may 31, 2009

Anna Blaedel
First UMC, Osage
May 31, 2009
Pentecost Sunday
Romans 8:22-27
Acts 2:1-21

A little girl who was five years old was sent to her room after a morning of general naughtiness—you know the kind—poking at her baby brother, talking back to her mama, chasing the poor old dog around every time he thought he had found a safe place to nap. After a few minutes, this little girl’s mom went into her room to talk about what she had done wrong. Teary-eyed, the little girl asked, “Why do we do wrong things, Mommy?” The mom struggled to find an answer. She knew her daughter had been picking at her little brother because she was jealous of his attention. And that the little girl was going stir crazy inside on a rainy day. And, that she probably needed a nap. And that she was scared about starting her first day of kindergarten soon. “Well,” said the mom, “there are these little voices called Jealousy and Greed and Tiredness and Fear. Sometimes they tell us to do something naughty. But we need to listen to God instead.” The little girl thought about this for a moment, and then began to cry in earnest.
“But Mommy,” the little girl wailed, “God doesn’t talk loud enough!”

Sometimes, God doesn’t talk loud enough. Or, we make so much noise we can’t hear God. Or, surrounded by so much noise we stop listening for the still, small voice of God. The Spirit, who intercedes with sighs too deep for words when we can’t find our own voice. The Spirit, who comes to us when we, and when the whole of creation around us, are groaning in pain, birthing and bearing witness to the reign of God in the midst and mess of our daily lives.

One week ago today, I was returning to Osage on 218. I was somewhere north of Waverly, and it was late. I had pulled over in a cornfield a few hours earlier to look up at the stars. Summer was finally coming, and I felt myself beginning to remember how much I love Iowa in the summer. The whole expanse of sky above me, no big city lights to outshine the stars. In high school, I found sanctuary in Iowa’s cornfields, comforted by all the space. Away from people and traffic and houselights, I could find God more easily, and knew that God could easily find me.

The landscape of Iowa is especially Spirit-filled, to me. In both Hebrew and Greek, the word for Spirit is the same as wind. Ruach. Pneuma. Spirit. Wind. The movement, of wind, of the Spirit, can be seen in Iowa. Snow drifts blown high in winter, the patterns of wind etches into the icy, snow covered earth. And in the summer, the rich earth, the green fields, alive and dancing as the wind sweeps across the fields. The whole landscape around us, bearing witness to the presence of God. Of the movement of the Spirit.

So anyway, last Sunday night I was celebrating being back in Iowa, and the changing season, driving along with the wind rushing through my open roof, the sound deafening. And suddenly. Suddenly. In a blur of time and sound my brakes were screeching and I was screaming and a deer’s head was shattering the window by my head and glass was flying all over and metal was crunching and then…and then…and then. Silence. I pulled off the highway onto the shoulder, and then, stillness. Not a sound to be heard. The calm, after the storm. And, as I sat, stunned and shaking, I heard a still, small voice, from somewhere within, or somewhere outside, saying, “You’re ok.” And my gratitude simply for being alive, being ok, filled every corner of my being. And I gave thanks to God, who was very near, indeed. God, who came to me in the whirlwind of chaos, and held me close, and whispered relief.

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, a tongue of fire resting on each of them. And every one was filled with the Holy Spirit, and began speaking about God’s power. Calling out prophesy and prayer and praise. Proclaiming the power of the Spirit to move and work among and within them. And then they started speaking in other languages. And at this, a crowd gathered, and people were amazed, and also bewildered. They started asking, “How are they all speaking to one another, and understanding it? How can this be?”
Imagine it. Imagine going to a gathering—a huge crowd of people, all gathered into one place. Most of you strangers, spread far and wide and now, gathered together. People from Osage, and Stacyville, and Little Cedar. From St. Ansgar and Charles City. From Minneapolis and Iowa City and Chicago. From Denver and San Francisco and New York and Miami. From Mexico and El Salvador and Germany and China and Russia. From the Congo and Egypt and Iraq and Sweden and Zimbabwe. And suddenly, the doors blow open, the windows shake, and a tremendous sound surrounds you. So loud you can feel it reverberating through your very bones. The rush of a violent wind. And then suddenly everyone is speaking at once. Speaking English and Spanish and Arabic and Japanese and Tagolog and French and different dialects—words you have never heard spoken before. But it’s the strangest thing, because you realize you can understand them. And you can understand that everyone is testifying. Telling of how God has touched their lives, each one. You can hear an older woman giving thanks for God carrying her through the death of her beloved, and the loneliness she thought would never leave her. A young man shares the pain that led to addiction, and then God’s promise of forgiveness and restoration that led him into recovery. Someone tells of being without work, without a place to stay or food to eat, and the kind strangers who took him in, and fed him, and gave him a place to stay. Another, of the horrors of war that tore her community apart, and the pain of working to reconcile bitter divisions. A small child, telling of not having enough food, and dreaming of one day going to school. People whose lives are torn apart by violence and fear and poverty and injustice and loneliness and need. Bodies and lives and communities, broken, and being made whole again.

Each one of them, a story of need. And for each story of need, a story of God’s power—the Spirit interceding, and stirring up seeds of peace, hope, and restoration. And you can hear, and understand, every single one.

