June 4, 2006: How to Be the Church
Acts 2:1-21, Ezekiel 37:1-14, Romans 8:22-27, Psalm 104:24-34, 35b
Eileen Parfrey      Springwater Presbyterian Church

There is a generation of kids in Madison, Wisconsin with a conditioned response to the word "Pentecost." Their Sunday School teacher (me) told them the story of Pentecost with hand motions for the flaming tongues of fire [fluttering fingers above head], and ever afterwards, whenever anyone did this [fluttering fingers above head], they knew to shout "Pentecost!" Conversely, the word "Pentecost" will always elicit from them this [fluttering fingers above head]. So put [fluttering fingers above head] with Ezekiel's vision of the dry bones, and you've got to wonder what this has to do with the birthday of the Church. It sounds more like dead church to me.

Which has some currency, if you pay attention to media reports about churches. Mainline denominations-UCC, Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic, Presbyterian-are maybe not dead, but they are certainly dying. All show shrinking membership numbers. The UCC says that, if things continue the way they are, they'll be gone in 10 years. It's not just religious indicators of Middle America that show decline. Economically, the middle class has been in decline since at least the 80s, increasingly polarizing the rich and poor classes. New jobs get created, but they all require new hires to ask, "Do you want fries with that?" In Oregon, 30% of high school students are not expected for graduate. Things look bleak. Is there a future or not?

Which is exactly what God asks Ezekiel as he overlooks an endless array of dry, dead bones. The bones are how God sees Israel-dead, dead, dead-but the pathos and pity this elicits from God triggers a shocking, startling, invasive response. In the face of unarguable death, God declares the situation is not unrecoverable. Is there a future or not? God only knows. As Ezekiel prophesies, the bones come together, breath enters them, and we know that, as long as there is God, there is a future. Jesus is dead, Jesus is raised, Jesus is more gone now than ever. But that's not the end of the story. God's very presence is hope, a hope that does not depend on our bootstraps. Hope, not because we wish the test results didn't say "cancer." Hope, not because we'll make the best use of the time we've got. Hope, not because we get to take the class over and maybe make a better grade. Hope, not that we can date someone new, and this time we'll be more thoughtful. Hope as gift. Hope as a chance to do something for someone else for a change. Hope as making the phone call, even though it might not be returned. Hope as joy even when we stare down disaster. Hope as acting loving, even when the feeling isn't there.

If Pentecost is the church's birthday, it isn't about hope we accomplish, but the hope we proclaim. This is exactly why the Holy Spirit was sent-proclaiming and hope. In John's gospel, Jesus tells his disciples before he leaves them, "When the Advocate comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf. You also are to testify because you have been with me from the beginning." Think of Ezekiel's dry bones-death to life. The flaming tongues of fire-gotta talk? The shell-shocked disciples, gathered in prayer, waiting for who-knew-what, are filled with something, and they speak in words they've never spoken before. The purpose of the Holy Spirit is proclamation and witness and hope. Go, tell.

God knows how speechless we are. Most of us hear too many horror stories about televangelists to feel comfortable thinking of ourselves as evangelists. Besides, we don't want to be invasive or make others uncomfortable about us "witnessing." The crux of the matter is that we are only expert at our own stories. We can only witness to what we have ourselves experienced. Unless we've experienced the enlivening of our poor, dry, dead bones, we have no hope story. There's not much to say. Most of us have had the experience of burbling on for days after seeing a terrific movie or reading a book that we're sure has changed our life. Or about finding a new dentist who doesn't rag about flossing. Or when the test results come back looking good. Why don't we burble about hope in God? Have we not experienced it? Maybe we think a sense of new life is something we accomplish, and we don't want to brag. Maybe we're unsure of how other people will take our news. Or maybe we don't want to look like a dweeb.

You may remember Nelson Mandela as the hero of the break-down of South African apartheid, the regime that oppressed native black peoples on the basis of their skin color, for the sake of white wealth. Mandela had everything to lose in speaking out against apartheid. As a black man speaking against white rulers, he was dangerous because people listened to him. Even when he was imprisoned in solitary confinement for 22 years, people listened to him. What made him effective was that he spoke from his own experience. Listen to what Mandela says about telling our story, proclaiming hope:

"Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be?

"You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It is not just in some of us. It is in everyone and as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

Jan Richardson is a poet and artist. To her, the miracle of Pentecost was not that people spoke in other languages. The miracle was that they understood one another. They must have listened to each other. The miracle of listening happens when we get past our passion for our own beliefs and positions and truly hear the experience of another. Richardson writes of the implication of Pentecost in this poem:

It is not the sparks
caused by our difference
that haunt me but the brimstone
of those bent on assimilation,
on annihilation.

I have felt the template
on my flesh,
I have seen the wounded
and the scalded,
and I am not persuaded
that if we look alike
God will love us more.

I believe God loves the languages
of those struggling to speak
the words embedded in our flesh
of every shape and hue.

And I believe God blesses
every space where we are welcomed
to speak with tongues of fire
and hear with hearts aflame.

They are both miracles, really-speaking and listening. What a great way to celebrate the birthday of the church-to tell your hope story and hear that of others. "In hope we are saved."