Pentecost B
Acts 2.1-21
May 27, 2012
Acts 2.1-21
May 27, 2012
Come, Creative Chaos!!
- Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
- First United Methodist Church
- Decorah, Iowa
There
are many peoples in the world who know just how unlucky it is to happen
to live in a place coveted by a stronger neighbor. The Scots, the
Cornish, the Welsh and the Irish can all tell tales of what it was and
is like to have England as a neighbor. Similarly the Iroquois, the
Cherokee, the Dakota, and even the Oneonta can tell you about what life
was like as a neighbor of an expanding American empire.
Those
who are unlucky enough to live next door to strong and greedy neighbors
are in for some hard times. If you are unlucky enough next door to a
series such neighbors, your life will be very difficult indeed. Those
who manage to stay will have to adapt to life under a series of
overlords. They will learn the skills of compromise, accommodation, and
sucking up.
Those who do not manage to stay will become what is called a “diaspora.” Diaspora
is a Greek word that means “a scattering.” The first people to be
called a diaspora were the ancient Jews who, tired of playing host to a
succession of invading armies and occupying empires, got “scattered”
into southern Europe, northern Africa, and western Asia.
They
called themselves a diaspora, because they had been scattered, and that
is hard thing for any people. But there is in the use of this term a
little bit of hope. Diaspora is also the word to describe the sowing of
seed. Seed in ancient agriculture was scattered on top of the soil which
was then thinly plowed so that the seed was covered with a little soil
so that it could germinate and grow into a crop. Calling themselves a
diaspora was the way that ancient Jews claimed that their scattering
might actually be something positive. Perhaps they were seed that God
had scattered into the world. Perhaps they would take root and grow.
Perhaps some good fruit would come of their suffering and struggle.
Perhaps they would become a blessing to the nations among whom they
found themselves. Perhaps.
Life
as part of a diaspora isn’t easy. It’s one thing to move somewhere and
just blend in and become a part of the community without trying to keep
some ties with the old country. Most immigrants do that. Maybe at first,
among those who carrying memories of their homeland, they cherish what
little remains of their old identities. But their children are usually
pretty quick to leave behind all traces. They grow up speaking their new
language without an accent. They dress like their neighbors. Except,
perhaps for special holidays, they eat what their neighbors eat. They
become, for example, Norwegians-descended Americans who eat American
food, wear American clothes and speak American English. Oh, perhaps on a
few days of the year they wear some sort of traditional costume, and
eat lefse and lutefisk. And they might root for the Vikings. But they
are not Vikings, and their Norwegian identity serves to enrich and
deepen their American identity rather than shoving it aside.
Substituting a few terms, the same could be said of all immigrant
groups: the Germans, the Scots, the English, the Guatemalans, the Hmung
and the Somalis.
Jews presented a special problem, though. They were what the Greeks called an ethnos,
a nation, a people, but it was a unique part of their identity that
they had a special relationship with a particular God. The God of the
Jews was not only particular, but peculiar. The God of the Jews cared
about their rhythm of work and rest days, about what they ate, how they
dressed, and even the style of their haircuts. Because of their special
relationship with their God, the Jews could go only so far in becoming
like their neighbors. They couldn’t become Parthians, Phrygians or Pamphylians.
They
were what today we would bi-cultural. In some ways there were like
their neighbors and in others ways not at all like them. It’s a lot of
work being bi-cultural. They have to work to maintain their old
identities. It’s a lot of effort and sometimes they end up trying too
hard. Irish-Americans drink green beer once a year, something that the
Irish regard as very strange. Scottish-Americans may put on the kilt
even when they are not going to a wedding, something that Scots hardly
ever do.
It’s
not work at all for someone living in Oslo to be Norwegian or for
someone living in Inverness to be Scottish. Not so for Norwegians or
Scots living in Decorah. And not so for Jews living in Parthia, Phrygia
or Pamphylia. It’s not unlikely for a Norwegian living in Decorah to be a
better Norwegian that one living in Oslo, precisely because they have
to work at and commit to it as something that is done on purpose. They
also almost always don’t get it quite right. The difference is the
difference between a dancer who knows all the steps and a dancer who
feels the music, the difference between someone who speaks English as a
second language and a native speaker.
