5/15/16
If someone were to ask you to answer, in one sentence, the question, Why do you come to church, what would you say? It’s a useful exercise, because it keeps us mindful of what we’re doing here. Of course there are many possible answers to that question: we come to church to worship God; to pray; to give thanks, to grow in the love of God: these are all possible answers, because they’re big, general concepts that can each cover a lot of territory, truthfully.
But to the question, Why do you come to church, today I’m thinking of one particular one-sentence answer, because today is Pentecost This is the day on which we commemorate the descent of the Holy Spirit on the apostles, and the day on which we celebrate the presence of the Holy Spirit within us, and among us. Pentecost (also known as Whitsunday) is one of the seven principal feasts of the church year (in church tradition it’s always been second in importance only to Easter), and it’s good to remind ourselves that it’s a feast: a day on which we are to gorge ourselves on its particular meaning in our lives as Christians. And the meaning of Pentecost has a lot to do with why we come to church.
But before I come to the answer to that question that I’m thinking of, I want to tell a little story. Here in our church building, both my office, and that of the parish secretary, have a window that looks out onto our memorial garden, in the back. This past Wednesday afternoon at about 1:45, Elaine Swanson (our secretary) called me on the intercom and said, Would you look out your window! So I turned around, and saw, waddling along the gravel, a duck, leading a row of nine little baby ducklings. The duck must have laid and hatched her eggs somewhere in the flowerbeds along the side, and now they were learning to walk. It was wonderful to behold, because it was so unexpected, so illogical in that setting: it was really a little gift from God.
But in the middle of the open space back there there’s a drain, to let the rainwater run off, a drain which is covered by a heavy metal grate; and as we watched, the mother duck walked across it, with her big webbed feet spanning the open spaces in the grate, but the first two ducklings behind her were too small for that, and, as they followed her, they fell through. I could hear Elaine, from her office, shout Oh, no! I ran down the hall, out the door and into the garden; I saw that two more ducklings had fallen through, and the mother and the rest of the brood stood there quacking and squeaking. I looked down through the grate and saw the ducklings on a bed of leaves and twigs about two feet down, unhurt, squeaking and walking around; I suppose, wondering, Is this what life is about? But when I tried to lift the grate I couldn’t budge it, it felt cemented in place; and the spaces were too small for my arm to reach through.
I went back inside, trying to think of what to do. I called the New Milford police department, and explained the situation to the dispatcher; she said, Let me try Animal Control. She put me on hold, came back in less than a minute and said someone would be there shortly. About 20 minutes later Jackie Farrell, from the Literacy Volunteers upstairs, brought down a young woman in a white jacket with “Animal Control” on the lapel, and I took her out back.
By this time the duck was alone, standing next to the grate: all nine of the ducklings had fallen through. The Animal Control officer, after a quick look at the situation, grimaced, as if to say, I don’t know what I can do; she said, even if I could get down in there, they’re wild animals, I’m not allowed to put my hands on them [this was news to me]; let me make some calls. (Looking down from the windows in the parish hall were some of the students and teachers from the Culinary School: the whole building was involved in the story by this time.)
About fifteen minutes later, two guys from the Highway Department showed up (that was who Animal Control had called), and in five minutes they’d gotten the grate up, and gently lifted the ducklings, all unhurt, out (evidently the Highway Department has no restrictions on the handling of wild animals.) They covered over the grate with a blanket and a piece of cardboard to prevent it from happening all over again, the intact, and now reunited, duck family retreated to a safer part of the garden, and everyone heaved a huge sigh of relief.
And also, it occurred to me later, we all felt not simply relieved, but somehow also uplifted – blessed – to have witnessed that whole experience. And I thought, Why does it feel that way? What makes this more than just a cute feel-good story about ducklings getting saved?
I think it was because everyone involved – participants and onlookers – understood the situation in the same way, right away: that’s to say, we all saw the truth; and the truth made real. We all saw the predicament; we saw the need; we saw the urgency (not diminished, but rather heightened, by the fact that it was a duck and ducklings); we saw our responsibility to do something about it; and we saw it resolved the way things are supposed to be. And we all saw all of that because it was the truth. This is the truth of the kingdom of God. This was the way it was supposed to be, and this was the way it happened. We all saw the truth, happening.
