It would seem that her past was behind her. Like with so many others Jesus encountered, Mary had been lost and now was found. But this only led her to the foot of his cross. She had endured the entire spectacle. Dark men – petty, jealous, and scheming -- closed in on him. They subjected him to a farce of a trial, and this only as a formality. They intended to see him executed from the very beginning. The disciples, for their part, panicked and scattered. What if they were next to be targeted? But not Mary. She abided with him those endless hours as he hung on the cross right through to his death agony. She watched from a distance as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposed his body from the cross and laid it in a tomb. Mary was shattered. She was traumatized. She was devastated. She was forced to endure the unthinkable – the death of one deeply beloved, and to malicious violence. But Mary was not entirely bereft. She still had his body. She could cleanse and anoint it, bestow upon it what loving care she could. And going forward she could become that person – the one who visits the graveside, the one who keeps memories alive, the one whose tears are never exhausted. In time she would achieve a sort of notoriety for it, but it’s the kind of notoriety no one wants. But she arrived at his tomb only to discover that his body had been stolen. So why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? She stood weeping outside the tomb because she had hit rock bottom. I have never hit rock bottom. If dread keeps it at bay, dread has done that much for me. But I have seen others who have. It’s a terrible thing to witness, much less to experience. A kind of derangement takes hold. They aren’t recognizable. They aren’t themselves. This is why Mary couldn’t add up two and two. She peered into the tomb and saw two angels robed in white raiment. Why are you weeping? They asked. Now they didn’t ask because they wanted to hear her theory about the graverobbers. This was not the sense of their question. Woman, why are you weeping? They were asking to convey that there was nothing to weep about. And it was the same thing when the resurrected Jesus asked the same question. Woman, why are you weeping? There’s nothing to weep about. I am alive. I am here. I am with you. Dry your tears. But Mary had hit rock bottom, so it didn’t add up. But then Jesus said something. Something cataclysmic. Something earth shattering. Something beyond description and explanation. And something right under our noses. If there’s one trait we all share, one thing we are all good at, one thing we are all GREAT at, it’s not seeing what’s right under our noses. Jesus called her by name. Mary! he said. And suddenly the truth broke in on her. Dimly, but at the same time, and paradoxically, with crystal clarity. She knew. She knew how we know most deeply – in our bones, in our guts, in our hearts. This man so beloved by her – her teacher, healer, leader, friend….he was much more than that. He was the one that time could not bind, the one that darkness could not thwart. He was the one over whom death had no dominion. He was the one she declared him to be. He was the Lord. And he called her by name . Rock bottom? There was no rock bottom. There was only hope, consolation, meaning, purpose, direction, relief, and rejoicing. From his height to her depth, he called her by name. Rock bottom? She now had good news to proclaim, and she proclaimed it for all she was worth. Friends in Christ, her good news is our good news. No matter what you’ve done, what you are doing, or what you will do. No matter how low you fall. No matter how deep you sink. No matter how bad you’re stuck. His deliverance has your name on it. His triumph has your name on it. His love has your name on it. So let us call him by name – Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
I Samuel 16:4-5 Matthew 5:9 To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It was because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And let’s not pretend that it doesn’t. The hold outs among us might stick their chests out and assert that conflict has no effect on them -- that they are immune from conflict. But personally, I’m a bit skeptical. As I’ve mentioned before, in my various vocations and avocations, I have been subjected to psychological tests. And not just a few of them. And one of the areas that is tested is how you react to conflict – whether you are conflict tolerant or conflict intolerant. According to the tests, I am conflict tolerant, as conflict tolerant as one can be. According to the tests, there is nothing that makes me more comfortable, and more relaxed, and more at ease than conflict. Conflict? Bring it on. There’s nothing I relish more. At least according to the tests. But why is it that in the face of conflict, I become preoccupied. I can’t get it off my mind. I become sleepless. I toss and turn at night. And I feel an enormous sense of relief when the conflict