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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.
Pharaoh, King of Egypt, enslaved the People of Israel. It was not out, as you might assume, out of cruelty. It was, rather, out of judiciousness. The People of Israel were not Egyptians. They were foreigners. They were the rough equivalent of what we today would call the undocumented. So now as then they were deemed to be threats. Add to this that the People of Israel grew increasingly numerous, as numerous even as the Egyptians themselves. This intensified the threat. In those numbers they could simply take over. Or Egypt’s enemies could induce them to fight for them, as a kind of built in fifth column. Pharaoh, King of Egypt, had to act. And so he enslaved the People of Israel. It was the judicious thing to do. But his judiciousness was not rewarded. In slavery, unpredictably, their numbers only increased. Pharaoh’s patience with the People of Israel grew thin. Judiciousness then crossed over to cruelty. He ordered the Hebrew midwives to murder the infant boys as they delivered them. That would thin their ranks. But the Hebrew midwives refused to do so, and with their refusal, civil disobedience was born. They chose to heed God not man. But Pharaoh King of Egypt was not so easily undone. He ordered his army to search out the infant boys and throw them into the Nile. Thereafter, cruelty no doubt took on a life of its own. Pharaoh King of Egypt rightly ranks with the likes of Caligula, Nero, Hitler, Stalin, and Mao. One wonders why it is that so many who rise to power become murderous and maniacal tyrants. The human cost - the suffering and misery and despair and tragedy -- are unimaginable and incalculable. Against this backdrop, a woman from the house of Levi gave birth to a healthy and beautiful infant boy. It would normally be the occasion for celebration and joy, but it was for her the occasion for anguish. When a child is born, a mother’s first instinct is protectiveness. But how could she possibly protect him? She thought desperately at first that she could hide him, and she did so for several months, but that could not go on forever. He could any day be discovered. The lesser of two evils was to abandon him to his fate. So she plastered a reed basket with bitumen and pitch, and she cast her hope upon the water. Low and behold, the daughter of Pharaoh happened upon the basket. She peered into it, beheld the crying infant, and she had compassion. The daughter of Pharaoh has never received the appreciation and respect she deserves. She is, inexplicably, overlooked. What she did was exemplary. Normally when people enslave others, they find justification for it. The enslaved are not deemed the equal of their enslavers. They are deemed subhuman. Slavery, therefore, is a necessity. More than this, it is morally right. That’s what the South advanced in this country, after all. But the daughter of Pharaoh did not fall prey to justification. She had compassion. And she acted upon that compassion. Here is an important reminder. It is not enough to have compassion. To have compassion, or any other altruistic emotion for that matter, does not make you a good person. You must act upon it. If you have compassion and you do not act upon it, that makes you decidedly less than a good person. As Martin Luther King, Jr. famously declared, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” And here is something truly astounding. Her act was to adopt him. That was, to say at the least, a courageous thing to do. It certainly would not have put her in good stead with her father. I can just imagine it. “Father, I have a surprise for you. You have a new grandson.” Such an announcement could only have dumbfounded him, but his confusion would have given way to horror as she went on, “I have adopted an infant boy from among your slaves.” If nothing else, we can now set the record straight. We can give Pharaoh’s daughter the appreciation and respect that she deserves. But we can do more than that. As I said, she is exemplary, and so we can follow her example. We can show compassion to those who have cast their hope upon the water. Yes, a mother forced by dire circumstance to give her child up for adoption, hoping that her child will be loved and cherished. But too, one with an atypical identity, hoping to be accepted for who he or she really is. One of a different race, creed, or income level seeking to relocate, hoping not that she will be welcomed, for that would be too high a hope; but hoping she will be at least be tolerated. One who has transgressed, hoping he will be forgiven. One who has something difficult to impart, hoping she will be understood. We can show compassion for those who have cast their hope upon the water. For someone greater, much greater than Pharaoh’s daughter did the same. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us!” “My daughter has just died. Come and lay your hand on her, that she may live.” “Even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” “Jesus, come before my son dies.” “Lord, if you choose, you can make me clean.” “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David, for my daughter is tormented by a demon.” “Lord, have mercy on my son, for he is an epileptic and suffers terribly.” “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” They cast their hope on him. And he showed compassion for them all. And when we cast our hope on him, he will show compassion for us -- unlimited even by a cross. Amen.
