A sermon for the Day of Pentecost, May 28, 2023. The scripture readings are Acts 2:1-21. Psalm 104:25-35, 37, 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13, and John 20:19-23.

At last Saturday’s Ordination and Consecration of Bishop Matt Heyd, the Holy Spirit was all over the place. There was a lot of red, like today, reminding us of the Spirit’s fire. As we heard scriptures and songs in other languages, it felt a little Pentecostal, because we understood what we needed, even when we weren’t looking at a translation. There was the singing of the ancient hymn, “Come, Holy Spirit,” just before the bishops laid hands on their new colleague, Matt. The preacher talked about “conspiring with God,” which is to listen for and let the breath of God flow through us and for us to live, and talk, and act, motivated by God’s very breath.  And then, for me, the Spirit showed up at just the right time, as we were feeling a little bit of the humidity in that giant space, packed with people, and like a miracle, some giant, unseen fan began to blow.  I was thankful for that wind, whether it was from the Spirit or a thoughtful cathedral employee. But then again, maybe that was the employee, letting God breathe through the simple act of thoughtfulness.

On this Day of Pentecost, we (again) try to open ourselves more fully to the gift of God’s Spirit, and we, like most of the Church, struggle with the images. The Spirit of God at the beginning of creation is like a wind, or like a breath. This Spirit hovers over the creation of all things. In the Wisdom Literature of the Bible, the Spirit is personified as a woman running through the streets, Lady Wisdom, seeking for any who will stop and listen to what she has to say. In the Acts of the Apostles, the Holy Spirit descends like tongues of fire and does quick work at helping all of the disciples who have gathered—disciples from all directions and languages and cultures and backgrounds and differences—understand each other. Of all the work of God’s Spirit, helping people who are very different from one another be able to understand each other while retaining their individuality and difference—that is surely the work of God, and work we should pray for and welcome.

The Holy Spirit sometimes comes in overpowering ways, like a wind that clears away all that is old and needs to go, making way for God’s new life among us. And sometimes the Spirit is like that still, small voice heard so long ago by the Prophet Elijah, in 1 Kings 19. Elijah had run out of options. He was tired of doing all the talking, the authorities were after him, he felt alone and afraid. But when he finally slowed down, when he finally gave up, there in a cave God’s Spirit came not in the huge wind, not in the earthquake, and not even in the fire. But at that place and time, God’s Spirit came to Elijah like a whisper, like a breeze that only slightly stirs.  But it was enough for Elijah, and he got a second wind.

Of the many images for the Spirit, this idea of God’s Holy Spirit being like a “second wind” is one that resonates for me. 

A second wind is that holy help from God that comes at just the right time.
A “second wind” can come in the form of a friend, or a colleague, a stranger, or even a family member. And (of course) sometimes WE are urged by God to be the second wind for someone else. 

I remember when I was in my early teens and I used to mow the grass and take care of several yards in our neighborhood. Sometimes, because of thunderstorms or my own doing other things, the grass would get really tall and I would have just a few hours to get a whole lot of work done. On several occasions, I remember being furious with the world, mad at everybody, hating the lawnmower, and wishing I were a rich kid and could be sitting by a swimming pool somewhere. As I was struggling with tall, wet grass, my brother would show up. He would have a story or two and would talk my ear off. He might infuriate me by suggesting a quicker way to get the work done (which I would resist, but then see that it was, in fact, a better way). Eventually he would leave, but I would finish up my work really quickly. His visit gave me a second wind. Whether he was motivated by his own need to have an audience for his stories, or whether my parents suggested he stop by, or whether it was the Spirit of God—it worked like the Holy Spirit for me. 

I think this idea of a “second wind” is what Jesus gives in today’s Gospel. Earlier in chapter 14 of John, the Apostle Philip wants to see God and Jesus tries to explain to him that by being in the presence of Jesus, Philip IS seeing God. But Phillip worries about what will happen when the vision fades. What happens when it doesn’t feel like God is around? What happens with faith fails? And Jesus promises that the Advocate will come—the Holy Spirit of God advocating for us, advocating for the way of love, the Advocate, the Holy Spirit will teach you, remind you, be with you. God will bring you a second wind that will bring peace. This is the Holy Second Wind of Jesus.

