A Meditation on John 2 and Acts 2
Sunday, May 19, 2024
The Festival of Pentecost
1.
You gotta love Rob Lacey’s wildly amusing, deviously irreverent interpretation of the Pentecost story in the Book of Acts. He’s British, Rob Lacey, with a lively and effective ministry to kids on the street in London. So he’s looking for a language that connects, for a dialect that revives the potency of Luke’s narrative for a 21st century audience in the back alleys of a big city.
Now I know Rob’s version of the story is unusual and it may not be everyone’s cup of tea…but it could be that its jarring vocabulary and shocking familiarity are strangely right for a festival that celebrates the wild and unmanageable intrusion of the Holy Spirit in our life together, in our daily and seasonal routines, and in our service to the world.
Pentecost means to heighten our awareness of Jesus’ Spirit. Not as a theological construct or universal idea. But as a living, partnering presence. Pentecost means to shake the gospel and shake Jesus himself loose—from the dull and predictable patter of Christian preaching and pontificating through the ages. Pentecost means to make us as sensitive to the prompting of the Spirit of God—as a summer camper in a solitary tent, who hears the mosquito’s buzzing, who knows the mosquito’s coming, but can’t do a darned thing to stop the mosquito from doing its mischief and keeping him up all night. You know the feeling, right? Pentecost means God is not only close, but bent on claiming us for Loving witness, and generous mercy, and daring service. Just like that mosquito in your tent. How’s that for a metaphor? A Holy Spirit metaphor that’ll last you all summer long! Just like that mosquito in your tent.
2.
That said, I want to turn to this morning’s Gospel story as another metaphor, a timely and promising metaphor, for the coming of the Spirit, for the movement of the Spirit in our lives, for the turning of our lives from light to light, from grace to grace, from wonder to wonder.
And first, it’s important to recognize that John’s Gospel is so much more than a biography of Jesus’ life and ministry. So much more than a blow-by-blow history of how it all went down over those three-ish years of ministry, and the last days of his life on earth. Instead, John intends to write a kind of love letter to his own first century church, and then maybe to all the churches that follow. A love letter—that introduces new friends to the practices that make the church a vibrant and beloved community. A love letter—that encourages leaders and followers to meditate on the meaning and purpose of Jesus’ life, and Jesus’ teachings, and Jesus’ hope.
So I think we want to say this about John’s Gospel—whoever the author or authors were: they never intended to set the record straight, to get the history right. What they wanted to do—with poetry and story, with imagery and tension and courage: what they wanted to do in these pages was fill the church with a sense of Jesus’ presence, and inspire in the church spiritual practice and counter-cultural hope, and celebrate the resurrecting Spirit of Jesus, a Spirit they experienced in communion and in service and in fellowship. Almost all the time.
So I’d suggest, then, that what we have this morning, in the second chapter of John, is like a rich and delightful metaphor for Christian life and spiritual transformation. And it’s very much related, very much of a piece, with the Pentecostal promise of today’s festival.
3.
For starters, Jesus and his friends are invited to a wedding, a celebration of union and love and joyful connection and human perseverance in a fragile world. What if it’s not a particular wedding? Again—John’s not writing a historical record here. What if it’s a reminder of the vision, the promise, the vocation of union and joyful connection and oneness that is ours as a church of Jesus’ friends? Again, the wedding may well be a metaphor for everything else John want’s to offer up across the 21 chapters of this gospel. Following Jesus means diving deep into God’s intention: that all human beings are connected by grace, that all of us are created for communion and union, male and female and nonbinary, and gay and straight and queer and questioning, black and white, immigrants all. Following Jesus means not just tolerating that family, but celebrating it, welcoming it, drinking to it. Like it’s a great wedding. Like it’s a holy calling. Like it’s the sweetest and greatest calling we human beings can claim for ourselves. Union. Oneness. Joyful connection.
And then, the wine runs out.
