Today we celebrate the coming of the Spirit
of God . . . over in John, it comes as Christ breathes on them, it comes
light as a lover’s caress, almost whispered in the dark stillness . . . in John
it’s literally Christ’s breath, his animating spirit . . . the Spirit
animates, it en-livens, it makes alive . . . According to Luke – who wrote Acts
– it comes as dancing flame, blue-flickering wildfire that cannot be tamed . .
. but my favorite New Testament text the Spirit is when Jesus is instructing
Nicodemus – who’s come to him in the dark – and he says “the wind blows where
it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes
from or where it goes.” And of course
it’s a play on words . . . the Greek for wind – pneuma – is the same as
for Spirit . . . the Spirit blows where it chooses, when it chooses,
even in the middle of an oh-so-solemn reading of the Scripture, you cannot tell
where it’s going to go, where it’s going to blow . . . and we are at
it’s mercy, whether we know it or not, and we cannot tell where it will take us
. . .
The spirit of God – the hand of God on
earth – comes upon me, and drops me into a church downtown . . . and I
am shadowy, wraithlike, floating . . . and below me there’s a meeting – I love
a good meeting – and I glide above bored faces, and hover unseen over the chancel,
slowly twisting in the spirit-wind . . . I ruffle the moderator’s hair, and
tickle the back of his neck, and in the incandescent hum, in the powerpoint-projected,
florescent crackle, voices lift in song and words float toward the rafters . .
. there is much politicking, but all have come together on this night, and a
leader is elected and the people shout amen . . . and the bones rattle and hum
in the air-conditioned pall.
I am wrenched up through the roof and slammed
by the sun . . . arms and legs splayed, transfixed by the light . . . then slip-slide through divine fingers
and back down into a meeting room’s dim chill, into the midst of a floor-fight,
mouths flapping with no sound, hands waving in agitated flutter . . . and I
wonder: “What issue drives this debate?”
And as I get closer I begin to get it, I begin to hear snatches of
conversation . . . “gay marriage”, “ordination standards”, “Belhar Confession” .
. . and I am reminded of another assembly, another year . . . The issues are
the same, or they seem that way, they are all blurring together in my mind . .
.
Then I am moving once more, horizontal this
time, and the posturing figures fade translucent and I slip through them like
smoke, and the thought comes to me, as if there is some voice that fills me
with whispery certainty . . . power and control . . . power and control . . . power and control . . . and the bones bake in the
sun, and crackle under foot, and they do not move.
Faster and faster I go, out of the
convention-center gleam, over the river and through the woods, past
stick-ball-hoop-shooters and knotted gang-bangers, through flyspeck tenement
walls . . . I’m hurtling inches above the ground now, up a row-house stoop and
through dim-roach halls to where small children huddle, awaiting their mother’s
return . . . the icebox is empty, it has been since last night, but the
children wait patiently in the television flicker, there among the crackling,
bleached out bones.
The hand of God drops me amongst the bones, I
am surrounded by them, covered in bone-dust, and they clank and clatter and
rustle, and God asks me: O Mortal . . . can these bones live? And the bones
stir, and settle back, and their stink is acrid in the nostrils. And I answer: Only you know, Lord . . .
And God says Prophesy to the bones . .
. and I do. I talk of feeding the hungry. And God says Prophesy to the bones . .
. and I talk about Justice and
Love. And God says Prophesy to the
bones . . . and I talk about reconciliation. And God says Prophesy to the bones . .
. and I sing Amazing Grace.
And the bones rustle and shake, and tumble
and form, and slickly white sinews capture them, and draw them together. Committees!
Mission boards! Sessions! Oily, shiny muscles weave and dance up the
shins. Skin crinkles over the hands and
feet. Presbyteries! Seminaries!
Permanent judicial committees!
Hair sprouts thick on the head and lips curl invitingly, and I say, look
how nice it is and look how smooth the skin, how sleek the sides, how tall the
steeples, they reach to the sky. They
are mighty fortresses to our God! Bulwarks never failing! And look how we pack
the people in, people just like us, and seat them and feed them and talk with
them, and drink coffee with them, and we do fellowship real well and the body
lays there, silent and beautiful. And I
say to God – Look at the beautiful body, the body of Christ, look at the skin
and the sinews, how the muscles bulge, and how thick the hair is. See – it’s a beautiful body! We have conjured up coverings for the bones,
and they are beautiful. Choirs,
progressive dinners and good, solid preaching! Youth ministry, Christian Ed,
and summer camps. A fine, gorgeous body!
And yet there is no quickening, no trembling
in passion or fear. It is quiet, and the
Nations ignore it, and laugh at it, and they do nothing, and it is no-longer
listened-to in the corridors of power, Even though we are good republicans and
good democrats, and vote on election day.
The Nations ignore us, we have no effect, and the body doesn’t
move. It doesn’t shake, rattle or roll.
And God says prophesy to the
breath. And I reply “say what?”
“Prophesy to the breath, O mortal.” “You don’t mean like those Pentecostals, do
you God? Nothing they do is in keeping with good order. They fall down to the floor, and are flung to
the four winds, and faint dead away. I
think they are drunk on new wine.” And God says “call out to the breath, O mortal,
and say to the breath: ‘come from the earth, the sky and from all
directions. Come upon the dead, and
quicken them.’” And so I call on the spirit . . . and it comes! And fires dance around the
body, and over our heads, but for the longest time, nothing happens.
And then its chest heaves up in a small,
shuddering, breath, and a finger quivers like in a Frankenstein movie! And I
shout it’s alive, it’s alive, and it staggers to its feet, and the Spirit fills
the body, and powers it, and all can understand. And each hears in their own tongue –
Africans, Asians, and Europeans; parliaments, kings and presidents; Baptists,
Methodists, and even Presbyterians – all listen and do and are God’s
mighty deeds of power. And nothing can
stop the spirit-filled Body, and nothing can stand before the mighty breath of
God.
Sisters and brothers, theologies come and
theologies go . . . study-papers are written, denominations split like overripe
melons, squabbles break out like pox upon the land . . .but the Spirit is
among us. It is the breath of God, that
blew across the waters at creation, that divided the sea against the Pharaoh,
that danced in tongues of fire around the apostles’ heads.
The spirit is among us, it goes where
it chooses, after all . . . and can you hear it? It's out there, playing in the
parking-lot, whispering through the neighborhood-trees. It’s in here, swirling around the
organ-bench, flitting around the pews, powering down the aisles. Calvin says it binds us to Christ, and
we are certainly bound and not only to Christ, but to each other, and to all of
creation. But it’s a funny kind of
binding, isn’t it? It’s a binding that
is not . . . binding. It’s
playful and loose-fitting . . . It comforts and empowers and assures us that
we’re not alone. With it, we’re God’s
agents on earth; without it we are nothing but bleached, crumbling, dried-out,
bones. Amen.
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