Everybody’s hangin’ out in one place,
noshing on chips and dip, washing it down with Bethany Lite and watching the
Jerusalem Bengals get creamed on national TV. You know, a typical Sunday afternoon
in Palestine, and they’re feeling pretty good about themselves—not too long
ago, they’d seen Jesus rise majestically into heaven, like one of Elon Musk’s
rocket ships, after telling them they’d be witnesses unto the ends of the earth already, which made
them feel mighty proud, if a little confused. They’d thought it was all about
kicking the Romans out, they thought
it was about restoring Israel, but it turned out was about restoring the entire
earth. Though they
aren’t sure what this witnessing stuff is going to be all about, that’s in the
future . . . at the moment, they had administrative things to see to. Like
their number: you couldn’t be there new Israel with just eleven, and they’d just
finished filling their numbers back out to twelve. And Matthias, the one they’d
chosen, was steadfast and true, and most importantly, not likely to betray them
like you-know-who.
Anyway, there they are, watching the
game, when the other team—their arch-rivals the Cairo Chargers—score a
touchdown, and a mighty groan rises up unto heavens, and as if in response, a
sound like a huge wind comes howling out of the sky, kind of like a freight
train or a tornado or something, and all the disciples quake in fear, thinking
“Holy Guacamole, God must be a Chargers
fan.” But then these tongues
appear, one on each of their foreheads, only they’re not, like, wet or
drooling, they’re not juicy,
they look like they’re made of fire, flickering and leaping and dancing, and
almost as one, the disciples come to realize that they’re not in Kansas
anymore.
And they start to babble in their fear
and wonder, but it comes out in other languages, in other tongues—get it?—and they
look around at each other, gaping in surprise, thinking I didn’t know that
James knew Elamite, when did he pick that
up? Or Cappadocian—Matthew’s never even been near
that place, and here he is, babbling away. But in their hearts, they all know
that it’s the work of the Holy Spirit—because hadn’t they been promised it back
at the ascension? But it’s still hard to wrap their minds around it . . .
Meanwhile, outside the house, there are
Jews from everywhere
. That’s because it’s the “Festival of Weeks”—Shavuot in Hebrew, Pentecost in
Greek—when Jews come and bring their first-fruit offerings to the Temple. And
there amongst the pop-up bagel stands and ads for Jerusalem Idol, they could
suddenly hear the disciples, speaking within the house. Maybe it’s because they
are in an open courtyard—a constant feature of Palestinian homes—or maybe the
Spirit is amplifying the apostolic speech, like some kind of a Holy Bullhorn,
but they can hear every word the disciples are saying. And not only hear, but
because of that speaking in tongues thing, they can actually understand . . . Parthians,
Medes, and Elamites. Mesopotamians, Judeans and Cappadocians. Pontians and
Asian, Phrygian and Pamphylians, Egyptians and Romans, Cretans and Arabs. All
can hear, all can understand,
the thrilling tales about the mighty deeds of God.
And of course, that’s idea behind that
whole tongues thing, isn’t it? It makes the Good News accessible to everyone,
not to just a few who speak some back-water, nearly-dead language like Aramaic.
With illiteracy the order of the day, oral transmission was essential, it was
the way news—good or
bad—was spread. Even the letters of evangelists like Paul were written to be
read aloud, because most people just couldn’t hack it otherwise.
That’s the story of Pentecost: the
removal of barriers. Barriers to transmission of the Gospel. Barriers to
hospitality. Barriers to getting along, to community.
Jews of the Diaspora—the sixth-century BC dispersal out of Palestine—spoke many
languages, they still do, and if they were to hear the good news, if they were
to taste that new wine, somebody would have to come to them where they were,
linguistically as well
as locality-wise. Pentecost is—among other things—the disciples’ first lesson
in tailoring the message not to the messenger
but to those for whom it is meant.
Some churches haven’t learned that
lesson to this day, have they? They continue to wrap the gospel in clothing
that was fashionable when they were formed, using words they know the meaning of,
singing songs that make them
feel good. It reminds me of the story in a book I read—the author swore it was true—about an
unchurched guy who marries this devout Baptist and the first time they attend
church together, he wonders when they are going to wash themselves in the
blood. Or the time the young couple who were raised Hindu came to our church in
Oregon and were embarrassed because they didn’t know the Lord’s prayer. Which
is why to this day I make sure it’s written in the bulletin.
People who’ve grown up in the church
know a code, a language
. . . they know
the Lord’s Prayer. They know
that washed in the blood is a metaphor for saving grace. And it’s not just the
words, it’s their whole mode of being. 500-year-old hymns are coded into our blood, our DNA. “Amazing
Grace”—sung to the original tune, please!—makes
me feel all weepy,
its makes me feel
comforted. It doesn’t necessarily do there same for someone who hasn’t grown up
in the church.
All these things can bebarriers to the spreading of
the gospel, almost as if it were a different language . . . what am I saying?
It is a different
language, a language of faith, and those of us who grew up in it know it, and
those who didn’t . . . don’t. And of course, that’s what’s symbolized by the
Pentecost story, the opening up of the language of faith to all parties, to all
comers, whether—as Paul would put it—Jew or Greek, slave or free, male and
female.
The message of Pentecost is that the barriers,
the fences that
separate one ethnicity from one another, one sexual orientation from another,
one generation
from another—all these barriers can be overcome by the power of the Holy Spirit
through the action of the Holy Spirit, soft as a dove yet mighty like that
Pentecost wind, and don’t you know that it blows where it will and to whomever
it will? That it doesn’t blow just to who we think it should? That it doesn’t
pay a lot of attention where and to whom we think it should?
Well. The disciples in the house are as
amazed as the crowds of Jews outside—although some of the latter think they’re
all drunk—and that
irritates Peter enough that he pokes his head out and gives his first speech:
“Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, these aren’t drunk as you suppose
‘cause it is only nine o’clock in the morning.” (Apparently, he’d never heard
the one about it’s always noon somewhere).
But no, he says, it’s prophesy, and he quotes a passage from Joel to explain
what’s happening: “in the last days God will pour out the Holy Spirit on
everybody, and and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young
men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” And notice that
Peter is here assuming that those were
the last days, something that Jesus warned him against at the ascension, as we
saw last week.
And here we are, almost 2000 years
later, and we still haven’t come to the end, despite periodic proclamations
from this preacher or that one that they’ve figured it all out, that they’ve
broken that code and know when it’s going to happen. And though the promise of
Pentecost—that the Good News be spread to the nations—would seem to be pretty
much fulfilled—I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a people that hasn’t heard the
message—we’re still working on the inclusion thing. And as the world gets
smaller, as we bump up against one another more and more in that inevitable
global dance, the questions of getting along, of communication, of tolerance
become increasingly acute.
So Happy Birthday, Church, many happy
returns . . . now let’s get back to work! Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment