Pentecost Sunday sermon at FBC Worcester.
Ex 20:1-21; Acts 2:1-21
May 15, 2016
I remember. It was the day I came home to a voicemail. It was no ordinary voicemail. I listened to it at least five times. After I was sure what was going on, I rehearsed to myself several times, what I would say. My tongue tripping over itself like it’s prone to do when I don’t write things down. I called the lady back, said my name, and she put me right through. “Hi Brent.” It was Donald Trump. Yes, the Donald Trump, what was once my claim to fame, now more of a claim to infamy. The Donald Trump who made famous the phrase “You’re Fired” on national TV with his reality show.
We were bidding on one of his golf courses and ultimately didn’t get the job. I remember that day, the nerves I had, it was almost as if I was expecting him to tell me “you’re fired” over the phone, even though we hadn’t even been hired.
You’re fired. Such a fearful phrase.
It’s said that the phrase “you’re fired” originated in the early 20th century. The founder of the National Cash Register Company had an unkind way about him, and as a leader he was both a genius and a madman. When it came to dismissing one employee, the story goes that he sent him off to visit a customer, and when he returned, his desk was on the front lawn, burning. He had been fired.[1]
Pink slips and packing up your things seem slightly less humiliating when considering that first case of being fired.
You’re fired.
Such a fearful phrase.
I’ve been thinking a lot about fire this week, struck by the image of fire on the tops of the disciples’ heads that we read a little bit ago. Why fire?
I’ve been thinking about that phrase “you’re fired,” but also about fire itself. Like in Canada where wildfires rage to the loss of 600,000 acres.
Loss of land and life, smoke and flames floating on the wind. We are afraid of fire. It’s dangerous. It’s unpredictable. It can be so very hard to contain.
It’s surprising to me then, that God chooses to reveal God’s self to us so often with fire. If God is our refuge, why not appear as a soft cuddly prayer shawl, instead of a gigantic ball of fire? Maybe a teddy bear or a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Something comforting, not alarming.
But many times in the Scriptures, God and fire go together like Ben & Jerry.
Maybe it was the first time we learn of creation as the Spirit hovered over the vastness of the deep, and decided to light up the sky with a firework that still burns to this day, a constant reminder of God’s provision.
Maybe it was the day Moses wandered away from his flock of sheep to inspect a bush that was on fire. A bush that burned until it should’ve disappeared into ashes, but never did. A perpetual fire that then spoke to him, saying it was God.
Maybe it was the pillar of fire that the Israelites followed on their way out of town, out of slavery, out of Egypt. A floating fire ball that led them across the border, across the wilderness, across the sea.
Maybe it was the day that Moses received the 10 Commandments, and from below Mount Sinai, it appeared like fire from the sky had struck the top of the mountain, thunder and lightning indicating God’s presence.
Maybe it was when Elijah battled the worshippers of Baal, and had a BBQ cookoff. Long story short, God rained fire from the sky and Elijah won the cookoff.
Maybe it was the fire, the rubble of Jerusalem, of the temple, after it was destroyed by the Babylonians. Was God still lingering there in the ashes?
Maybe it was that star that shone so brightly that the Magi’s curiosity got the best of them, and they followed it all the way to the house where Jesus was living.
Why fire?
We’re back to Pentecost. A celebration that brought Jews from around the world to Jerusalem to celebrate the giving of the 10 Commandments on Mount Sinai, which we heard in our OT reading this morning. And in that room together, the disciples huddled, maybe afraid, maybe confused, maybe tired of the surprises that come with following Jesus.
And then another surprise, a rushing wind, like the Spirit at Creation, bursting into the room with flames that landed on each of the disciples’ heads. That may have been scarier for some of us more than others—depending on how much hair we have these days.
Here they are, like Siegfried and Roy, fire and God, together again.
And this time, the disciples were fired.
Fire in the Scriptures indicates divine presence, for some the element of fear gives way to the holy. But it’s more than just that. It’s not just sheer terror at the sight of fire. Sure, any of us would be petrified if a burning tree started talking to us and telling us knock-knock jokes. But it’s the nature of fire itself that gives us a glimpse of the divine character.
