DAY OF PENTECOST: May 27, 2012
PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith
Acts 2:1-21; Romans 8:22-27; John 15:26-27, 4b-15
Sisters and brothers, let me be clear: This may be Memorial Day weekend, but Pentecost is not a memorial day for the Holy Spirit. Sometimes, of course, it can be hard to tell the difference.
After all, for Memorial Day we wear special colors: red, white and blue in memory of Americans who fought and died for freedom. And on Pentecost we wear special colors, too: red, or perhaps yellow and orange, in memory of that day when the Spirit rained down like tongues of fire and made the disciples free—free to share the Good News with neighbors and friends and to the ends of the earth.
On Memorial Day, the marching band plays and the drums roll in honor of our soldiers. And on Pentecost, we pull out the drums, too, and invite dancers to church, in honor of the fact that Christians can clap and dance to worship God anytime we want to! (…but we just don’t feel like it most of the time.)
On Memorial Day, every politician is a patriot, and heart-warming words are guaranteed to be spoken from every podium. And on Pentecost, we break out the Spanish and German and Swedish, speaking tongues in the pulpit and from the pews—and for at least one Sunday you would think we truly are the multi-lingual, cross-cultural, racially diverse congregation that was gathered on that first Pentecost morning (…but just don’t ask us to sing that setting of the liturgy that’s in Spanish, Pastor.)
But in spite of our red paraments, our global music and our prayers in foreign tongues, Pentecost can nevertheless seem like a memorial service for the Holy Spirit. Because we pull out all the stops just this once a year, it feels like more of a commemoration than a celebration.
Do you remember when we had the Spirit?
Remember that Global Mission Event where everyone was clapping and singing in Swahili? The Spirit was there for sure.
Remember when we went to camp, and we danced in worship? That was definitely the Spirit.
Remember when we tore down the old sanctuary and built a whole new one? Remember when we started the PADS ministry and opened the preschool? Wow, the Spirit was really moving back then.
Remember when we were young, when we were bold, and when the Holy Spirit seemed so near to us?
Do you remember?
Sisters and brothers, let me say it again: Pentecost is not a memorial day for the Spirit.
Pentecost is a celebration of the living God. It’s a festival day, set aside to honor the Spirit who is still here. God’s Holy Spirit is among us even now: poured out upon you in your baptism, interceding every day with sighs too deep for words, and guiding us into all truth—whether we notice her or not.
This is not a memorial service for the Holy Spirit! But…the colors, the music, and the languages of this day do invoke a dangerous memory: they awaken in us of the truth of God’s presence in and among us. And for this reason, our Pentecost worship traditions do have a purpose. The sights and sounds of this day serve to prime the pump, to open our eyes, to awaken our senses, and to fan the flame of the Spirit so we once again surrender to her fiery presence among us.
And then, we can sing together in all truth: Come thou fount of every blessing! Tune my heart to sing thy grace!
A few months ago a miracle happened: it was a Saturday night, the sermon was already written, and both of our sons were occupied with sleepovers. My spouse and I jumped at the chance to go into Chicago for dinner and a show. Because it was a last minute date, we chose to eat at the restaurant just next door to the theater. It happened to be a Middle Eastern restaurant run by Palestinians. Robert, of course, couldn’t wait to compare the food with his favorites from his many travels to the Holy Land, so he asked the waitress if we could speak with the chef.
Now this is usually the moment when I cringe with embarrassment. Robert is always doing things like this: chatting with the taxi driver about that time when he visited his home village in Palestine, or asking the pharmacist about her accent and correctly guessing she was from Senegal, or somehow knowing the exact spot in Cairo from which Christiane Amanpour is reporting on CNN. This was no exception.
But when the chef came out he knelt by the table to chat, and we learned he was from Jerusalem. He was a Muslim but had attended St. George’s, an Episcopal school in Jerusalem. He had many good things to say about Christians in general and Lutherans in particular. And then he said, “My brother is still in Jerusalem. He has a shop there across from the Sbitany Center.”
I sat with my mouth hanging open as Robert said, “Oh, yes—on Salahadin street, on the corner between two flower shops.” The chef was flabbergasted—shocked enough, in fact, to later send out free desserts for the two of us.
Just last month when Robert returned to Jerusalem, he stopped in to that very shop. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he simply opened with: “Hi. I was in a restaurant in Chicago and met the chef, who says his brother owns a shop here.”
To which the shop owner replied: “This is MY brother! You have come to the right shop!” He was so amazed that an American Christian would take the time to pass along a message from one Muslim brother to another, across continents, cultures, and creeds, the shopkeeper said: “You must come home with me. You must talk with my mother.”
Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. (Acts 2:3-4)
Come thou fount of every blessing: Tune my heart to sing thy grace.
When we lived in Waco, Texas, Robert and I were grateful to qualify for the public school’s free preschool program. I eagerly took 4 year old Caleb with me to Doris Miller Elementary to register on that first day—and right away I noted that we looked quite different from the rest of the student body. In fact, Caleb was not only the sole white child in the class, but in the entire school. We were encountering the reality of a divided city—whites on one side of town, blacks on the other; money on one side of town and none on the other—and we, it seemed, were living on the “wrong side of town.”
We decided not address this with 4 year old Caleb, because, after all, being the “token” is a reality for children of color nearly every day—but we wondered when (or if) the color divide would become an issue for him at school.
And then, one day, about four months into school, it happened.
Caleb came in from school and excitedly said “MOM! Guess what! I just noticed something about my friends today.” “What’s that?” I asked a little nervously.
“Mom, we were counting things today and you know what? I’m the only kid with blue eyes in our whole class!”
‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy. (Acts 2:17)
Come thou fount of every blessing: Tune my heart to sing thy grace.
In 2003, my father-in-law died at the age of 52. He had been chronically ill for a long time, but his death was rather sudden. Robert and I were living in Minnesota, finishing up graduate school, and cash was more than tight.
But as soon as we got the call, we rushed to Oklahoma on gas cards and coupons and with the kind help of a state trooper who rescued us when a tire blew on the turnpike somewhere near Wichita. In times like these, you do what needs to be done, and that’s what we did.
It was a trying, emotional week, but the drive home was filled with just as much anxiety. We had emptied our bank account, and Robert, who was paid hourly, had missed an entire week of work, which meant another lean week to come. I wondered how we would even buy groceries when we got home. But I didn’t say much about it. After saying good-bye to Ed at such a young age, my stress about groceries and the budget seemed, well—inconsequential. I didn’t mention it to Robert. I probably didn’t even pray. I was determined to work it out on my own.
But when we arrived home and I was standing in the kitchen of our student apartment, reading through the stack of mail from the week before, I came across a letter from a good friend from high school. I realized I hadn’t called her to tell her about Robert’s dad, and made a mental note to call the next day.
But as I opened the envelope, something green fell out. $50, to be exact. It wasn’t the Mega-Millions jackpot, but it was enough to purchase food for the week. A windfall in our budget.
My friend had written this:
“I was about to go shopping today, but God told me you needed this money more than I did. I have no idea why I’m sending this to you, but I figured you would know. Love, Karla.”
Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. (Romans 8:26)
Come thou fount of every blessing: Tune my heart to sing thy grace.
Sisters and brothers, I stand here as a witness, testifying to the presence of God’s Holy Spirit among us today. God is still speaking. The grace of our Lord Jesus is with us. And the Holy Spirit—our Comforter, Advocate, Sustainer, and Intercessor—will guide us into all truth. And all God’s people said: Amen!
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