Not Comfortable and Not Comfortless

The Sunday between Ascension and Pentecost gives us much to ponder as the Church

Acts 1:6-14

Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36

1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11

John 17:1-11

© 2026 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on the Seventh Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. You may watch a video of it here.

Holy God, may my words be your words, and when they are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

There is a strange little season in the life of the Church that we do not always know what to do with. It is the space between Ascension and Pentecost.

Jesus has been raised from the dead. He has appeared to the disciples, taught them, blessed them, and opened their minds to understand the Scriptures. And then, as Acts tells us, Jesus is lifted up, and a cloud takes him out of their sight.

But Pentecost has not happened yet. The Spirit has not rushed through the house. The disciples have not yet poured into the streets proclaiming the mighty acts of God. They are not where they were, but they are not yet where they are going. They are in-between.

And maybe that is why this Sunday feels so honest. Because so much of life is lived there: between one season ending and another beginning, between what we know and what we cannot yet see.

And today, on Senior Recognition Sunday, that in-between space is not just liturgical. It is personal.

Our seniors are standing in a threshold season. They are finishing one chapter of life and preparing for another. Some in the Class of 2026 will go to college, some will begin work, and some will take a different path. Some may feel excited, others anxious, and most probably feel a bit of both.

And they are stepping into a world that many of us do not quite know how to explain. It is a world of beauty, possibility, creativity, connection, and service. But it is also a world heavy with uncertainty: political division, war, anxiety, climate change, displacement, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, white supremacy, and bigotry of all kinds. A world where people are often sorted into camps before they are seen as human beings. So the temptations for us are real.

One temptation is to say nothing: to proclaim a Gospel untouched by the actual wounds of the world. But that is not the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Another temptation is to turn the Gospel into a weapon: to confuse the Kingdom of God with whichever political tribe makes us feel safest, angriest, or most righteous. But that is not the Gospel of Jesus Christ either.The Gospel gives us a harder and holier way: not silence, not partisan captivity, but faithful witness. 

And that is exactly where Acts meets us today. The disciples ask Jesus, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” It is a very human question. Is now the time? Are you finally going to fix it? Are you finally going to make everything right? Can we please have the timeline?

Jesus does not shame them for asking, but he does not give them control either. He says, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority.” But then he says, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses.”

You do not get control, but you do get the Spirit. You do not get the whole timeline, but you do get a calling. That is the life of the Church.

And, dear seniors, that is not a bad word for you either…

You do not have to know your whole life right now. You do not have to see the entire map. You do not have to solve the world by age eighteen. You do not have to become impressive enough to justify all the love that has been poured into you.

You are not loved because you are impressive. You are loved because you are beloved. And the calling of your life is not first to be successful, polished, productive, and certain. The calling of your life is to receive the love of God, become more fully the person God created you to be, and bear witness to the love of Christ wherever you go. In short, your call is to live faithfully in response to Our God who is always faithfully with us.

That witness may look like kindness when someone feels alone. It may look like telling the truth when others laugh at cruelty. It may look like caring for creation, making art, studying, serving, building friendships, or practicing quiet faithfulness. The Spirit does not make all of us the same—the Spirit makes all of us witnesses.

And notice what the disciples do after Jesus ascends. No post-Ascension marketing roll-out, no doomscrolling the Roman Empire, and no wildly popular initial public offering. Instead, they return to Jerusalem, go upstairs, and devote themselves constantly to prayer.

That is not avoidance. It is preparation. 

Prayer is not the opposite of action. Prayer is how the Church remembers who we are before we act. Prayer is where we lay down our panic long enough to receive courage. Prayer is where we remember that Caesar is not Lord, fear is not Lord, the market is not Lord, the empire is not Lord, the algorithm is not Lord, and the loudest voice in the room is not Lord.

Jesus is Lord.

And in John’s Gospel lesson, we hear something beautiful: Jesus prays for his disciples. Jesus knows what is coming. He knows they will be confused and afraid. He knows they will deny, doubt, and scatter. And still, Jesus prays for them.

He does not pray for them because they are strong, but because they are his. He prays, “Holy Father, protect them in your name… so that they may be one, as we are one.” Jesus does not pray that they will be popular, win every argument, or escape all suffering. Jesus prays that they will be protected in God’s name and that they will be one.

That matters now to us in the Church, because we often confuse unity with agreement. But Jesus does not pray that his disciples will have identical opinions, politics, temperaments, backgrounds, gifts, or preferences.

He prays that they will be one in love—Christ’s self-giving love.

The kind of love that can tell the truth without contempt. The kind of love that can name injustice without hatred. The kind of love that can resist evil without becoming evil. The kind of love that can face a fractured world without giving in to despair.

That is the unity Jesus prays for. And the good news is that Jesus still prays for his own. Jesus prays for our seniors. Jesus prays for this parish. Jesus prays for every beloved child of God trying to live faithfully in an anxious age. 

And then, through the Spirit, Jesus sends us. So, seniors, as you go from this place into whatever comes next, remember this:

You are not alone. You are not your résumé, your GPA, or your college decision. You are not your anxiety, your worst decision, or the future you cannot yet see. You are beloved of God.

And you have a witness to bear now. You are not the Church of the future. You are the Church now. And the rest of us need your questions, your courage, your honesty, your dreams for a more merciful world, and your hope.

And to the rest of us: our calling is not simply to recognize these seniors and send them off with polite applause. Our calling is to bless them, support them, listen to them, pray for them, and learn from them. Because the Spirit’s presence has no minimum age.

So maybe today, the word for all of us is this: Stop staring anxiously into the sky. Not because heaven does not matter, but because Christ has given us work to do here on earth.

Pray deeply. Wait faithfully. Love boldly. Tell the truth gently. Protect the vulnerable. Resist despair. Cast your anxiety on God. Bear witness to Christ.

The world is uncertain, as it was for the disciples too. But Jesus prayed for them. Then came the Spirit. And the Good News moved through those prayerful ones.

May it be so with us. May it be so with these seniors. May it be so with the Church. Amen.

The Wild Breath of God

A Pentecost Selfie at Holy Apostles

Acts 2:1-21

Psalm 104:25-35, 37

Romans 8:14-17 

John 14:8-17, (25-27)

 

©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.