Fire spreads and grows, it’s uncontainable. Ours is a God who is uncontainable, unboxable, unpredictable. As wild as a wildfire. The scariest part about God isn’t that God will rain down fire from heaven and burn our cities to the ground; I don’t think any of us believe that will happen. The scariest part is that God is beyond our control.
Many of us in this room pride ourselves on our wealth, our prestige, our ability to hire people, or sadly when necessary, to fire people. We have control over our businesses, our finances, our relationships, our futures.
Well, we wish we had control of our futures. We try to. We plan with insurances, and retirement accounts, legacies and wills and reputations. Yet none of us can stop the end from coming. Our great fear of death drives most of how we live our life, how we approach our faith—or seeming lack thereof.
This isn’t anything new to Christianity. We have struggled with this from the beginning. Even from the time of the 10 Commandments, the people of God thought that abiding by them would curry favor with God. If we can’t control our future, then we should buddy up to the one who’s in charge.
I just finished a book about early Jesus-followers in Pompeii. The scholar discovered some crosses etched into the entryways of a handful of buildings that still remain.
What was interesting is the placement of these crosses where they are. Most of the homes in the village had some sort of idol or symbol on the doorway as a good luck charm, hoping for prosperity and protection. That Christians did the same with crosses was somewhat surprising, on the one hand, and yet not at all, on the other. They were using the cross like a good luck charm, hoping for protection and prosperity.
Yet I can do that at times. If I obey most of these commandments, then God will bless our church. If we tithe the right amount, then we will have a richer return on our investments. If you go to church once a month, you’re in the clear to do what you want the rest of the time.
We don’t realize it, but often times our devotion to God is more like a game of bargaining for a better hand from God.
At Pentecost the disciples were fired.
The disciples were able to speak in foreign languages, and not just any, but the languages of those visiting for the feast of Pentecost. And thousands of people decided to follow the way of Jesus that day—no telling how many altar calls it took.
The disciples were fired.
Fired with a God who is unpredictable in method, but completely reliable in goodness. A God who transcends the deep divisions we create, the giant walls we construct. A God on the loose like a wind blowing a fire, from one acre to twelve acres to three thousand acres to 600,000 acres.
God isn’t fire, but not unlike it, God spreads love and mercy recklessly. God isn’t destructive, but like a wildfire, God’s justice and peace trespasses boundaries of language and race, ethnicity and religion, age, social standing, gender roles, all of it and more. Systems of injustice, insidious racism, bigotry and fear collapse under the weight of unmitigated love of neighbor and enemy.
Pentecost is the day we remember as the birth of the Church, and this is why, because the power of God was unleashed that day, unrestrained, uncontained, upon the people of God.
Why fire?
Because the Spirit of God is on the loose, on the move, like a wind carrying a fire. Bringing the good news of the inbreaking of God’s kingdom, a new reality where the wildness of God’s mercy is on full display like fireworks in the sky.
The wonder didn’t end that day at Pentecost. It only began a new wondrous work of God’s in the church.
We see the work of God through our two churches. Our own church enduring a fire in the 1930s, and rebuilding here in this new location. We talked on Easter about the symbolism of the peacock on our weather vane. And a couple weeks ago I mentioned an unnamed church we helped support as they rebuilt their building after a fire. We have received their beautiful gift this morning. It’s not lost on me that this lantern houses fire. What a beautiful celebration of Pentecost, to see how God trespasses even the ruins of fire to breathe new life.
Over the next several weeks, we are going to look at what it means to be the church, to follow the way of this Trespassing God. What does it mean to be people of this God? To be trespassing people.
We could talk about it for months—but we won’t. Like today, we’ll look first at who God is, and let that inform who we, as God’s people, are called to be.
But today, at Pentecost, we’re reminded that our God is like a fire, wild and unyielding, in hot pursuit of God’s ways of goodness and peace and hope.
I don’t know about you, but that’s something to get fired up about.
So in the spirit of this trespassing God, and as a preview for our discussion next Sunday, it gives me great pleasure to tell each of you the good news of Pentecost:
You’re fired.
[1] http://www.rightattitudes.com/2010/02/03/folklore-origin-expression-you-are-fired/
Categories: Uncategorized
experimental :: theology 