In what ways might you need a “second wind” in your life?  Is it in your work? Your relationships? Your own personal development in some way? Whatever it is, I invite you to make it your prayer and invite the Holy Spirit’s active presence.

However we picture or imagine the Holy Spirit, may we be open to the Spirit’s power in our lives. May we be alert to the second winds that give us strength, and may we be alert to God’s spirit when we are called to offer that support and strength for one another.  Come, Holy Spirit, renew us with your second, and third, and hundredth holy wind. Amen.

A sermon for the Sixth Sunday of Easter, May 14, 2023. The scripture readings are Acts 17:22-31, Psalm 66:7-18, 1 Peter 3:13-22, and John 14:15-21.

A priest, a rabbi, and an imam go to Israel . . . It sounds like the set-up for a joke, doesn’t it? But this Christian happed to be Pope Francis, and the rabbi and imam were friends of the Pope’s from Argentina, and they were making an historic visit to Jordan, the Palestinian territory, and Israel a few years ago. 

I was reminded of the Pope’s visit, as I’ve been reading and preparing for our Sunday morning series on Christianity in the Middle East. On Monday, May 22, (not tomorrow night, but the next week’s Monday night), we will host the Rev. Canon Faiz Basheer Jerjes, the priest from St. George’s Anglican Church in Baghdad, Iraq, and Sinan Hanna, Chief Administrator at St. George’s.  Dinner will be at 6, and a talk and discussion will follow.

When Pope Francis made that historic visit to the Middle East, (just as he did in 2021, when he visited Iraq), the Pope made the Vatican administration nervous. Francis has a knack for complicating things, for doing things differently, for adjusting his message to the ears of his hearers, and risking whatever it takes, to share the love of Christ with others. What the Pope was doing, and often IS doing, is not so radical in that it departs from the core of our tradition. His methods are so traditional as to seem new, as he follows St. Paul, who of course, was simply following the way of Jesus.

We see this aspect of Paul in today’s Epistle.   Paul is preaching—that’s normal enough. But here, the context for Paul’s preaching is as important as the content.  He’s in Athens, Greece, at Areopagus (the hill of Ares, or for the Romans, Mars Hill). It was a great place of meeting. It was a place where the philosophers debated—the Epicureans, the Stoics, and all the other parties advocating one way of reason or truth as opposed to another.

Many different gods, many different philosophies, all came together there. But notice how Paul preaches. It’s very unlike most of his preaching elsewhere. In other places, Paul draws on the long tradition of Judaism, showing how Jesus fulfills the traditions and hopes of Judaism. But he knows this won’t play well in Greece. Here in Athens, while people might know a good bit about Judaism, it isn’t infused into their lives the way it might have been elsewhere. Here, Paul needs to speak in a way that is more familiar and accessible to his audience.

To vastly oversimplify what Paul is doing, we could say that he does at least three things: he listens, he looks, and he loves. He listens to those in front of him, he looks for connections, and he loves them as children of God.

Paul listens. He listens enough to know what people believe. He admires their religious beliefs. He notices that they had a shrine to an unknown god. And though many people feel as though Paul is making fun of them here, I wonder. I wonder if he isn’t simply engaging them and inviting them to see his point of view.

Paul looks for connections and finds them in the beliefs they can all hold in common, in their questioning, in their seeking the truth and looking for God.

Paul loves his audience. Having listened to the Athenians, and having made some connections with them, Paul moves on to be able to offer them his own understanding of the love of God. Still showing them respect, resisting the urge to belittle or discredit the beliefs they already hold, Paul uses what they believe to link them to the love of God. It’s not a mushy, personal affection that Paul feels with the individuals there. Instead, it’s a realization that each one is made in the image of God, and God loves each person as God’s very own daughter or son. And so Paul offers them the sense he has of God’s love and presence. And in the presence of God’s love, there is room to grow.

