A Pentecost Selfie at Holy Apostles |
©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson
This sermon was preached on Pentecost Sunday at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. Video of the sermon may be found here.
Holy God, let my words be your words—and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.
Happy birthday to you. Cha cha cha!
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday Mother Church,
Happy birthday to you!
I tried to bring candles, and no not the ones already on the altar, but the Holy Spirit keeps blowing the little ones out. Okay, I kid, but…
Today, Pentecost is a day full of wind, fire, confusion, and—as Peter helpfully points out—supposed pre-noon intoxication. And that’s just the opening verses of Acts.
Today is the moment when we celebrate the Spirit bursting onto the scene not as a polite suggestion, but as a rush of violent wind and divided tongues of flame. It’s holy. It’s chaos. It’s Holy chaos. And somehow, in that chaos, people hear clearly in their own native tongue.
In Bible Study earlier this week, we recalled that this story is the undoing of what happened at Babel. When all the people of the earth all spoke the same language, which sounds lovely; however, it was highly problematic. For, as Genesis 11:1-9 informs us, the people attempted building a mighty tower to make a name for themselves, avoid being scattered—which God had commanded them “fill the earth”—and reach (beyond) heaven. Why? It's not quite clear, but some think it was to exert control over who gets into heaven. What happened?
The tower collapsed. The efforts failed. But, here on Pentecost we observe a throughline. Like Jesus undoing the denials of Peter on the beach, which we read earlier in Easter, here the Spirit brings back together these people from across the world. And yet, they keep their individual identity, still they can hear through the mighty power of not Google Translate, but the Holy Spirit!
It's as though the Spirit doesn’t just stir the pot—it lights it on fire and tosses it out the window. And, truth be told the Spirit is wild like that. God is wild like that.
I had a moment a few years ago that I think of every Pentecost. It wasn’t a wind or a fire. It wasn’t even very dramatic. It was just a breath.
It happened during an ordinary Tuesday. I was feeling worn down. Emails piling up. Laundry left unfolded. Parishioners in pain. Children growing faster than I could process. I sat down in a chair in the corner of our living room, not to pray—just to be still. I didn’t say a word. I just sighed.
And in that sigh, something happened.
Not a dove descending. Not a voice from heaven. But in that moment, a sense of peace washed over me—not like a solution, but like companionship. I felt held. It was as if the very air in my lungs was whispering: “You are not alone. I am with you.”
Jesus calls the Spirit the Advocate. The Greek word here is Paraclete, which literally means “the one called alongside.” The one who shows up. Who sighs with us. Who intercedes with sighs too deep for words, as Paul says elsewhere.
The Spirit is not just fire and frenzy; the Spirit is breath. In Hebrew, the word is רוח (ruach or roo’aak). It even sounds like a breath. And like breath, the Spirit is steady. Unrelenting. She’s ever pulsating within our mortal being.
And the Spirit is ever present within our Holy Scripture, too. Like in Psalm 104, which reads, “You send forth your Spirit, and they are created; and so you renew the face of the earth.” That may sound familiar to anyone who has gone through Cursillo—precisely because that piece of the Psalter is quoted within the prayer invoking the Holy Spirit. “Send forth your Spirit and we shall be created and you shall renew the face of the earth,” is almost a direct quotation and just think about what that is saying: the Spirit’s mission is not just creation, but also re-creation. Renewal. She didn’t simply move over the face of the Deep at the beginning of Genesis, she renewed those weary ones on the first Pentecost, and she’s here now (and I heard she’s bringing tacos and ice cream).
Yes, the Spirit is not done. God is not finished. And if you’re here today wondering whether God still shows up—wondering if there's anything left to breathe into the dust of your soul—then I have good news: Pentecost isn’t a one-time event. It’s a daily reality.
Sometimes I think we imagine the Spirit like a wind turbine out in the desert—powerful, yes, but distant, industrial, mechanical. What Scripture offers is more like this: the Spirit is the wild breath of God, as close as our next inhalation, as unpredictable as a summer storm in Alabama, as fierce as wildfire and as intimate as a whispered name.
Now I know that sounds poetic, but it’s also terrifying. Because if the Spirit is wild, then we can’t control it, like those ones wanted to do at the Tower of Babel. The uncontrollable nature of God’s Spirit unsettles us. We like to know the plan. We like to keep things orderly—thank you very much, The Book of Common Prayer. But the Spirit doesn’t follow our rubrics—those little italicized instructions.
As one preacher said: “The Holy Spirit will not be boxed, bottled, or booked in advance.” The Holy Spirit is more jazz than classical—improvisational, collaborative, and full of unexpected grace notes.
That’s the kind of God we have. A God who breathes into locked rooms where disciples cower in fear. A God who sets shy fishermen on fire with courage. A God who whispers peace—not in the absence of trouble, but right in the middle of it.
Jesus told the disciples, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” This isn’t Hallmark peace. It’s not spa-day peace. This is hard-earned, crucified, and risen peace. It’s the kind of peace that keeps showing up when everything else falls apart.
Friends, I don’t know what kind of Pentecost you’re hoping for. But I know what kind we need.
We need a Pentecost that breaks open our tightly sealed agendas.
We need a Pentecost that speaks to our divided tongues and reminds us we are still one body.
We need a Pentecost that breathes new life into the weary, the grieving, the burned out, and the fed up.
So breathe, Church.
Take a deep breath—like right now.
That breath is a gift.
That breath is a promise.
That breath is the Spirit.
And God’s Spirit is wild enough to help us wherever we journey next.
So, Come Holy Spirit fill the hearts of your faithful, kindle in us the fire of your love, and through your work help us to renew the face of the earth. It may be the Church’s birthday, but we are nothing without the gifts of the Spirit. Amen.
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