Whitsunday – Year C – Bill Harkins
The Collect of the Day
Almighty God, on this day you opened the way of eternal life to every race and nation by the promised gift of your Holy Spirit: Shed abroad this gift throughout the world by the preaching of the Gospel, that it may reach to the ends of the earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
The Gospel: John 14:8-17, 25-27
Philip said to Jesus, “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, `Show us the Father’? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own; but the Father who dwells in me does his works. Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves. Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.
“If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you.”
“I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”
In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this lovely Pentecost Sunday. We are so very glad you are here, and if you are visiting with us today, a warm and heartfelt Holy Family welcome. Please do introduce yourself and let us get to know you a bit.
Today we celebrate the Holy Spirit among us, and one metaphor is the Fire of Pentecost. Fire is, of course, a paradox. The “paradox of Pentecost fire” refers to the seemingly contradictory nature of the Holy Spirit’s power at Pentecost, which is described as both a consuming fire and a transforming, loving presence. This fire is described in Acts 2:2-3 as a “sound like the rush of a mighty wind” and “tongues as of fire” that rested upon the apostles. While the fire appears to be a force of destruction, it is also used to empower the disciples to share the Gospel message, which is a symbol of God’s love and grace. Fire, in this case, is not meant to burn and destroy, but to transform and empower. The apostles were empowered by the Holy Spirit to speak in different languages, a gift that enabled them to share the message of Jesus to people from all over the world. Moreover, in this case, fire represents the Holy Spirit’s love, which is a powerful force of grace and compassion. It is a force that draws people to God and encourages them to live in accordance with God’s will. The fire of the Holy Spirit is also not just a force of divine power, but also a force that calls for self-giving and sacrifice. Just as the disciples were willing to leave their lives and jobs to follow Jesus, the fire of the Holy Spirit requires a willingness to be used by God, even at the cost of personal comfort.
Pentecost highlights the connection between God, the disciples, and the people they encountered. The fire represents the unity of the Church and the shared experience of encountering God’s power. It also highlights the connection between individuals and the broader community of believers despite many, many differences across that broader community, just as there are many differences among us, different gifts, graces, and expressions of the Spirit.
Let me tell you about another experience of fire, one I recalled on our recent trip to visit family in Montana. On this day, we paused on the trail—tired, hot, and momentarily liberated from the weight of our heavy packs—and I sat down on a scorched, fallen log, grateful for the respite, in what only three years earlier had been a verdant, old growth Montana forest. Now, the charred remains of spruce, lodge-pole pine, and fir were all that I could see. Burned sentinels of formerly majestic trees rose ahead and above us, and those no longer standing seemed to litter the forest floor as if some great force had arbitrarily tossed them and let them lay where they fell. Chaos and destruction seemed all around. I found myself feeling sad, and lamenting the loss of what I knew had once been a fecund, flourishing forest ecosystem.
I was in the Scapegoat Wilderness area of Montana with dear friends from graduate school, an annual, much anticipated sojourn, and this was not what I had in mind when I flew into Great Falls a few days before. I’d had visions of escaping my native southern heat by hiking in cool, pristine sub-alpine forests, and I now found myself in a forest radically changed by fire; ravaged, and permanently damaged. Or was it? Was I seeing the whole picture?
Several days prior to our Montana hike, we converged on Great Falls, Montana, where Scott, the younger brother of one of our cohort, lives and owns a small cabin in the Bob Marshall Wilderness area, about 40 miles east of Augusta, Montana. We planned to spend 5-6 days backpacking in what is affectionately called “the Bob,” some of the most magnificent wilderness in the country. When the plane landed in Great Falls I became immediately aware of dense smoke in the air, caused by wildfires in the wilderness area 80 miles away, where we were headed. Once assembled, we loaded up the truck and drove west toward the “Ahorn” fire (fires out west are typically named for a local, distinctive feature). Smoke filled the horizon, and I wondered what lay ahead. Would the USFS fight the fire, or would they let it burn? Fire management is a complex issue, as I learned during my Montana stay. The Native Americans understood that fire, though dangerous and potentially destructive, could also be life-giving. They often intentionally set fires for agricultural and hunting purposes. Following suit, the USFS understands that fire is nature’s way of restoring and replenishing the forest. Indeed, they often let fires burn themselves out, unless they threaten homes, businesses, or other human-related areas.[i] After a day at the cabin, monitoring the fire—now grown from 8,000 to 15,000 acres, we consulted the USFS and changed our backcountry route to a more southerly course, out of the Lewis and Clark Wilderness and into the Scapegoat Wilderness area.