is resolved. So, in my own experience at least, conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And that leads us back to our Old Testament Lesson. Talk about conflict! But to understand it, we must back up a bit. In fact, we must back up quite a bit. We all know that Moses received the Ten Commandments atop Mt. Sinai. We all know that with the Ten Commandments in hand, Moses wandered with the people in the wilderness for forty years toward the Promised Land. But we might not all know what happened next. What happened next is that Moses died. Moses was succeeded by Joshua, who conquered the Promised land. And after that? The people settled onto the Promised Land. Since the people were comprised of twelve tribes they settled into the Promised Land accordingly. Each tribe deployed itself on a parcel of land. And they all lived happily ever after. Or not. Problems emerged in short order. The tribes did not get along. Surprise, surprise, the strong tribes picked on the weak ones. Why is it that at all times, and in all places, the strong pick on the weak? But that’s another question. Bottom line, there was disunity among the tribes. Beyond that, they were twelve tribes who each deployed itself on a parcel of land. But they were surrounded by enemies, enemies that had not been wandering around in the wilderness for the past 40 years. Enemies who were trained to fight. So, the people were threatened from within and from without. The closest thing that they had to a leader was Samuel, so they demanded of Samuel a king, a king to unify them and protect them from their enemies. Samuel listened to their demand and anointed King Saul. King Saul was the man of the hour. He was a standout. He stood head and shoulders above all others, was strikingly handsome, and teamed with charisma. He was clearly meant to be. So once again, they all lived happily ever after. Or not. There was something wrong with Saul. Now sometimes when there is something wrong with someone it’s obvious, it’s easy to name – as in the case with addiction, or physically abuse, or mental illness. But sometimes it’s not obvious. Ask twelve scholars what was wrong with Saul, you’ll get twelve different answers. For whatever reason, he proved not to be the stuff of it. He had some fatal flaw. Was it his temper? Was it his jealousy? Was it his paranoia? Was it his anger? Was it his desperation? Because all those things can prove to be fatal flaws. In that last analysis, it doesn’t matter what was wrong with King Saul – simply that there was something wrong with him. Predictably, those closest to him saw it first. But no one else was inclined to believe them. They believed what they wanted to believe, what was easiest to believe. And this is how it goes. The ones closest see it first, and no one is inclined to believe them. Moveover, they didn’t want to face the fact that King Saul was one big false start. But King Saul had some fatal flaw. And fatal flaws are fatal. King Saul deteriorated. It became increasingly difficult to deny. Conflict was brewing. It was not yet open conflict. Soon it would be and in terms too horrific to describe. But rumors were circulating. The atmosphere became charged, and not in a good way. Not one knew just how the thing would play out, but everyone sensed that it would not end well. And that brings us to our Old Testament Lesson. Samuel arrived in Bethlehem, unannounced, unexpected -- in full vestment and with full retinue. What did he want? Why did he single them out? What had they done wrong? Was he there to exact vengeance? In a spark would they all be dead? To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It is because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And so, the people approached Samuel with a question. It was the right question. It was the key question. It was the decisive question. It was this question: Do you come in peace? If you remember one thing about this passage, if you remember one thing about the whole book of Samuel, remember this question. Do you come in peace? Because the people’s question to Samuel is the people’s question to us. Do we come in peace? In the face of conflict do we come in peace? Do we come in peace, or do we come bearing blame for things for which we know we are full well complicit? Do we come in peace, or do we come exacting retribution demanding an eye for an eye? Do we come in peace, or do we come rehearsing old grievances, resentments, jealousies, and grudges? Do we come in peace, or do we come pressing our advantage -- power up, poised to defeat? Because the people’s question to us is also Christ’s question to us? Do we come in peace? Have we gone that extra mile for the one who has burdened us? Have we turned the other cheek? Have we declined to let the sun set on our anger? Have we made peace with our accusers? Do we come in peace? For Christ declares that the peacemakers would be blest, and that through them, but only through them, would his kingdom grow. Amen.
