These days in Western North Carolina, we’re a bit jumpy when we hear anything that sounds like violent wind. Or rumors about tongues of fire. After living through Hurricane Helene last fall, and the wildfires that spread rapidly in early spring. We’re in the market for some calm and quiet. It’s been elusive, though; Now, the 17 year cicadas have emerged. We’re serenaded by their constant hum; there’s always one underfoot, or a dozen clustered on the nearest hydrangea, a few parked on the mailbox, staring with beady, red eyes. There’s a brooding sense they may just take over the world. Or at least ravage every last bit of meat on your bones. Two weeks ago, we had golf ball sized hail, and an earthquake big enough to leave us rattled. We joke about plagues and the world ending. In a sense, the world as we knew it did end with the hurricane. People’s lives and our landscapes have changed forever. It was apocalyptic. Wind, Rain, and then Silence…except for the sirens and chainsaws. I wonder what the disciples and this gathered crowd expected at the sound of violent wind and tongues like fire. I wonder if theirs too was a strange silence punctuated by the raucous explosion of languages from these unassuming fisherman and tax collectors. What in the world could this mean? When Peter stands up to interpret it he doesn’t try very hard to explain or to make it less strange: He quotes the prophet Joel, in the last days…Darkness, blood, fire, vapor, wonders and signs. The mood’s set; doom is upon us. But there’s a turn, the surprise ending: Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved. 

Peter’s sermon is as apt for us today, as it was then. He may as well be telling us: Life as you know it has been upended; The world’s off-kilter. You know that. If you didn’t know it last year, you know it now. We’re always living on the brink of death. Surrounded by all kinds of darkness. Everything we know and cling to might erode beneath our feet. But guess what, today, on Pentecost Sunday, it’s different; Today the world is wonky because you’re standing on the brink of salvation. What you knew for certain about life, it was the same then as it is now: death, taxes, we could throw in forces of evil for good measure. But that fundamental reality has been upended. There’s a new wind blowing. In the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, God has broken the power of everything that separates us from God and alienates us from each other. In fact, you’re in the presence of a new creation, a new reality. God is at work in Jesus Christ, for life, for salvation, for redemption. And this same Jesus is also Lord. Lord over the wind and the fire, and the brooding forces of destruction. Over the destructive, terrifying things outside of us, and the destructive, terrifying things within us. Out of even those, he will make life because death could not hold him.

Those gathered at Pentecost, then and now, witness to this new reality. On Pentecost, The Holy Spirit creates a community of witness marked by generosity instead of greed, by self-giving love, by worship and by hymns, eating together with gratitude and joy. Being with God and with each other, brought back together again, even those who were far off. This is a moment of grace when the church reveals the new life we receive in Jesus. But don’t stop reading. Because right around the corner, the young church will face misunderstandings, and fractures, and arguments, and controversy. The beautiful mess of Pentecost doesn’t solve all the churches problems.

After Helene, I discovered there’s a chart psychologists have worked up to categorize our emotional phases after natural disaster. Begins with that immediate phase of shock and fear. Then the heroic phase—help others, you have a surge of adrenaline. The honeymoon phase--bonding and hopefulness. And then, you knew this was coming. The disillusionment phase—everybody gets really worn out and chippy. And finally you graduate to the long phase of reconstruction. We could map this chart onto many aspects of life. Relationships, new jobs and it’d have some overlap. People who study churches have noted similar trajectories. Excitement as a church begins, growth, fresh ideas, and then maintaining it, which involves disillusionment, and they say this is a critical juncture, churches either get stronger and keep changing, or they slowly die. I wonder if the church now, 20 centuries old, and in its own later stages, might sometimes feel discouraged by Pentecost. We don’t always have that same vitality; we’re tired. Sometimes unsure of how to discern the moving of the Spirit, or even if it’s moving at all. We’ve failed in times of our witness; We’ve Run after power, influence, security, our own comfort. We disagree. But the truth is: regardless of our failings,  wherever we might be in the life cycle of a church; The life of the church doesn’t depend on us. The church isn’t created or sustained by its members. It’s not our work, it’s not our idea. Doesn’t matter what programs we have; or if we start a food pantry; or march for a good cause; or gather for meals…if we do not have Jesus, we’re lost.  The church is given our life, our purpose, our being in Jesus Christ. And it’s the vivifying, convicting power of his Holy Spirit that upholds us and draws us together. That’s where we too need to hear Peter’s call to Repent. Turn around, and turn back—Look at Jesus, and seek him. Be formed by him, convicted by him, trust your life to him and nothing else. And then bear witness to his new kind of resurrection life.

I’ve been watching the cicadas for weeks. And they’re just so weird. Almost two decades underground. Why does it take that long to make a cicada? The black bears who roam our neighborhood grow huge cubs once a year. These cicadas take forever, then they emerge from a precise, surgical slit and leave their little skeletons all over the place, rising together to congregate in the trees and chant. It gets our attention. The theologian Leslie Newbegin always said the church should be odd. Odd enough to attract attention and provoke questions, like it did that very first Pentecost. You know: Christ is Risen is about the best and weirdest thing we can say. It’s amazing anyone responds ever, “great, sign me on; I’m in for that.” That’s a powerful work of translation that the Holy Spirit does; To help that news make its home in us. To help us receive it in all its wonderful strangeness, that’s a world off kilter. But the Spirit does that, and as the word makes its home in us the Spirit helps us live out the good news of Jesus. It gathers us around the Risen Christ, and says: no need to cling tightly to what promises to keep you safe, or to make you secure, or important. Chuck all that. For a life of self-giving, costly love. Because buried with Christ, we’re raised to new life with him; That’s an invitation to live open, generous, fearless resurrection lives. Not out of our power, but out of His. Odd lives, lives that provoke questions. The church isn’t necessarily tired, or washed up. It’s more like we’re incubating, buried, waiting for God to move, to call us out of the ground. We can be like those little cicada shells then scattered all over. People will wonder, what happened here? What’s broken out and started making all this weird racket?

There’s no promise that we won’t lose our lives, in fact I’m pretty sure Jesus said in one way or another we should plan on it. There’s no promise something won’t upend our churches. That the powers and principalities won’t press in at every turn, that we won’t muff up and have to turn back and be forgiven, and reconciled, and renewed. But we’re given the Risen Lord, and his Spirit at work in us. The church isn’t ours, it’s his. And there is no tomb that can hold him; No evil or darkness that will have the final word. The moon might bleed; the sun might cease to shine. But on Pentecost we’re reminded that, for some uncanny, messy, beautiful reason, the church is called together, from every tribe and every nation, to witness to a newer and deeper reality: The saving mercy of the Lord that is from everlasting to everlasting.