Our hiking trip thus re-routed to the south began at a trail head in an area burned by a large and ferocious fire several years earlier. The hot sun, unimpeded by green branches, shone full-force on our single-file procession of backpackers, and served as a compelling and present reminder of the effects of the fire. It was by most outward appearances a scene of utter desolation, and a mordant reminder of the damage being wrought by the Ahorn fire to the north. It was hard to reconcile the forest, wildflowers, lovely meadows and waterfalls we left behind in a smoky haze with the pyrrhic terrain through which we now walked. And, although I knew that the sub-alpine lake where we planned to camp for the night was not in the burn area, and I consoled myself with images of a clear mountain lake, cool breezes, and a deep forest of many, many shades of green, this was a dramatically different world. Truth told it seemed to reflect aspects of my own inner state. Only a few months after the death of my mother, and the leaving for college of our younger son, I realized that I, too, was adjusting to significant changes in the emotional ecology of my own life. In some ways, the landscape around me—an ecological system amid radical change—seemed to mirror some of the changes in my world as well. I too, was in uncertain, suspect terrain.
After several miles of hiking on this hot day, we stopped for water and rest still solidly ensconced in the burn. As we sat, quietly, I began to look around. Amidst desolation, I began to see that life was everywhere, pushing upward in infinite detail, where my vision had been limited only to what was most obvious to the eye. I caught a glimpse of a mule-deer, drawn to the open terrain by the lush, waist-high vegetation now growing in the sunlight. Light, life-giving and fierce, seemed to have given birth to life lying in the trees, and in the soil, all along. Fireweed, a lovely plant, with lavender and pink flowers, that grows in just such burned-over land, was everywhere round us. How had I missed it?
As I listened, and watched, and finally began to pay attention, I heard a low, buzzing hum, and then began to see that the fireweed had attracted hundreds of hummingbirds, dodging and darting, feeding on the fireweed nectar, along with bees and other insects. Birds, marmots, chipmunks, wildlife of all kinds seemed suddenly visible, where before I had seen only blackened trees and desolation. Life seemed to be flourishing where once there I had seen only death, and destruction. And I had not seen it, in part because I had not paid attention to the moment—and to the larger, more complex picture it contained. Focusing only on the blackened trees straight ahead and above me, and on my fear of the fires to the north, fears stirred by the landscape all around me, I failed to see the profusion of life flourishing right beneath my feet. Seeds of lodgepole pines, needing only the intense heat of the fire to release their inner Chi—the deepest, essential life breath and energy, and I had both literally and metaphorically not seen the emerging new forest for the desolate, burned trees. To contend with high-impact fire, lodge-pole pine produce cones that open following exposure to extreme heat (termed ‘serotiny’). This serotinous strategy is one piece of evidence that fire was historically a prevalent disturbance across the lodgepole pine ecosystems of the Rocky Mountains. And, though trees are the big players in forests, understory species (like grasses, shrubs, and fungal networks) also have a strong evolutionary relationship with fire. Following fire, areas dominated by sprouting species (aspen, cottonwood, Gambel oak, grasses, and many shrubs) tend to rapidly return to pre-fire conditions. These species, many of which were previously rare or absent, flourish under the new conditions. Indeed, flourishing was everywhere, in stark contrast to the all too evident reminders of what had been, on the surface, a very challenging time for this forest ecosystem. The forest was exhibiting profound resilience amidst what appeared on the surface profound destruction. One needed only to quiet oneself, sit, and pay attention to see it.
When we held our first healing service, almost a year ago, I shared a brief version of this story with the 15 faithful souls gathered in our Holy Family chapel. I reminded us all—me included, that “wholeness” and healing may not always take the forms with which we are most familiar. The emphasis in these services is “care” as opposed to “cure.” By gathering—the very act of showing up—we are co-participants in healing, solace, nurture, and compassion. Even as our church, like so many churches, is in a season of transition, we are flourishing in so many ways. At the heart of this flourishing is imagination, creativity, and our intentional cultivation of relationships, and hospitality. After the service we gathered for lunch, as we will do today for our second annual Pentecost lunch and singalong, and the laughter and conversation around the table were also healing for us all. In so doing we reminded ourselves that providing opportunities for connection can heal us all, including mind, body, and spirit. We are doing more of that here, and I am so very proud of you all.
Last summer, I gathered in Northern Colorado with friends from graduate school, a trip almost canceled due to fires in the area. A week of heavy rain extinguished the fires and we were able to proceed with this annual trip. The valley where we spend the week is at 9’000’of elevation, at the confluence of Rocky Mountain National Park and the Comanche Wilderness, and was the site of significant fires in 1994 and 2022. On a trail run through the former burn area, I delighted in the young Aspen, spruce, and pines are flourishing in outward and visible signs of resilience, coming back to life in myriad ways. Dear Ones, we remain in a season of transition here at Holy Family and like the Holy Fires of Pentecost, this too can be a paradox. Atul Gawande, in his lovely book “Being Mortal,” says “For human beings, life is meaningful because it is a story. A story has a sense of a whole, and its arc is determined by the significant moments, the ones where something happens. Measurements of people’s minute-by-minute levels of pleasure and pain miss this fundamental aspect of human existence. A happy life may be empty. A difficult life may be devoted to a great cause. We have purposes larger than ourselves.” Yes, we are our stories. Let’s make our story here one of grace, and compassion, excellence, and radical hospitality. And let’s promise to do this together, shall we. Let our hearts not be troubled and be not afraid. Let’s be Pentecost people, not bound by old fears and patterns but open to what the Spirit in Her mischief may be doing here, and now. Amen.