For
this reason the heartland always looks down its nose a little at the
diaspora. That was certainly true for the Jewish diaspora when they came
“home” to Jerusalem—perhaps once in a lifetime—to observe a festival
like Pentecost. Oh, sure, the Jews in Jerusalem were glad to see them
come. They were more than happy to take their shekels. Or even exchange
their denarii, if they were foolish enough not to have exchanged their
currency before leaving home. But it was the politeness of the
year-rounders toward the summer visitors on Cape Cod.
So
it was a crowd of diasporan Jews who heard “the howling of a fierce
wind” when the Spirit came upon Peter and the rest. The sound filled the
whole house. There were “what seemed to be individual flames of fire”
touching each of them. And, moved by the Holy Spirit, they each began to
speak in other languages.
If
you remember the story about Cornelius and Peter from a couple of weeks
ago, you will remember that the theme of that story was the demolition
of the barriers between Jews and non-Jews by the battering ram of God’s
all-inclusive love. This week, in a story at the very beginning of the
book, there is another barrier that falls and it is the barrier of
language.
Among
these Jewish visitors, Hebrew was a ritual language, confined to
gatherings of the Jewish community and to prayers. Everything else was
done in the local language. Even the Scriptures were translated into the
local language for the sake of those whose Hebrew was not quite good
enough to be able to use it for study. They worshiped in Hebrew, but
they thought and felt in their local tongues.
So
when the followers of Jesus were blown away by the Holy Spirit and
started speaking in other languages, it was the language of the heart,
of the nursery, of the most intimate of relationships in which those
devout Jewish pilgrims heard God’s praises. Not in Hebrew, but in
Parthian, Phrygian, and Pamphylian.
From the very beginning, the Jesus movement was committed to translatability.
You do not have to learn Hebrew to be follower of Jesus. You do not
have to learn Arabic to be one of God’s people, nor Greek, nor Latin,
nor English.
The
howling of a fierce wind blew down the walls created by language. And
it blew down the arrangement of privilege that such walls support and
justify. The power of the Jerusalem center over the religious lives of
the communities of the Jewish diaspora was blown away forever.
And
that’s the way the Spirit moves. The Spirit moves and a jumbled
cacophony of dozens of voices raised in praise gathers a crowd. The
Spirit moves and each one of the gathered crowds hears the praises of
God in the language of their own heart. The Spirit moves and there is
holy chaos. The Spirit moves and there is holy order. The Spirit moves
and words like “center” and “margin” lose their meaning and oppressive
power.
The
Spirit moves and there is a trembling in the halls of power. The power
of the Holy breaks out of confinement to the Temple apparatus. The power
of the priesthood that controlled access to the power of the Holy is
set aside.
That
power is not replaced, either. It’s not as if the high priest is set
aside and Peter becomes the first pope. Peter isn’t put in charge. He’s
just the preacher. His only role is to name what has happened. And what
does Peter say? He points his listeners to the prophet Joel who saw that
day when the distinctions that keep the power in power are dissolved in
the Spirit’s melting fire: male and female alike will speak forth God’s
word; young and old alike will have visionary dreams; slaves and
masters equally will be vessels of the Spirit.
This
must be scary stuff for bishops in the United Methodist Church, for
pastors, too, if they are the sort that need to have control over
everything. I feel for them. They spend their time carefully building up
structures so that everything is predictable and manageable. They spend
their energy bringing order to chaos. And then the Spirit blows it all
away, bringing holy chaos to their order and a new ordering in its wake.
No one seems to be in charge. Commissions are useless. Reports go unread. And the Spirit blows.
It
is possible to build a hurricane-proof house and maybe even a
tornado-proof one. But it is impossible to build a Spirit-proof church.
And we are living in times when the Spirit is moving. There is the sound
of fierce wind. We don’t know what will emerge out of the chaos that
we’re living through, but we know that God’s mighty deeds will be
proclaimed.
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