Acts 2:1-21
The word “Pentecostal” typically refers to a particular brand of Christianity. Pentecostal Christians are those who believe that the outpouring of the Holy Spirit results in the gift of tongues (speaking in an unknown language) or the interpretation of tongues (being able to interpret this unknown language for others to understand). The terms Pentecostal and Charismatic, though not synonymous, are often used interchangeably.
The church group that I grew up in was fairly anti-Charismatic and anti-Pentecostal. This is primarily because the name of the group is not unique—the Church of God—and the “other” denomination by the same name was bigger and more well known. And they were Pentecostal.
So when I was a teenager and people would ask what kind of church my father pastored, it always felt important for me to clarify: we’re not the Pentecostal ones. I was saying, “Yes, we’re Christian, but we’re not that kind of Christian!” Or maybe, being a teenager, I was saying: “We’re weird, but we’re not that weird!”
Then we moved to a small city outside Birmingham, AL during my junior year in high school. Of course other kids asked why we had moved, and I said for my dad’s job—always hoping and praying they would leave it there. They never did. “What does he do?” they would ask. “He’s a minister,” I would mumble. But when I said what kind of church, the response was usually “Wow. Really?” Or shocked silence. Then I discovered that the nearest Church of God to my school was not the kind who spoke in tongues, but the kind who handled snakes. I quickly learned to offer a different disclaimer: “We’re not the ones who handle snakes!”
I grew up defining my spiritual identity by saying what I was not: I was not a snake handler. I was not a holy roller. I was not Pentecostal.
In some ways, I am still doing it. Yes, I’m a Christian, but not that kind of Christian. I’m not that kind of pastor.
But this week I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t claim the label. Maybe I do want to be Pentecostal . . . because the word “Pentecostal” does not refer only to a particular type of Christian. Pentecostal also means “of or relating to Pentecost or the influence of the Holy Spirit.” With that definition, shouldn’t our church be Pentecostal? Shouldn’t we be influenced by the Holy Spirit? Shouldn’t our lives reveal that we have experienced God’s Spirit?
If so, what would that look like? What does that even mean?
For those gathered on the day of Pentecost, it meant a pretty big surprise. According to the book of Acts, Jesus had told his followers a week prior that the Holy Spirit would come to them and give them power. But he didn’t give them any details. He didn’t tell them when, or what it would look or feel like. I don’t know what they were expecting, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what they got!
Of course, we hear this story every year, and it has become so familiar to us that we have domesticated the image until it’s no longer shocking. Sometimes artwork will help us visualize such a scene, but classic artwork is no help. Most of it pictures “small, polite tongues of fire dancing through a room or resting as unobtrusively as possible (for fire) upon the heads of people calmly sitting in their places. There seems to be little that would draw a crowd of onlookers or invoke much more of a summation than a simple, “That was weird” before observers turn to what’s next.” [1] No, this was bedlam. This experience was “fear-inducing, adrenalin-pumping, wind-tossed, fire-singed, smoke-filled turmoil” that left people “thoroughly disoriented, completely uncomprehending.”[2]
So is that what it means to be Pentecostal? If so, I don’t think I’ll be successful in convincing you that it’s something we should be. No, I don’t believe being influenced by the Holy Spirit necessarily means opening ourselves to fire-singed, smoke-filled turmoil.
Then again . . . When God’s Spirit reminds us that we all are created in the image of God, it can cause some turmoil. When God’s Spirit moves us to listen to our immigrant brothers and sisters, we can feel a little burned. When God’s Spirit holds our feet to the fire of our own racism, we can feel the sizzle.
Being Pentecostal doesn’t mean that the goal is turmoil, but we shouldn’t be surprised when that is the result. And when those tongues of flame hover over our heads, threatening the way we look at the world, then our best choice is not to try to bat them away.
Being Pentecostal—meaning that we are “of or related to” Pentecost and the Holy Spirit—means that we are open to the possibility of turmoil.