This threefold way of relating to people is something we all might try from time to time, not only with those who are different from us, but perhaps and even especially with those who are similar but with whom we have trouble communicating or relating.   

First there is the opportunity for listening. Listening means not talking, not judging, not assuming we know the mind and heart of the other, but really allowing there to be space. Had Paul approached the Athenians with his own agenda, assuming that they were hell-bound pagans who didn’t have much of a belief system at all, his audience would have sense this, and they would not have listened.

Second, there’s the chance for looking. In her book, An Altar in the Word: A Geography of Faith, Barbara Brown Taylor points out, “Many of the people in need of saving are in churches, and at least part of what they need saving from is the idea that God sees the world the same way they do” (p. 6). We can look for connections, for something in common. We can do this even when we are angry with another person or disagree in an almost violent way. If we’re able truly to listen, surely there is something we can find in common, something we share, something we understand in a similar way.

And finally, even when we’re sitting across from someone we genuinely may not like, or not understand; we can envision that person in the presence of God. We can ask God to love this person, even when we’re unable to.  On this Mother’s Day, I remember a senior warden in the church I served in Washington. Nancy had no children of her own, but she acted like a mother to family, neighbors, and anyone and everyone who came through the doors of that church.  When someone was especially difficult, or when some disagreeable politician or criminal was mentioned, after all the hatred and venom  was aired by other people, Nancy would take advantage of the silence, sigh, and say, “Well, someone’s their mother.”

And that said it all. Nancy was remembering and remind us that God’s love is maternal and paternal beyond all our experience and imagining, and if God can find it within his heart to love the worst and most awful, God embraces us with that same transforming and redeeming love.  

Christ promises us help. “If you love me,” he says, “you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.” Jesus knows that it’s hard work listening to others, looking for what’s in common, and really loving others as children of God, but Christ promises we’re not on our own in this. He is with us- through the power of the Holy Spirit, who encourages, strengthens, and fills us with all spiritual gifts.

Saint Paul had a dramatic setting for engaging people who were different from himself. For most of us, that setting is less dramatic though just as difficult. It involves our family, our coworkers, and our fellow parishioners. As we move toward the Feast of Pentecost in a couple of weeks, may we be open to this Spirit of Christ to help us listen, look closely, and love.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Easter, May 7, 2023. The scripture readings are Acts 7:55-60, Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16, 1 Peter 2:2-10, and John 14:1-14.

Many of us watched the Coronation of King Charles III yesterday, or perhaps have seen parts of it.  Some seemed surprised by how religious the service was. One commentator pointed out how much it felt like a wedding, while a friend of mine thought it felt like a funeral, at times.  Indeed, the joy and celebration was like a wedding. The gravitas, a bit like a funeral.

The Coronation liturgy, of course, is an accumulation of centuries of tradition.  From early times, it was important to show that the new monarch was strong, had armies and wealth and power, and even had God on his or her side. And yet, for me, anyway, some of the symbolism almost works against a living Christian faith. The show of power can undercut the reality of a simple faith that, by itself, through God, can move mountains.  Christ gives us what we need—whether the challenges come through trying to rule a nation or just going through our day.

Today’s Gospel gives a word of hope and assurance in the face of grief and uncertainty. But Jesus’ words also work for the day-to-day, the nitty-gritty, and any time and any place where trouble threatens. Jesus says, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” But he doesn’t just say that so that we might have a roadmap to heaven. He’s giving us a roadmap for living, a roadmap that involves a having a choice, finding a place, and never being left alone.

“Let not your hearts be troubled” can sound so pious and “stained-glass-like” that we can miss some of the nuance in its meaning. “Don’t let your heart be troubled” suggests that we have a choice in the matter, and that’s good news. We can LET our hearts be troubled, but Jesus encourages us not to. We’re not spineless victims when trouble comes. We might not have any power over the situation or the thing, but we can choose how we react. We can choose how we let it get to us. We can choose whether to let it trouble our heart or not.

