PENTECOST SUNDAY – C: May 27, 2007

Acts 2:1-11
Romans 8:8-17
John 20:19-23

Dear Jesus,

A lot of what passes for religious art tries my faith. Maybe it is because a type of piety often is depicted that I cannot identify with. The saints are dower, epicene and effeminate. They are untouchable, ethereal, in no way part of the world I inhabit. Insipid is a word that comes to mind. I don’t mean to be irreverent. Excuse me if I come across as disrespectful. And I certainly don’t mean to be an iconoclast. It is just that I think religious art ought to be so much more and ought to depict the struggle of those on the Way with you so that their courageous character might emerge and inspire. I think of a wood-carved statue of Monica, Augustine’s mother that I had the privilege to stand before and ponder. The woman stood, head uncovered, staff in hand and faced into the wind that tugged at her hair and garments. She stood undaunted. Valiant comes to mind.

Last week, I visited a church and wandered from art piece to art piece and wanted to wretch. I wanted to encounter representations of people whose humanity I share. Granted, the statues represent those already in glory. But I want to be encouraged by them as they were in this world, to see their fragility, to see examples of those who came to understand with Paul that I can do all things in (you) who strengthens me. And apart from you I can do nothing. You are the only explanation for the success of those who walked in trenches and engaged in the struggle.

What occasions my words to you on this day of Pentecost is the window I saw that represented this feast. I thought of the words in Acts: And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, (a hurricane, perhaps) and it filled the entire house in which they were…and there appeared tongues of fire. The placid group in perfectly pleated and flowing robes seemed all too tranquil, free of agitation and disturbance unlike what would be the reaction of anyone caught in such a storm. Wouldn’t their clothes be ruffled by the wind? Wouldn’t fright register on a face or two? Wouldn’t at least one hold his/her hands to his/her ears against the noise? I don’t know about you, but I can’t imagine sitting calmly while fire descended over me. This hadn’t happened before. The group did not know what all of this meant or how they would be transformed. They didn’t know what you meant when you said, behold I make all things new. Where is their terror as the world turns upside down and they come to realize that they will never be the same again?

I am reminded of the words of a theologian who remarked that she was surprised that safety equipment wasn’t distributed to people as they came into the church for worship. Don’t they have any idea what they could be in for? Her question: what if it were to happen this time? What if we, the assembled, were to see clearly what we believe happens when we baptize? How could we calmly watch as one of our beloved descends into this pool of abundant water that is both womb and tomb? Wouldn’t we tremble as the earth quakes and the heavens open and all creation pays heed to the Voice calling the one by name and declaring him/her to be My Beloved One? That’s what the Voice said of Jesus in the Jordan.

Wouldn’t we need seatbelts and life jackets if the Word washed over us and, broken open, entered and transformed us? Wouldn’t we have to hang on for our dear lives if, as hands are raised over us and the elements on the altar, if when the Spirit is invoked, like the bread and the wine, our very substance yielded to be transformed into your body and blood? And what about our having to be broken and distributed to be your loving presence in the world? This action that is Eucharist demands all this of those who take and eat.

We are celebrating Pentecost, the outpouring of the Spirit, the birthday of the Church. I guess I am wondering if we shouldn’t experience the pangs, the labor pains, as this new creation is brought forth. I wish our icons and our liturgical celebrations confronted us, shook us to the core, and called us to that new life your dying and rising began, rather than lulling us with their romantic piety. It seems impossible to identify with those who walked this way before us if they are so stoic. I wish our art and our rituals made us realize the wonder of the call and the impossibility of responding without our yielding and being empowered by the Spirit. Then we could stand in awe as possibilities dawned on us. Imagine what would happen if, as did that gathering on the first Pentecost, we threw open the doors and filled with your love and animated by the Spirit we rushed into the public square and spoke heart to heart to those we met there.

Of course we might have to pour out our lives to convince them. But isn’t that what this is all about?

Sincerely,

Didymus