It also means we have to be willing to be thought fools. The book of Acts tells us that some passersby thought the disciples were drunk. Peter replies, “These [people] are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o-clock in the morning!” That’s always been one of my favorite funny verses in the Bible, because it seems to me that the implication is things might be different if it were afternoon!
But what if that’s what it takes to be open to the Spirit? What if it takes a willingness to be thought a fool? To risk our reputation as the snarky, cynical coworker who takes nothing seriously. To risk the raised eyebrow at the cocktail party if you mention God in polite company. To risk being thought illogical or naïve or unenlightened. I know people who’ve had deep, spiritual, mystical experiences of God, but who don’t share those stories for fear of what others will think. What if I told you that if you go to coffee hour today, you have to share a spiritual secret with someone. I don’t mean the secret that after the kids go to bed, you stand at the freezer and eat ice cream right out of the carton. I mean the secret that you think you saw an angel once, or that you had a vision of Jesus, or that you heard God’s voice, or that you never have and you’re afraid everybody else has. If I told you that if you go to coffee hour today, you have to share a spiritual secret, would it be the poorest attended coffee hour in the history of church coffee hours? Probably so, which is why I won’t give you that instruction. But by risking being thought drunkards and fools, the disciples discovered gifts they never knew they had.
On the flip side, maybe the miracle was in the hearing rather than the speaking. Think about this for a minute: Why would people think the disciples were drunk? They were speaking languages they didn’t know—is this usual behavior for someone who is drunk? Now, I’ve seldom been more than tipsy, but I’m guessing that being drunk would not improve my Spanish-speaking ability. And I’m even more sure it wouldn’t help me speak Swahili.
So why would some passersby think they were drunk? One possible reason is that the disciples were mostly Galileans. Galileans were not known to be well-educated or well-travelled or even well-informed. They were country bumpkins to the city-dwellers of Jerusalem. These spectators were so sure they knew all there was to know about Galileans that they couldn’t hear the truth coming right out of their mouths.
In Asheville NC (and other towns, I’m sure) there is a program called Room in the Inn. It is a traveling shelter for homeless women. Local churches take turns hosting the women in their building for two weeks per year. The theory is that most churches can’t give up their space and/or don’t have the volunteers to handle a homeless shelter year-round. But most churches could do it for a week. Anyway, the first time that I participated, I was driving the van to take the ladies to the Goodwill Store to go shopping. I had been away for a couple of years, and I’m geographically impaired, so I wasn’t sure about the best route. So I called over my shoulder to another church member to clarify which road would be best to take.
One of our guests, a middle-aged homeless woman sitting in the front seat, got a bit quarrelsome. “You didn’t ask me!” she complained. “I’m sitting right here next to you, and you didn’t ask me.” I apologized and said that I didn’t know if she knew her way around town. But it simply never occurred to me to ask her. I assumed that I knew enough about her to make a judgment. I wonder what else she might have taught me, if I had listened.
I’m guessing I’m not the only one who has selective hearing. I think we all limit those to whom we listen. We all decide that this person is worthy of my attention, but that one isn’t. We pick and choose who deserves to be heard. And if we do that, we will never be Pentecostal people.
Pentecostal people are willing to be surprised. Pentecostal people are willing to be thought fools, and to listen to those who are different than us. And Pentecostal people dream dreams and see visions.
“In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy.”
What does it mean to prophesy and see visions and dream dreams? We all have dreams, both of the sleeping variety and the goal variety. But God isn’t talking about improving our sleep’s storyline or motivating us to follow our dreams. This is about God’s dreams. When God pours out God’s spirit, we shall see God’s vision of a better world. We shall see God’s dreams. They won’t be our dreams. They won’t be small dreams. They may not be easy dreams to fulfill. They will be God’s dreams. How will we know? We will know they are God’s dreams because barriers will be broken down. We will know they are God’s dreams because we will speak in new ways, with gifts we didn’t even know we had. We will know because we will listen to those we’d rather silence. We will know because even those who are held captive will be given voice . . . even us.
Let’s dream God’s dreams. Let’s be Pentecostal.
[1] Crouch, Frank L. http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2457
[2] Ibid.