© 2024 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video is available here.
The late, great, king of the one-liner, surrealist comedian Mitch Hedberg, told more than one joke about Subway restaurants. One was about how ducks eat for free at Subway. Another was about Kilkenny, Ireland, where for Hedberg the only familiar thing was Subway. He called it his own personal American embassy. He joked that, when he went to an Irish bar and aggravated a local, he would race to Subway and claim asylum: “Dude, I’m sorry, but you are out of your jurisdiction. But you can have a cold cut combo though.”
I lived overseas for two years, and, during that time, the thing that kept me tethered to my American identity more than anything else was Subway. I never ran there seeking protection from an adversary, but I did go to renew my affection for simple things that we Americans often take for granted—things like getting free refills, putting as much ice into your cup as you want, and ordering a perfectly customized sandwich. The ham and brie baguettes for sale in the local sandwich shop were delicious, of course, but what if I want to put banana peppers on it? There were other icons of American identity in Cambridge, like the annual Thanksgiving Dinner all the expats shared, but nothing made me feel at home like Subway.
Imagine travelling abroad to a place where you know the language and the culture but do not call them your own. Imagine arriving for an important religious festival, one in which you take part every year, but always in a language you do not speak at home. Imagine listening to the sacred stories and prayers, hoping to catch most of the words but knowing that many of them will be spoken too quickly for you to understand. Imagine trying to hide your accent from the worshippers around you because you know that the majority, while outwardly gracious, thinks of you as a second-class participant.
Now, imagine walking through that sacred city one morning near the end of the festival and hearing something both deeply familiar yet unexpected and strange. It’s the story of your people—God’s people—the story of God’s saving deeds of power at work in the lives of your ancestors—but it’s being proclaimed in your own language—not the language of the city but the language waiting for you back home. In perfect fluency, you hear the words of God’s love and salvation being spoken in the same tongue that your mother used when she tucked you in at night. Imagine hearing in that place for the first time the good news that you belong to God proclaimed in the language of your birth. That’s Pentecost. That’s the power of God which is revealed on this day. That’s the good news that we have come here to celebrate.
Surely the disciples were as caught off guard that day as the Jews who had come to Jerusalem from all over. Jesus had told his disciples to remain in the city until God’s power from on high had come upon them. That morning, they were all together in one place. Suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a blazing tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit. And then they began to speak.
Remember that these were people living under threat. Their master had been arrested, tortured, and executed by the religious and political authorities. Any association with the Way of Jesus was enough to warrant their own deaths. After he had been raised from the dead, Jesus assured his followers that God would clothe them with new power—power that would enable them to carry God’s good news to the ends of the earth. Surely that power would make them invincible. Surely God’s power would grant them victory over their enemies.
But, when the Holy Spirit came upon them, they opened their mouths and began to speak. And the power of God became manifest not as a testament to the disciples’ power but as the proclamation of God’s saving love spoken in all the languages of the known world. Instead of the power of protection, God gave them the power of connection. Instead of invincibility, God gave them intimacy.[1] When the disciples had received the gift that Jesus had promised them, they were no stronger, no smarter, no more powerful than they had always been. But they had become instruments of God’s great power in the world, and that power is the power of inclusion.
The people standing nearby who heard the disciples speaking in their own native languages were amazed at what happened. “How is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?” they asked. “What does this mean?” But others, we are told, were not impressed, probably because they had never needed anyone to translate for them. “They are filled with new wine,” they scoffed. It may be hard to imagine that anyone could confuse this beautiful Pentecost moment for a bunch of drunken gibberish, but isn’t it true that people who have always had access to the majority language have a harder time appreciating a beautiful moment when it’s in a language they don’t understand?
Which is easier for us to believe—that the power of God has come into the world to break down all the barriers that separate us or that people who talk like that might as well be drunk? Which is easier for us to believe—that the prophets who come to tear down traditional institutions and structures are led by God’s Spirit or that they are drunk on their own revisionist agendas? If the only way you’ve ever had access to the story of salvation is in a language and a culture that isn’t really your own, it’s easy to see what God is doing this day. But, if the way things have always been has always been just fine for you, recognizing that God is doing something new can feel really threatening.
We live in the last days—the era of Pentecost, the age in which the power of the Holy Spirit is available to all people. No longer is God’s power reserved for a few mighty prophets. God is pouring out that power onto all flesh so that all of our children might prophesy and our youth might see visions and our old ones might dream dreams. This era of the Spirit began with the translation of the good news of salvation into many different languages, but that was just a beginning. Not even the disciples could have anticipated how radical God’s work of inclusion would be.
We can’t always see where the Holy Spirit is going, but we can always tell in which direction it is headed. When God’s power is at work in the world, the circle is always drawn wider. When God’s Spirit is manifest among us, walls are always being broken down. God does not come among us to cut people off or leave people out. God comes to let people know that they belong.
Sometimes that power doesn’t feel all that powerful. Sometimes we’d rather God come to us with a show of force—like sending down fire from heaven. But maybe the most powerful thing God can show us doesn’t come to the world in a gesture of earthly might. Maybe God’s greatest power looks a lot more like a generous welcome or a surprising translation. Maybe the greatest power God has given us is as simple as allowing someone to know that they, too, are at home in God.
___________________________
1. Willie James Jennings focuses on "intimacy" in Acts: A Theological Commentary.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.