Pentecost is Far from Over

photo by Romanus_too / flikr

Pentecost Sunday is over. It’s time to put away the symbols of the coming of the spirit. Whether it be fire or a group of people representing various nations reading every other Acts 2 verse in some foreign language. Some of us wondered what to do with all those balloons we were to pump full of helium and have the congregation lift them toward the skies. Pentecost, the birthday of the church was strange yesterday. Nobody there—well, many places. Pews empty—mostly. Nobody to blow the candles out. Who ever heard of a birthday party via video.  And for those who decided to risk it the Ushers wore masks, like bandits, nobody joined hands and sang “There’s a sweet, sweet, spirit in this place…” Why we couldn’t even hug or pass the peace or sing triumphantly.  We were supposed to sit six feet apart and use those sanitizer bottles after the offering plates passed our way. What spirit…what place?

photo by Luke Jones / flikr

This Pentecost was set in a strange frame. Many of the old folks still confined to homes after two months. Not even able to visit our sick in hospitals or nursing homes. Immediate family only at grave-sites. And across the land our dead have reached over 100,000 and the end is not yet. What few places we ventured out to they take our temperatures with a strange-looking gizmo. 

The TV reports riots and protests are starting all over the country. Most of us could hardly bare to look at that terrible scene in Minneapolis as a policeman put his knee or foot on George Floyd’s neck for 8 minutes until he died with three other policemen were standing there just looking. By morning there were protests and riots in 48 of our states. We put our hand over our mouths, whispering: “My God, what a terrible time.”

And Pentecost came. Appears to be a very poor joke. Hungry children. Foreclosures everywhere. Many of those angry ones in the streets had little to lose. Their jobs were gone. Many had little or no health insurance and the future looked bleak indeed. Small wonder so much rage out there. This powder key was bound to have gone off.

Should we have post phoned Pentecost like we did so many graduations,  sporting events, school openings and weddings. Maybe pencil in the middle September or October as an alternate Pentecost.

Maybe the backdrop of yesterday’s Pentecost was no mistake. That first day when the believers were all together in one room. The Scriptures do not say why. Maybe they were scared out of their wits. Or trying to understand that strange word: Resurrection. Or just knocked off their feet. That day the wind blew and the fire fell and people heard in their own languages and they left there dizzy and hopeful. Jesus was right. He really did send his spirit—his comforter to be with them forever. And they left there to write down the story over and over. They met in little homes to talk about what had happened. Like a wild fire this gos-pel—this good news spread.

The world of course thought they were nuts. For on that Pentecost Sunday crosses lined the roads of those who did not obey Rome and its Emperor. Disciple after disciple were martyred. The Jews—God’s chosen people—were still subjugated to Rome. If they did not say: Caesar is Lord—well, they would find a noose around their necks or nails in their hands.  The official government policy tried to Hellenize all those Jews—give up their weird faith and stranger customs. Their taxes kept going up as their hungry children cried into the night and there was no safety net for anybody. They would be imprisoned if they were lucky to still be alive. They only had to give their loyalty to Rome and Caesar and Herod and Pilate. Was that so much to ask?

But Pentecost came and the backdrop of whatever hurt or injustice or pain or crushed hope there were—they told this story about that day when they least expected that promise of Jesus came true. And it kept them going. Despite it all. And that All covered wars and plagues and injustice after injustice and slavery and cruelty and poverty and governments not of the people or by the people or for the people. They stumbled away from those graves of their children and other loved ones. They suffered pain of all sorts. Yet they kept telling the Pentecost story.

photo by Anthony Quintano / flikr

The Comforter would come. He would heal their broken hearts. He would convict them of their wrongs. He would stand by them through whatever came. And he would be with therm forever. That Spirit would never cover them with security blankets because they believed in Jesus. Neither would it make everything right and fair and free. But this Spirit was their teacher reminding them that in this faith there is almost more than meets the eye. 

Outside our settled little communities safe and secure the nation and world still convulses. Fires burn too much away. There will be other deaths. My granddaughter said she looked out her window in Greenville to see a filling station-grocery store windows smashed, looted and everything taken away and left in embers. 

I remember someone writing about one of the Editors at The New Yorker Magazine years ago. Someone gave him this tribute: “He kept going like a bullet-torn battle flag and nobody captured his colors and nobody silenced his drums.” It really is the story of the Christian church—and maybe all faiths. That power, unseen—yet real that kept them going. And us too, I hope.

It’s dark out there today folks. I don’t know where all this is going. But the light will come. And another day it will be dark again. But nobody, but nobody need capture our colors and nobody need silence our drums. Not because we are tough or strong or smart or from good stock or was

just born into the right family. But something much more powerful.The spirit—the Holy Spirit that came and that comes. To be with us all forever. Forever. FOREVER.

photo by Nancy Gowler: "Laying out letters for Pentecost" /flikr

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com