In the reading from the Acts of the Apostles, we have the culmination of chapters 6 and 7. Stephen is chosen as the first deacon, someone to coordinate the distribution of food and care for the widows. But the religious leaders of his day don’t like the new arrangement. They feel threatened and plot to do him in. They throw together a mock trial to accuse Stephen of blasphemy. But there, even in the midst of the trial, Stephen makes a choice. He lets himself be emptied, so that the Holy Spirit has room to work. Stephen lets go of his will, his cleverness, his resourcefulness, his connections—and he let’s God take over. And there in the middle of his trial he receives a vision, a vision of heaven opening and God offering welcome and power and love. The mob can’t handle this, and Stephen is stoned to death, becoming the Church’s very first martyr. 

Most of us are unlikely to be put in Stephen’s situation, but some of the binds we find ourselves in can seem just as tight, just as hopeless. St. Stephen and countless others have CHOSEN not to let their hearts be troubled, but to believe in God, and to believe that God has a way.

Jesus talks about a place for us. And I think we respond to that so deeply because perhaps, there’s something in us that longs for another place, a better place. But that place is not just physical. It’s not geographic. It’s psychological, it’s intellectual, it’s spiritual. We long for a place where our hearts, souls, and minds are free to grow and develop as God intends, unrestricted by custom or expectation or background or any other thing.

When Jesus says, “In my father’s house there are many dwelling places,” he’s not talking public housing. He’s not talking retirement villages in some ideal state or country. He’s talking about SPACE, space that has the unique qualities both of being expansive and of being safe. Jesus goes before us to prepare a way, if we follow him, he leads us where we need to be.

When trouble comes, there’s a choice involved (as to how we respond) and there’s a promised place up ahead (where all becomes clear) but perhaps even more important; in addition to being promised a choice and a place, we also have a people.

But those early apostles were called together as a people, a family, of sorts; but more than a family.  They were given authority by the Holy Spirit. One by one, the disciples ask Jesus where he’s going, how do they get there, what do they do about this or that, and each time, Jesus answers with relationship. You have seen me and known me, you have known God the Father. Believe and we are in you. You have all you need. You have one another. Thomas asks more questions. Philip asks more questions, but later, after the crucifixion and resurrection, they begin to see what Jesus means. They have each other—they have a people—but it’s a special band of people who’ve got your back, and when they get tired, the Holy Spirit steps in. We’re covered, we’re good to go, we’re protected, strengthened, and enlivened for the mission of God in our world. 

One thing I enjoyed about watching the Coronation yesterday was knowing a little about some of the people whose lives were busy preaching all during that carefully scripted liturgy.  The Rt. Rev. Rose Hudson-Wilken, the Bishop of Dover, who was just in New York last week, presented Queen Camilla with part of her regalia, but Bishop Rose’s life is the thing that preaches: as a little girl from Jamaica, she felt called to be a priest, even though the church didn’t ordain women. Now she’s the first Black female bishop in the Church of England.  The Rt. Rev. Sarah Mulally, the Bishop of London, heard God’s call interrupt a successful nursing career, and she became a priest, and now one of the most powerful bishops in the Church.  And even the Archbishop, felt Christ’s call to choose and change, as he left a lucrative family career in the oil business in order to try to help the Spirit breathe new life into the Church.

We don’t need a mounted army, special regalia, or a gold carriage to be faithful. We are called too, and whether the path is clear or murky, easy or challenging, we have a choice, we have place, and we have a people.  W. H. Auden reminds us of the mysterious Christ who leads us forward and never leaves our side:

Auden writes,

He is the Way.
Follow Him through the Land of Unlikeness;
You will see rare beasts, and have unique adventures.

He is the Truth.
Seek Him in the Kingdom of Anxiety;
You will come to a great city that has expected your return for years.

He is the Life.
Love Him in the World of the Flesh;
And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.

“For the Time Being” (A Christmas Oratorio)

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.