I attended a funeral recently. It was for my high school math teacher. He was one great guy. Everyone loved him. He taught math at my high school for forty years, and he also coached wrestling. By the time he retired, he had become something of a legend in his own time. The funeral was upbeat, not like so many funerals that are so very sad. He lived a full and long life, and we gathered to celebrate that. But for one man – a classmate of mine who wrestled for him. He was absolutely devastated. I approached him in the parking lot after the funeral and asked if he was okay. He broke down. “That man was everything to me,” he said. “I was O.K. so long as he was in the world.” Then he shared his story. His mother died when he was very young. His father was a physically and emotionally abusive alcoholic. By the time he was in high school, he was far down a bad road. He hadn’t the support to do well at school, so he didn’t. He was very angry, so he was a behavior problem. The only friends he could make were kids like himself, so he hung out with a tough crowd. And he had begun to dabble in drugs. He was pretty much a lost cause at the age of sixteen. Enter my math teacher. He approached him one day out of the blue and told him he could tell by his gait that he was born to wrestle. This could only have been a ruse to intervene. Even I, who knows nothing about wrestling, am suspicious that you can identify one born to wrestle by his gait. At any rate, the ruse worked. He intervened. And he made him into a great wrestler. On top of that, he made him into a great young man. His advice, understanding, and support were unwavering. He helped him to deal with his past in such a way that it didn’t destroy him. He filled his present with new found responsibility, purpose, structure, and discipline. And he paved his way to a future. After graduation he went to college on a wrestling scholarship and eventually became a doctor. “I feel so lost,” he concluded his story. “What am I going to do now?” While he was sharing his story, I could not help but think how hard life can be. We here are generally prosperous and privileged, so we can afford to put up a front. But behind that front life can be hard. Because it’s out there -- loss, abuse, addiction, and a host of other afflictions. It’s enough to make you lose your way. And as I said, we here are generally prosperous and privileged. What if the loss, abuse, and addiction are compounded by poverty or racism? Then it’s all but a foregone conclusion. Your way is lost. Yes, life can be hard. Life takes casualties. Lots of them. It can make us feel helpless and overwhelmed. We want to make things better, but what could we possibly do? The answer is no farther away than my late math teacher. What could we possibly do to make things better? We could reach out, like he did. And what is in view here is not merely a good example, although we must never underestimate the power of a good example and must always strive to be one. But there’s more in view than that. It has to do with the Bible. The Bible may seem like a forbidding book. For one thing it’s thousands of pages long. It makes War and Peace look like a short story. For another thing, it’s unimaginably ancient. The Bible’s story begins 2,000 years before the Common Era. I just read that a sizable portion of millennials don’t know what the Holocaust was. To them that’s ancient history - a mere 75 years back. The Bible is more than 4,000 years back. That’s unimaginably ancient. For yet another thing, it traffics in extremely complicated and sophisticated theology, plumbing in its unfolding the depths of such mysteries as our nature, the predicament that our nature has landed us in, and the means of our redemption. And it does so all the while purging itself of false starts or conclusions. So it may seem forbidding. But at the same time, ironically, the Bible lends itself to succinct summaries. Here’s one: God lives. Here’s another: Good triumphs over evil. And another: Love triumphs over fear. And another: Practice universal justice. And another: Love one another. And here’s one that’s right on point: Reach out. The Bible can be summarized in just two words. Reach out. Think about it. That’s what God did. God reached out. God reached out to Abraham and told him that from him would one day issue a nation, and not just any nation, but a nation that would somehow bless all the nations by bestowing upon them redemption. God reached out to Moses and bequeathed him an ethical law so that God’s people could bear his righteousness. God reached out to David and told him that from his descendants would emerge one who would embody that redemption. And that one in the fullness of time emerged. God reach out to his son. He told him that if he would make a great sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice, it would be the means for all people to reach out to one another. In a real way. A way that advanced God’s own being and cause. And his son made that sacrifice. And in his brief ministry that preceded that sacrifice, he reached out to everyone. And I mean everyone. Lepers. Prostitutes. Beggars. Even a bitter little man perched up in a sycamore tree. So reaching out is not just a good example. It is nothing less the mechanism that God that employs to bestow redemption. Yes, life can be hard. Paul knew this. “We would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” But Paul goes on. “So we must make it our goal to please him, whether we are at home in the body or away from it.” And this means reaching out. “I feel so lost now. What am I going to do?” asked my grieving classmate. I told him that his coach had already showed him what to do. I told him to reach out. Amen.