We could spend another two hours on the wrinkle where Jesus’ mother intervenes and suggests that he do his thing. (I’m kind of wondering if this is a subtle, but provocative reminder that there was such a thing as 1st century feminism…) But we’ll save that for another day.
But again, the metaphor, the poetry, the invitation to reflection and wonder and discernment. What might all this about wine running out, and Jesus transforming water jars into sweet wine, be pointing at? How is it relevant to our lives as Christians, to our vocation in a thirsty and frightened world?
I’m struck by the scholarship of Alexander Shaia in this regard. We’ve been using some of his work in our Spring Koinonia program. And Alexander suggests that those first believers—in John’s first century church—experienced the transforming power of Jesus’ Spirit in their lives, in their hearts, and (especially, most especially) in their togetherness. It was that Spirit that marked the church, that distinguished the church, that determined the church’s mission.
In John’s environment, Alexander writes, there were huge and grotesque divisions—tensions between peoples of different ancestries, brutal realities rooted in a thriving slave trade, resistance to inequality among women and men, single and married folk, rich and poor. And in John’s Beloved Community—in that first century church in what was probably Ephesus—believers experienced a constant, sometimes uncomfortable, but Spirit-driven call to union, joyful connection and oneness. Slave and free. Male and female. Gentile and Jew. Gay and straight. Single and coupled. Always, always, always, the Spirit of Jesus was provoking new visions of reconciliation and communion, new practices of equality and shared leadership, new awareness of the uniting, connecting, resurrecting Spirit of God. Not as an abstract idea, or a future possibility. But as a reality in their midst. At every table. In every action. Through every prayer.
So what if this is promise and the purpose of Pentecost Sunday, and the transforming vocation of the church, our church, as well?
What if we are the vessels, the instruments, the beautiful embodiment of God’s intention on planet earth? And what if we are constantly open to the transforming power of the Spirit in our lives—the power that opens our eyes every day to the oneness of all beings, the power that opens our hearts to the possibilities of reconciliation when conflict arises, the power that opens our community to the vocation of peacemaking and advocacy and organizing that seeks justice for all and a lasting peace for the planet? What if every gathering is a wedding, every potluck is a celebration—and God is always, always, always working in us, partnering with us, stirring inside us to transform water into wine, and fear into hope, and suspicion into community and service?
I think that’s what this morning’s Gospel is all about—not a wildly improbably miracle you have to swallow whole, but an invitation to recognition, a startling promise of God’s movement in your life and in ours together. I think we see it in the eyes of children receiving their first bibles, and in others building community and growing in awareness and celebration of their whole lives. I think we experience it in the gratitude of partners navigating an inhumane immigration system—but discovering the joy and resilience of a sweet and oh-so-human community of faith. I think we hear it in the harmonies we make together—as we sing Glory, and as we sing Alleluia, and as we cry out for Peace.
It's been yet another painful week on planet earth. Here in New Hampshire, fundamentalist forces are imposing punitive legislation on transgender kids and their families. Half-way around the world, a war continues to rage in Gaza, destroying whole neighborhoods, vital hospitals and more.
But in our midst, in our fellowship, in our prayers, the Spirit of the Living God does not tire. In our midst, in our fellowship, in our prayers, the Spirit of Jesus continues to inspire new visions of resistance and peace and action. In our midst, in our fellowship, in our prayers, this sweet and Holy Spirit transforms even our weariness into energy, even our despair into defiance, even our grief into joy. We know, in our hearts, that all of this is a wedding celebration. We know, in our hearts, that the whole wide world is a space of grace. We know, in our hearts, that we are created for life to build resilient communities of faith, to open our lives and our homes to siblings from all walks of life, to make music together and serve together and drink and eat from the same feast.
So watch for it, my friends. Watch for the Spirit’s dancing even now, even here, even this morning. Because she is surely moving right now in our midst, and surely reaching deep into your soul, and surely inviting you to join the celebration. We are the wine, you see. We are the wine that brings new joy to the tired guests. We are the wine that offers sweet hope to the aching hearts of God’s people.
We are the wine.
Amen and Ashe.