Now, we all saw it, and saw it so readily, because in this case the truth was easy to see: innocent life being threatened: that’s bad: life saved: that’s good. Sometimes it’s not so easy. And this is what it has to do with the question. Why do we come to church; and specifically what we’re doing here today: where we put our attention on the day of Pentecost.
In the gospel of John, at the Last Supper (from which today’s reading is taken), Jesus is preparing the disciples for his own death, which will take place the next day. And in the face of this prospect, they’re utterly at a loss: they’re scared: they don’t know how they’re going to live, in the absence of this man who has become the center of their lives, someone in whom they have experienced the presence of the living God. Jesus understands how they feel – they’re his family - and tells them, I will not leave you orphaned. In the gospel today we heard these words: I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you.
This Spirit of truth is what we Christians learned to call the Holy Spirit. This is what we came to understand as the third Person of the Trinity. God the Holy Spirit - this Spirit of truth – is what descended on the disciples on that first Pentecost. It happened during the Jewish festival called the Feast of Weeks, when people came to Jerusalem from all over the Mediterranean. The story from Acts, which we read in church every year on this day, recounts that these pilgrims are amazed to hear Jesus’ disciples, filled with this Spirit of truth, speaking to them in their own languages, and speaking to them “about God’s deeds of power.” And they ask each other, “What does this mean?”
That they’re asking that question tells us that they know it must mean something: that they know God is involved in this, some way: this event, that they’re part of, is itself one of God’s deeds of power. And when some scoff and say these guys are just crazy drunk, Peter says, No they’re not, and then he tells them what it means: that it’s the fulfillment of the words of the prophet Joel: “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy”; and, a little later, “Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy.” God pours out God’s Spirit, and the result is prophesy.
Now, in the Bible, to prophesy does not mean to foretell the future. To prophesy is to tell the truth: telling the truth about God at work in the world: and telling the truth about when God’s work is interrupted, when something’s getting in the way. It’s easy to see when a duckling’s life is threatened. Sometimes it’s more complicated.
So, to the question, Why do we come to church, today my one-sentence answer would be, We come to church to learn the truth: learn to hear the truth, see the truth speak the truth, and do the truth. God enables us to do this through the gift of the Holy Spirit; which gift we celebrate today: the Spirit of truth. Thanks be to God.
If someone were to ask you to answer, in one sentence, the question, Why do you come to church, what would you say? It’s a useful exercise, because it keeps us mindful of what we’re doing here. Of course there are many possible answers to that question: we come to church to worship God; to pray; to give thanks, to grow in the love of God: these are all possible answers, because they’re big, general concepts that can each cover a lot of territory, truthfully.
But to the question, Why do you come to church, today I’m thinking of one particular one-sentence answer, because today is Pentecost This is the day on which we commemorate the descent of the Holy Spirit on the apostles, and the day on which we celebrate the presence of the Holy Spirit within us, and among us. Pentecost (also known as Whitsunday) is one of the seven principal feasts of the church year (in church tradition it’s always been second in importance only to Easter), and it’s good to remind ourselves that it’s a feast: a day on which we are to gorge ourselves on its particular meaning in our lives as Christians. And the meaning of Pentecost has a lot to do with why we come to church.
But before I come to the answer to that question that I’m thinking of, I want to tell a little story. Here in our church building, both my office, and that of the parish secretary, have a window that looks out onto our memorial garden, in the back. This past Wednesday afternoon at about 1:45, Elaine Swanson (our secretary) called me on the intercom and said, Would you look out your window! So I turned around, and saw, waddling along the gravel, a duck, leading a row of nine little baby ducklings. The duck must have laid and hatched her eggs somewhere in the flowerbeds along the side, and now they were learning to walk. It was wonderful to behold, because it was so unexpected, so illogical in that setting: it was really a little gift from God.
But in the middle of the open space back there there’s a drain, to let the rainwater run off, a drain which is covered by a heavy metal grate; and as we watched, the mother duck walked across it, with her big webbed feet spanning the open spaces in the grate, but the first two ducklings behind her were too small for that, and, as they followed her, they fell through. I could hear Elaine, from her office, shout Oh, no! I ran down the hall, out the door and into the garden; I saw that two more ducklings had fallen through, and the mother and the rest of the brood stood there quacking and squeaking. I looked down through the grate and saw the ducklings on a bed of leaves and twigs about two feet down, unhurt, squeaking and walking around; I suppose, wondering, Is this what life is about? But when I tried to lift the grate I couldn’t budge it, it felt cemented in place; and the spaces were too small for my arm to reach through.