Jesus was always one to bring the party. All he had to do was show up, and lots of others showed up too -- eager for engagement, eager for excitement, eager for something new. It was little wonder. Here at last was someone who had something to say. Something different. Something provocative. Something truthful. Jesus had a way of uttering truths that had never been uttered before, but at the same time, were strangely recognizable. And it was happening once again. Once again, Jesus had brought the party. He showed up at the house of Mary and Martha, and suddenly the place was filled with men who immediately took their place at his feet. This gesture was an indicator that they were ready and willing disciples. They wanted him to teach them. And so he began to teach. That was Martha’s cue. She sprang into action. After Jesus’ teaching, it would be fellowship hour, and as we all know, fellowship hour is predicated upon food. And in ancient times, you couldn’t rely on your reserves from Costco. Feeding a room full of men was labor intensive. Animals had to be slaughtered and dressed. Bread had to be baked. Water had to hauled. Martha went directly to work, expecting Mary to fall in place behind her. But what did Mary do? She went and sat at Jesus’ feet with the men -- shirking her role, defying expectations, and leaving Martha to shoulder the burden alone. I can imagine Martha’s frustration. I can imagine her passive aggressive attempts to get Mary back in the kitchen. Staring daggers at her from the threshold. Uttering loud sighs as indicators of her strain. Dropping pottery on the floor to startle Mary to awareness. But Mary took no notice. None whatsoever. Martha should have counted to ten. How much strife could be averted if we could all just remember to count to ten, or perhaps twenty. Martha for her part shot like a rocket from outrage to outburst. “I’m doing all the work in here Jesus, while Mary has yet to raise a finger. It’s hardly fair. And have you even noticed? Do you even care?” And there was doubtless more to it than the fact that Martha had to provide all the hospitality on her own. There too was the fact of what Mary was doing. She not day dreaming or singing idly out the window. She was sitting at Jesus’ feet. She was in there with the men. Martha was doubtless chagrined and embarrassed that Mary did not know her place. It certainly did not reflect well on the family. But Jesus did not vindicate Martha. Jesus chastised her, “Martha, Martha,” (and when someone says your name twice, wait for some kind of a correction to follow) “Why are you so distracted and stressed and scattered? Let it go. Mary’s right where she should be.” We’re left to wonder how Martha felt at that point. I bet she wasn’t happy. She simply didn’t get it or she would not have reacted that way in the first place. Now normally this text is interpreted as a caution against busyness. Martha with all her busyness is a prototype that we should avoid. Not that productivity is a bad thing. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop after all. But there’s a certain kind of busyness that’s not good. It’s when we become enmeshed with worldly or personal concerns and address them with obsessive application – application that mixes with pride, competition, insecurity. It becomes a kind of self-perpetuating force. And it causes us to lose all perspective. It causes us to become disoriented. We forget that we’re supposed to be at Jesus’ feet – his disciples, listening to him. And this is a fair enough interpretation, but I think there’s something else here. An elephant in the living room. Mary was right where she should be. She was at Jesus’ feet, his disciple, listening to him. But Mary was, obviously, a woman. Women did not seat themselves at the feet of rabbis. Women were not disciples. All they needed to know was taught to them by their mothers. Women did not sit side by side with men learning. It was unheard of. It was forbidden. And yet Jesus told Martha that Mary was right where she should be. Her place was with the men. Really Jesus? A woman’s place is with the men? Really Jesus? In first century Judaism? Jesus was a revolutionary and a radical, and don’t ever forget it. All down through history and even to this day there has an unspoken and inviolable code. It could be expressed as a variant of a line from the wedding ceremony. What society has divided, let no one unite. And Jesus was saying the polar opposite. A women’s place is with the men. Think about what this means by extension. Women, your place is with the men. Men, your place is with the women. Whites, your place is with blacks. Blacks your place is with whites. The wealthy, your place is with the poor, and the poor, your place is with the wealthy. The powerful, your place is with the powerless. The powerless, your place is with the powerful. The old, your place is with the young. The young, your place is with the old. Jesus was smashing down all dividing walls. His disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated. This is simply too radical, simply too revolutionary. But that’s who Jesus was. This is why he brought the party. It’s because he spoke God’s truth. Disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated, and this in service to humankind that is to be completely and utterly integrated. That all should be one. But this is so radical and revolutionary that it is very seldom approximated. It’s too hard. But is it really? Is it really that hard to forge the way? Is it really that hard to reach out? Is it really that hard to cross the aisle? To be vulnerable? To be risky? To be open? To be accepting? To be understanding? One thing’s for sure. It’s a lot easier than hanging on a cross in faith it could be so. Amen.
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