On Pentecost the Spirit of God shows up in a big way: wind and fire and foreign languages. The Spirit is moving and is for everybody. St. Peter says, “This promise is for you, your children, and all who are far away.”

Women. Men. Young. Old. Rich. Poor. Foreign. Native. And everyone in between.

Some included were wrong. Some were messy. Some scoundrels. Some had terrible theology.

They had differing politics. Annoying habits. Bad habits. Baggage.

And yet the Spirit of God moves and makes room anyway.

It seems to me God is less worried about clean lines and uniformity than much of the modern church is. It seems the church is meant to be united by something more than political views or rigid compliance or even right belief.

What if we had the same approach as God on Pentecost? What if what we offered was truly inclusive of everyone, regardless of where they have come from, done, or believed? What if we truly believed the Spirit of God was at work in the middle of our differences and disagreements? What if we trusted God and let go of our anxious need to control everyone and conform them into our image?

Sure, wielding authority and drawing lines and gate keeping is an easier approach. Uniting around politics or nations or status is a far quicker way to draw a crowd. But there are no short cuts to a better world.

The way of Pentecost is slow and labor intensive. In fact, the rest of the Christian Scriptures are letters to local churches and their leaders trying to figure out how to do this well. It takes intentionality and patience and time and dying to ourselves and grace and peace making. It is work.

But this work, more than the high control and exclusionary approach, makes us holy. Here we learn to really love our neighbor when, despite all the ways they (or we) are wrong, they sit across the table from us. In community united by a hunger for the things of God we learn empathy for our (real or perceived) enemies and drop our weapons. In this work we learn humility and to be slow to speak. In this effort we find pictures of faithfulness and opportunities for growth and the strength we need to keep going. Here we find the God that dwells amongst us.

It may be hard and slow and even scary, but it looks like Jesus.

So may we trust the Spirit of God unleashed into the world. May we let go of our need for control and conformity. May we be moved out into the world. And may the Spirit of God keep showing up in ways that surprise us and make us new.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus enters the city to much fanfare. He precedes to the center of religious and political life and flips over the tables used to exchange foreign currency and purchase animals for sacrifice. He causes quite a scene, this Jesus guy.

None of the tables he tosses are necessarily bad or immoral. In fact, they were needed services for the system at hand. We don’t know for sure if those selling and exchanging were being greedy or deceitful, though it is often understood this way.

What we do know is Jesus quotes the prophet Isaiah saying, “My house will be called a house of prayer for all people.” The passage Jesus quotes (Isaiah 56) says this house will include foreigners, eunuchs, and “still others” who do not yet belong. 

We read in Matthew’s account that after the tables are flipped and people scattered, the “blind and lame came to Jesus” and children’s voices filled the temple.

This Holy Week it would do us well to focus on those filling the void Jesus created. To give attention to the small in stature and status, the dependent, the marginalized, the folks who likely couldn’t or didn’t participate in the system.

It would do us well to ask if we ever get so caught up in how things are working for us that we fail to notice how they aren’t working for other folks. Might we fail to realize that crowds and status and affirmation lull us into a false sense of faithfulness? Might even our goals of bigger and better naturally exclude those most in need of community and wholeness and good news?

It might do us well to ask if our structures and systems have become so central that they’ve become the mission itself. So central that we allow them to devour our resources and our neighbors. So central that we will proceed and protect them at any cost. So central that we miss the point entirely.

Have we missed the heart of God while pursuing good things? Have we excluded those who God intends to include? Do we rob ourselves of glimpses of the the world God intends while we chase after comfort, security, and prominence? Have we built barriers that Jesus would rather tear down?

This Holy Week, may we find some tables to flip or wrenches to throw into the machine. May we refuse to get so caught up in the process that we neglect its purpose. And may we discover ourselves smack dab in the middle of God’s dream for creation, surrounded by all the “others” and finding our salvation all wrapped up together. 

On Epiphany we remember the revelation of God to the magi (or wisemen), foreigners from outside the faith.

They see a star in the sky, stop by the royal palace, find their way to a young Jesus, and are warned in a dream not to go back to King Herod.

Now they make their home in our nativity scenes and Christmas pageants.

And they have me thinking:
if God speaks to outsiders
and invites them to come near,
then perhaps God is less interested in drawing lines than we are.

And if God uses stars
and God uses dreams,
then perhaps we do not need to fear the night where these things reside.

Perhaps in the darkness
and while we sleep
and when it is silent
and when we don’t know where we are going,
God is still God.

Perhaps when it is cold
and we are far from comfortable
and cruel people plot
and we can’t go back the way we came,
God is still active.

Perhaps we can trust God
to be at work across the border
and in the wilderness
and in our messes
and when it is scary.

Perhaps we can trust God
to be at work for everyone
(even them)
(even us),
for the different
the excluded
the wrong.

And perhaps this really is good news.