Or maybe this retelling keeps the Pentecost story too nice and tidy and neat. The kind of experience we crave, if not work to create. It was anything but. Ok. Imagine walking into a crowded room. An overcrowded emergency room, perhaps. The room is crowded with foreigners, people traveling through. Which means they likely haven’t bathed for a couple of days, and are a bit dirty, and smelly. Suddenly a gust of wind, closer to a tornado really, sweeps through. And everyone starts screaming and shouting and calling out to each other and to no one in particular in every language under the sun. Pentecost is the kind of scenario we often shy away from. The kind of moment we try hard to avoid. Who would you least want to be with? What languages, or nationalities, or cultures, or lifestyles feel most foreign and different and strange to you? What groups or kinds of people do you want to NOT see sitting next to you in the pew? That’s how Pentecost began. But the Spirit intercedes. And draws us close. And invites connection. And helps us understand.

It was not the way the people were expecting to meet God. It was the last place they were looking. But in the chaos and confusion, God was at work, bursting into their lives.

The story of Pentecost is the story of a community created and claimed in covenant, communication, and confusion. And it is the story of a God, our God, whose Spirit is as close as our next breath, who is unleashed, moving and working in our lives. Pentecost bursts open ears, hearts, and souls to the Spirit that brings understanding out of many nations, languages, cultures.
At Pentecost, we celebrate the birthday of the Christian church. But before Pentecost became associated with the Christian church, it was a Jewish festival. Pentecost is a Greek word that means 50 days. 50 days after Passover, Jews from all over the Roman Empire came together in Jerusalem—celebrating both the Spring harvest and God’s gift of law and love, given to Moses on Mt. Sinai. From everywhere—you heard the listing of nations, tribes, and cultures—people came to worship and to bring the first fruits of their labor as an offering to God.

The earliest Christians would hear in this story another story they knew—Moses meeting God at Mt. Sinai. In both stories, God’s presence is made known with visible and audible manifestations. In both, the Spirit’s presence is made known to the gathered people in noise—the kind that gets and grabs attention. And, in both, it is what happens after the noise dies down that counts most. The Spirit, interceding, in sighs too deep for words. God, glimpsed, in a still, small voice that can be heard in and through the surrounding sounds. If we listen hard enough.

Of course, not everyone gets swept off their feet by the Spirit. Some stood back, sneering. “Look at these fools! They must be drunk!” As always, the good news of God’s powerful love is met with mixed response. Some are open, and believe. Others close themselves off to the message, or think it applies to them, but not to others. For some, the idea of a roomful of people, from different tribes and countries and cultures, all recognizing their common kinship, sharing their stories and listening to understand—this is too, well, unbelievable, to believe. Too good to be true. Or too foreign to fathom. Unlike anything they’ve ever seen. But for others, those who dare to hope for something they have never seen before, they open themselves to the Spirit, and the Spirit changes them.

Pentecost became known as the “birthday of the church” not just because those present became aware of the Spirit in a way they had never experienced before. Pentecost became known as the “birthday of the church” because it was the moment when Jesus’ followers really realized they still had work to do. That the Spirit wasn’t done with them yet.

These followers of Jesus, realized they needed to step it up. They had been followers, helpers, waiting for words from their teacher and leader. But now, decisions rested upon them. No longer could they follow Jesus in the flesh; now they were, we are, the Body of Christ for the world. Whatever happened next would depend upon their discernment, their understanding, their faith, and their commitment. To God, and to one another.

Summer is upon us. This time of stillness and chaos. Of ball games and sleeping in. Of vacation and catching up. Of winding down and gearing up. Of camping camps and sports camps and music camps. It is meant to be a time of reconnecting—with family and friends and God. Schedules are slowing down, and picking up. The time for bare feet and hot grills and eating outside and sleeping under stars will slip away all too soon. For these next few months, will we make time to consider our own rebirth in the Spirit, and discern the undone work and witness God is calling us into? Will we seek out the quiet center in the crowded lives we lead? Will we clear the chaos and the clutter, clear our eyes so that we can see all the things that really matter, as Chip sang? Will we turn off tvs and open our windows and get out of our cars and get our bodies outside and listen, really listen, for the still, small voice of God whispering through the wind?

Next week Cal Nicklay and I will head to Ames for Annual Conference, the yearly gathering of United Methodists from all across Iowa. Sitting in Hilton Coliseum, surrounded by every United Methodist pastor, and at least one lay member from every United Methodist church in the state, I will try to imagine we are gearing up for a Pentecost experience. Feeling the Spirit in that place is not always easy. Many if not all share English as a spoken language, but it is often hard to understand one another. Even as Iowans, we come from such different places, hold such different experiences. The chaos and confusion sometimes seem more real, more clear, than does the movement and power of the Spirit. Part of my prayer in preparation, for myself, for Cal, for each person gathered in that one room, is that we might listen for and hear and testify to and respond to the work of the Spirit in and among and through us.

We will part ways for the next three Sundays, you all and I. After Annual Conference, I will be away on vacation. Seeking retreat, and renewal, and restoration. Part of my prayer in preparation, for myself, and for each of you, is that we might gather again, on the final Sunday of June, and each be able to give voice to the movement of the Spirit in our lives, calling us into creativity and connection, witness and work, prayer and play.

The story from Acts teaches us where and when we can experience the Spirit of Pentecost: here, and now. By showing up—offering first fruits, opening to God’s Spirit, diving into the confusion of community. The story of Pentecost also teaches us where and who are the spiritual leaders who will find the courage to speak bold visions and dream mighty dreams: here and now and you and me—elders and children and young adults. Look around you. God is as near as your neighbor, as your breath and the breath of God which fills and overflows this space, into our lives and world. May it be so. Amen, and Amen.