With Breathless Anticipation (Romans 8:18-39; Pentecost; May 24, 2015)

With Breathless Anticipation

Romans 8:18-39
Pentecost
May 24, 2015

Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, IA

Why do I love Pentecost so much? Maybe it's the small community of Jesus´ followers waiting, half in hiding. Maybe it's the sudden rush--or at least the sound of the rush--of wind, a siroco perhaps, the desert wind that sweeps red dust out of the Sahara and blows all through the Mediterranean world. Perhaps it's the flames appearing above or perhaps even on the heads of each of the men and women gathered in their hide-out. Or it could be the languages unknown to the speakers, but known to the visitors to Jerusalem. Perhaps it’s Peter's sudden boldness, indeed the community's sudden boldness. Maybe it's the explosive growth of the little fellowship into the world.

Or maybe, it's just because of all the festivals that Protestants celebrate, Pentecost is the only one that uses the color red. If we were Catholics or even Episcopalians who observed what is called the sanctoral calendar, the calendar of saints, we would hang up red every time we remembered a martyr. But as it is, we only get this one shot at it.

Red was my favorite color as a kid. What do you want for your birthday, Johnny? A red bicycle, not a blue one or, God-forbid, a pink bicycle. Red. Like my taste in food, my taste in colors has become more sophisticated as I've grown older. I like subtle flavors and subtle colors. But deep down I still love red. So today's the day for it.

Of course, red is a little disturbing as a color and maybe that's part of the attraction. Red is the color of blood. Whenever I work with tools--and not just power tools either, hand tools, too--I end up with nicks and scratches and I bleed some of that red blood. Red is the color of the blood that we spill and have spilled on battlefields far away and on our city streets right here at home. Blood is a good thing when it is where it belongs: in our veins and arteries, doing the work of carrying life and its by-products through our bodies. When it is no longer where it belongs, it's pretty scary. When and where did we ever get the idea that we are allowed to spill each other's blood? I don't recall ever getting permission, and yet we act as if we didn't need permission. We act as if violent death were natural when our Story tells us that it is not. Maybe red reminds us of all that, so it is, as I say, a little disturbing.

Red, too, is one of the colors of fire, and fire, like blood, can go either way. When it is where it belongs, it gives heat and light which are blessings when it's cold or dark. A campfire calls us to gather around it in a circle for singing and telling stories. But when it's where it doesn't belong it can be destructive and even deadly, racing through the house of a sleeping family or through a dry forest. So, fire is a sign of both good and bad things. It is what academics call a "polyvalent signifier."

Red reminds us of fire and bicycles and cherries and strawberries and blood and all in a chaotic swirl of barely-glimpsed connections of images. Red is the martyr's color. Red is the Spirit's color. Red reminds us that the Spirit is not in any way under our control. It comes and goes wherever it wants to, as John's Jesus reminds us. It comes and fills us with fire and then it's gone and leaves us flushed with excitement. Or perhaps it puts us up to doing things we wouldn't do otherwise, like Peter speaking to an almost hostile crowd, and then, when it's gone, we are left embarrassed and blushing, maybe, red-cheeked. Red is the color of Pentecost.

Red reminds us of the fire that we will surely need in our bellies if we are to resist the forces of death at loose in the world, forces that not only kill with IED's beside the highways and Hellfire missiles from drones buzzing overhead, but also kill by seeing dollar signs instead of people, dollar signs instead of the other living things that share our home with us, dollar signs instead of the hills and rivers of our home planet. Red reminds us of the transformation that we still await in order to able to be caught up into God's dream. Or maybe we need to be able to be caught up into God's dream in order to be transformed. I'm never sure which, but here's a story that might help. Or it might not. But it belongs here whether it helps or not.

In the early church there were men and women who lived in the deserts of Egypt and near the towns of Syria. They gave their lives to spiritual devotion and, because they lived away from inhabited places, there were called monastics. The women were called "Amma" (mother) |and the men were called "Abba" (father).

Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, "Abba, as far as I can I say my little office [his daily prayers], I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace and as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?" Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, "If you will, you can become all flame."[¹]

We could become all flame: a tantalizing possibility, held out before us, of a life lived, not for our own purposes, nor in fear of what might happen to us, but for God's sake and for God's love.

We could use some saints to remind us that we can't use our humanity as an excuse for not becoming fully human. We could use someone like Abba Joseph. We could use someone like Monseñor Romero, just so that we don't think we can give up, or that we should simply settle for the little glimpses we get of red flames and passion-fired blood and winds red with desert dust. No we are waiting, waiting in suspense, waiting in anticipation, waiting in Jerusalem, until God comes to us, comes upon us, as God has promised to do.

We are waiting, but not alone. All creation waits, so we are not the only ones in bondage. All of creation is in chains. We can see them sometimes. We can see the chains in the crude oil spilled on the California coast. We see them in the melting glaciers and the melting Arctic. We see them in the missing milkweed plants and monarch butterflies and in the dying beehives.

We are waiting and so is the whole world, waiting for us. The world is waiting for us. We are waiting for God. At least we think we're waiting. Maybe we're only stalling and the time for waiting is over. It's Pentecost: A wind is blowing, a fire is burning. If we look closely, we can see the chains. If we see them well enough, we may get angry. If we get angry enough,
maybe we'll even start seeing red. It's my favorite color.

[¹] Ward, Benedicta, trans. The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection. Vol. 59. Cistercian Studies Series. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1984.

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