Pentecost

Even for non-Christians, or people who are skittish about “overly religious” blog posts, the story of Pentecost has much to say to all of us who seek to live spiritual lives. I’ve always loved the story of what is considered the “birthday of the church,” not because I fully understand it but am enamored by its spiritual beckoning.

The followers of Jesus were together in a room, fearful of the state and worried about what might happen to them because of their faith.

Can you imagine having a faith that stood apart from the state, a faith that was costly?

In the solitude of their common faith, a mighty wind blew in and around them filling them with a spirit that comforted and emboldened them. The only way they could describe that mighty wind was as a “holy spirit.” It was like God had come and swirled around them.

Can you imagine God’s spirit coming and swirling around you today? In what way would that be comforting? In what way would you feel emboldened? How might it frighten or unsettle you?

We are told that there was also a fire that descended and that people spoke in ways they never had before. Those who looked on thought that these followers were drunk, which was all the more bewildering because it was 9 in the morning!

When was the last time you felt something within you rise up and you spoke in a way that made others tilt their heads, roll their eyes, or wonder if you were drunk (or crazy)?

Fear not. You are in good company, though I fear few of us have let ourselves have such an experience.

I grew up in a timid, polite church, one that took pride in everything being “decent and in order.” It was a church filled with people who looked like me and lived lives much like mine. Ours was a faith designed to comfort but not embolden. Ours was designed to inspire, but not too much. Ours was not a faith that encouraged anything too out of hand or controversial. An unspoken rule was to support the state, the status quo, because we were all people of privilege. Even from the pulpit, we were taught a diluted gospel so no one would be offended, even if it ignored what Jesus explicitly said. “Give me that old time religion,” the older members would sing even if it meant ignoring those who were less fortunate or lived lives that were not like June and Ward Cleaver.

The thing about wind and flames is they’re unpredictable, just like God. They’ll disrupt our lives if we let them. They’ll make us look and feel things that aren’t easy or comfortable. They’ll call into question ways of thinking, ways of speaking, and ways of voting that stand in direct contrast to the gospel. They’ll make people look askance and wonder if we’re drunk.

No wonder we avoid such things at all costs. We close the windows from the wind and extinguish every flame. We want a safe and comfortable church, or maybe no church at all. We want a gospel that affirms our way of life even if it comes at the expense of others.

No wonder the pews are increasingly empty, and the buildings are crumbling. Somehow, we need to feel the mighty wind again and dance with the flames . . . even if they make us feel uncomfortable and cause others to think we’re drunk. It wouldn’t be the first time!

Saints

Across from where I’m sitting, in a café in St. Andrew’s, Scotland, is an old Gothic church. Above the pedestrians on the corner of the church is an architectural feature that is hardly, if ever, noticed. It’s a shelf or pedestal adorned with a canopy above. A beautiful piece of stonework, it looks glaringly empty.

Long ago, when the church moved away from the Catholic church (during what was called the Protestant reformation) the people did away with anything that spoke of its Catholic roots, including destroying all the statues of saints. Whether it was Peter or Paul, Mary or Catherine, or Andrew himself, the saints were taken down from their place of prominence leaving only a shell of a reminder. Like the reformation itself, space was created but things were lost.

Staring across the street at the historical whisper, I wonder what saint once stood looking over the people passing by? In its emptiness, I felt invited to think who I might put on that shelf. The saints of my life are not famous like those from church history. They may have been saints only to me, people with less regal names who led ordinary lives, but they pointed me to the faith I now profess and, in their way, look down on me still as I pass through this brief moment in time.

There was Robert Carson, “Carse,” an old man who invited me to join him in pew 25 at the modest Episcopal church in my college town after my father died.

There was Fred, towering over me in his robes and purple shirt, who made the biblical story come alive by connecting it with ordinary life.

And then there was a woman named Ada, who tickled my arm when I was sad or afraid and assured me everything would be alright while also reminding me I had something to offer this world.

My list is much longer, but it’s my list. The question being asked across the street is who’s on your list? Who would you place on that shelf?

I don’t know how all this spiritual stuff works, how we remain connected to those who now dwell upon another shore, but just saying their names makes them live again. I can see their faces, hear their voices, and feel their touch, if only in my heart. Such reflections make my soul swell, and I have to believe that mentioning their names somehow echoes across time’s sea and causes their souls to swell, too.

Buildings

There once was a gifted architect who also happened to be wise. He was smart about his craft but what made him wise was he knew its purpose. The builder of some of the greatest cathedrals and sacred spaces, as well as remarkable performance spaces and cultural arts centers, his reputation made him the preeminent architect of his time. But he was always able to see beyond the buildings themselves, see beyond the glass and columns, to the purpose of those buildings. “My job is to create spaces,” he humbly pointed out, “but it’s what happens in those spaces that truly matters.”

I think the same wisdom can be used when looking at our lives. We come into this world and begin construction right away. Over the years, we construct lives that are not only unique but are sometimes grand and impressive. The architect would remind us, however, that such creations are not as important as what happens within our lives.

Inside the dwelling places of our souls, whether they be cathedrals or cottages, what goes on? What are we about? Do we focus on adding new wings or making impressive renovations, or are we looking beyond the particulars to how our short time here on earth can count for something? Are we looking to build legacy of “bricks” and “mortar,” or one of flesh and blood. Are we wandering in self-congratulating awe around the lives we’ve built, or are we busy inside seeking to make a difference in the lives of others?

We are living in an interesting moment. Never have I known anything like it, although the fundamental questions are the same. In the light of our heated and volatile time, these architectural questions are more pronounced: Are we here to build bigger and more impressive buildings or to turn our attention to what we do within the “buildings” we already have. Are we to focus only on ourselves and people like us or on others and the world around us?

Buildings don’t last, but the work within them can.