I went back inside, trying to think of what to do. I called the New Milford police department, and explained the situation to the dispatcher; she said, Let me try Animal Control. She put me on hold, came back in less than a minute and said someone would be there shortly. About 20 minutes later Jackie Farrell, from the Literacy Volunteers upstairs, brought down a young woman in a white jacket with “Animal Control” on the lapel, and I took her out back.
By this time the duck was alone, standing next to the grate: all nine of the ducklings had fallen through. The Animal Control officer, after a quick look at the situation, grimaced, as if to say, I don’t know what I can do; she said, even if I could get down in there, they’re wild animals, I’m not allowed to put my hands on them [this was news to me]; let me make some calls. (Looking down from the windows in the parish hall were some of the students and teachers from the Culinary School: the whole building was involved in the story by this time.)
About fifteen minutes later, two guys from the Highway Department showed up (that was who Animal Control had called), and in five minutes they’d gotten the grate up, and gently lifted the ducklings, all unhurt, out (evidently the Highway Department has no restrictions on the handling of wild animals.) They covered over the grate with a blanket and a piece of cardboard to prevent it from happening all over again, the intact, and now reunited, duck family retreated to a safer part of the garden, and everyone heaved a huge sigh of relief.
And also, it occurred to me later, we all felt not simply relieved, but somehow also uplifted – blessed – to have witnessed that whole experience. And I thought, Why does it feel that way? What makes this more than just a cute feel-good story about ducklings getting saved?
I think it was because everyone involved – participants and onlookers – understood the situation in the same way, right away: that’s to say, we all saw the truth; and the truth made real. We all saw the predicament; we saw the need; we saw the urgency (not diminished, but rather heightened, by the fact that it was a duck and ducklings); we saw our responsibility to do something about it; and we saw it resolved the way things are supposed to be. And we all saw all of that because it was the truth. This is the truth of the kingdom of God. This was the way it was supposed to be, and this was the way it happened. We all saw the truth, happening.
Now, we all saw it, and saw it so readily, because in this case the truth was easy to see: innocent life being threatened: that’s bad: life saved: that’s good. Sometimes it’s not so easy. And this is what it has to do with the question. Why do we come to church; and specifically what we’re doing here today: where we put our attention on the day of Pentecost.
In the gospel of John, at the Last Supper (from which today’s reading is taken), Jesus is preparing the disciples for his own death, which will take place the next day. And in the face of this prospect, they’re utterly at a loss: they’re scared: they don’t know how they’re going to live, in the absence of this man who has become the center of their lives, someone in whom they have experienced the presence of the living God. Jesus understands how they feel – they’re his family - and tells them, I will not leave you orphaned. In the gospel today we heard these words: I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you.
This Spirit of truth is what we Christians learned to call the Holy Spirit. This is what we came to understand as the third Person of the Trinity. God the Holy Spirit - this Spirit of truth – is what descended on the disciples on that first Pentecost. It happened during the Jewish festival called the Feast of Weeks, when people came to Jerusalem from all over the Mediterranean. The story from Acts, which we read in church every year on this day, recounts that these pilgrims are amazed to hear Jesus’ disciples, filled with this Spirit of truth, speaking to them in their own languages, and speaking to them “about God’s deeds of power.” And they ask each other, “What does this mean?”
That they’re asking that question tells us that they know it must mean something: that they know God is involved in this, some way: this event, that they’re part of, is itself one of God’s deeds of power. And when some scoff and say these guys are just crazy drunk, Peter says, No they’re not, and then he tells them what it means: that it’s the fulfillment of the words of the prophet Joel: “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy”; and, a little later, “Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy.” God pours out God’s Spirit, and the result is prophesy.
Now, in the Bible, to prophesy does not mean to foretell the future. To prophesy is to tell the truth: telling the truth about God at work in the world: and telling the truth about when God’s work is interrupted, when something’s getting in the way. It’s easy to see when a duckling’s life is threatened. Sometimes it’s more complicated.
So, to the question, Why do we come to church, today my one-sentence answer would be, We come to church to learn the truth: learn to hear the truth, see the truth speak the truth, and do the truth. God enables us to do this through the gift of the Holy Spirit; which gift we celebrate today: the Spirit of truth. Thanks be to God.
