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Okay, okay…
there are so many images
in the readings from today
that make no literal sense —
in other words, literally
they are non-sense.
- a sound from heaven like a violent wind…
- divided tongues, as of fire…
- speaking in languages they never learned…
- each heard their own language…
- then over my head the red timbers floated…
- my feet were slippers of fire…
- the door fell open forever as I burned…
- the doors were locked and Jesus appeared…
- he breathed on them and out came the Holy Spirit…
- forgiveness and not-forgiveness rested on just them…
We should be used to this by now.
Every week
we get stories that challenge our credulity.
Most of the time
I work to make the stories real
by gathering us around
their historical context
and trying to get into the thoughts
of the story-teller.
That way the secret sauce
leaks out.
We find the little nest of wisdom
hiding inside the story.
But this week
the stories may be too big —
like the Christmas
or Empty Tomb stories
are way too big
to whisper at the edges
and make sense
of the mysteries in their wide margins.
So I give up.
Today I give up
and give in
to cacophony,
to breath,
and to fire.
Not the ones in those stories,
but the ones in our stories.
The cacophony
surrounds us in every minute
of every day.
The screaming chimeras
shout in our ears
and the voices of yesterday
and today,
and sometimes even tomorrow,
murmur in our brains
like night crawlers
squiggling in the dark, wet soil
inside a cottage cheese container.
(That’s a fishing metaphor
in case you’ve never dug your fingers
into a slithering knot of fat slimy worms).
But it’s a real thing, that cacophony.
We imagine
we understand the voices
as if they are speaking directly to us
in our own native tongue,
but then, if we are the least bit humble
we question our understanding.
Sometimes we listen to them
and sometimes we just hear them when
trying not to listen to them.
But most of the time
we wince
because there are so many voices
with so many needs
and so many thoughts
and so many ideas
and so many problems
and so much information
we can’t really do anything with or about
but even so the voices keep on assaulting us.
Sometimes, on really bad days,
they are all we hear — those voices
reverberating
around and around and around.
I’m not talking crazy here,
I’m talking normal crazy —
the way you and I are.
Whether we have anxiety disorder
or family dysfunction disorder
or society-in-big-trouble disorder
or the world-is-falling-apart disorder
the collective cacophony
with its discordant chorus
gets inside us
and even the non-drinkers among us
begin to wish we were filled with that “new wine.”
That cacophony, I mean.
And then there is the breath…
Where is that breath when we need it.
I mean really, Jesus,
can we get a little hot breath
whispering into the curvature of our ear?
It doesn’t have to be you —
even that Holy Spirit thing
would be fine.
We just need a little coo with our whispers.
That cacophony is a cloud above our heads
like Pig-Pen’s swirl of dust.
We need some peace —
give us some of that peace, Jesus.
The peace of God surpasses all understanding
and seems pretty doggone out of reach too.
Gimme some peace, Jesus.
Whisper that peace in our ears
and blow your breath
onto our sweaty brows
and into our jam-packed heads.
We want
and need
and beg
for some of that peace you promised.
Why don’t you just float on in here
among us
and whisper, “Peace be with you?”
And then, and then
anywhere you want to send us
will be okay with us.
As God sent you
you send us —
we get that
and we’re ready.
But start out with that peace, okay?
Smack us up front
with the peace you promised
so that we can be still
and know you are God.
So we can be still
and no longer hear the cacophony.
So we can be still and at peace
and know that we are enough —
that we are enough
just like we are.
That kind of peace, Jesus.
Come on in here,
the door isn’t locked,
and lay some peace on us, Jesus.
We are ready for it.
And finally, that fire.
We are on fire.
Our feet are in slippers of flame
and the door is a ablaze.
We get so easily set on fire
by the silliest things.
We get consumed
with consumerism —
in hot pursuit of stuff
we think we just have to have
and yet that fire dies out
the minute we get it.
We get consumed
by the fire of the latest fad —
the latest truth
the latest secret information
the latest revealing book
the latest how-to
the latest conspiracy
the latest whatever.
We get consumed with the flames
of want
of belief
of attraction
of quick fixes
or salvation at our fingertips.
We are enflamed
by what we could be
or should be
and by shame
for what we really are.
The fires are burning around us
and in us
and between us.
Anger sometimes consumes us.
Wild passions
or ideas can engulf us.
So many things
that later will seem distant
can nonetheless consume us in their flames
The ignition just seems to happen —
whoosh, and were burning with something.
Even those of us who like to burn slow
like embers underneath
so that no one knows they are there
burning.
Even those people
get consumed.
These flames, this fire,
is mostly for the wrong things
and we get engulfed
and suddenly we are surrounded
by that cacophony again
and that peace Jesus brought is gone —
gone and no where to be found.
That fire.
Today
the cacophony
and the breath
and the fire
are not about what happened
or didn’t happen
in the year 33 of the first century.
They are about
how we invite
the breath of God
to enter us
and extinguish the cacophony
with peace.
The cacophony is real.
The fire is real.
And the breath of God is real too.
We know it is real
because we have received that peace before.
I know you have
and you can probably close your eyes
and take a slow, deep breath
and remember that time
the breath of God
bathed you in the very moment
you needed it most.
That kind of real.
So honestly, I don’t know
what was really going on back in 33
or even back in 88
when Luke wrote the book of Acts.
And I don’t know what was going on back in 99
when John wrote his story.
(And I’m only guessing at those dates).
But I do know about ‘23
and the herd of cacophonies
that are chasing us around.
I know about the fires
that sometimes rage out of control in me
ever since back in ‘53
and I am guessing you
haven’t put out all the fires in you either.
And that brings us to the peace of ‘23
we may be waiting for
right here
and right now —
and that certainly millions and billions
of other human beings are hankering for.
Personally, I ask for it
every single day —
for the places that need it most
and for myself too.
But the thing about that peace is
we can’t make it happen.
There is nothing we can do
to drink it down like lemonade
or put it on like our most comfortable shirt.
God walks in the room
whenever God chooses —
or in some cases, blows in
and whips around.
The only thing we can do
is be open to it
like the door in Mary Oliver’s poem
open forever.
I don’t know why it is that way
and if I could get God’s ear
for a long enough conservation,
I would complain that the model needs improvement.
But what I know
is that the peace of God
is like joy —
not something we can make happen
but something that we can
only be open to when it arrives.
And oddly, something
about working on that openness
seems to welcome it in
just a little more often.
Happy Pentecost, whatever the story.
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