6/8/25 Sermon

The college I attended in Vermont had a reputation for being "Godless." One of those college review books described us as a campus where students generally didn’t believe in God. Funny enough, out of the 35 people I graduated with, four of us became ministers, one a rabbi, and another a Buddhist monk. Not bad for a "Godless" school.

Truthfully, it wasn’t that we didn’t believe in God—it was that our beliefs weren't neatly packaged. They didn’t fit into well-defined boxes or easy summaries. After the attacks on September 11th, 2001, a few classmates and I spent hours in the campus coffee shop discussing and debating faith, God, and the world. From those intense discussions, we started a weekly group called “Issues of Faith.”

Initially, it was great. We discussed love, hope, current events, sharing perspectives from Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, paganism, atheism, and religions I had never heard of before. Quickly, our small gathering grew from six to forty-six people. But as we expanded, conversations turned heated. Arguments replaced dialogue, and fights erupted—not physical ones, but verbal battles that left people angry and hurt.

I was frustrated. Somehow, I had ended up responsible for moderating what had kind of turned into a volatile group. Around that time, I visited New York City for a religion class trip. We attended a service at a mosque near Ground Zero, led by Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf. Interestingly enough, I had met the Imam r several times in the Chautauqua institution and had ice cream with him on several different occasions.  He had worked deeply in inter-faith dialogue and so I was excited to see and talk to Imam Feisal about what was happening in our group back at college to see if he had any suggestions.

What I encountered shocked me. The mosque was battered, scarred from debris of the fallen towers, its community devastated—many members dead or injured on 9/11. Here was a Muslim community deeply wounded, yet wrongly blamed and targeted by hatred.

After the service, I sat with Feisal.  It feels so petty now.  Here I am sitting with this man who had just lost so much, who was so deeply wounded in so many different ways with the shock of 9/11 and here I was to complain about my friends who kept fighting. But we talked openly and honestly with each other. I shared my frustration about language—how people argued viciously about words despite sharing the same deeper truths. I asked Feisal, "How do we bridge this gap of language?"

Feisal took my hands in his, looked deeply into my eyes, and said something I’ll never forget: "There is only one true faith. You either love God or you do not. The language of that faith isn't spoken in words; it's lived in action." For Feisal, true faith meant living out our love for God. Actions without love were meaningless, even dangerous.

I don’t know if I’ve shared that story with you before but that was a huge turning point in my own faith journey. That moment changed my life profoundly. It was my own Pentecost.

Speaking of Pentecost — I grew up in church. I did the fancy education, went to seminary, learned Greek and Hebrew, but I never once questioned what "Pentecost" meant. I always just assumed it was about "tongues of fire" or the church’s "birthday." I finally looked it up—Pentecost literally means "50th" in Greek. Not quite as mystic, right? It's named for being fifty days after Easter. Yet, digging deeper, I discovered Pentecost wasn't exclusively Christian. It coincided with the Jewish festival "Shavout," celebrating the wheat harvest and Moses receiving the Law on Sinai.

On that Pentecost described in Acts, Jerusalem was filled with people from everywhere, celebrating Shavout. The disciples gathered together when the Holy Spirit suddenly descended upon them like tongues of fire. People from diverse backgrounds heard the disciples speaking in their own languages. Were the disciples speaking different languages, or was the Spirit translating for listeners? Acts isn't entirely clear, and honestly, it doesn't matter. What matters is Luke's message: Pentecost marked a dramatic shift in how Christianity would attempt to live out its faith.

Luke suggests a movement from law-based religion to Spirit-based community. Pentecost signaled a separation between Judaism and Christianity, metaphorically separating wheat from chaff - just like what Shavout celebrates - purifying faith into something new and radical. Interestingly, at Sinai, when the Law was given, 3,000 people died worshipping a golden calf. At Pentecost, 3,000 people were baptized and given new life through the Spirit. Luke intentionally draws these parallels, emphasizing Pentecost as a transformative purification.

And here’s something to consider: the difference between Law and Spirit isn’t about scrapping the rules, but about transforming the relationship. The Law was given to structure a people’s life with God. It was a gift of identity and order. But when the Spirit arrives, something more dynamic happens. The relationship becomes participatory and alive. The Spirit doesn’t abolish the Law—it fulfills it by writing it on our hearts. What once was external guidance becomes internal orientation.

Paul would later write to the Corinthians that "the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life." That’s not an attack on Scripture or the Law, but an invitation to reimagine how divine instruction works. The Law defines the boundary lines of faith; the Spirit moves us into the field to play the game with love, courage, and mercy. The Law says, “You shall not kill.” The Spirit says, “Lay down your life for another.” The Law says, “Keep the Sabbath.” The Spirit says, “Let your whole life be rest and trust in God.” The Spirit makes it relational. It’s not less demanding—it’s more. Not because of fear or obligation, but because love compels us.

What’s wild is that this isn’t just theological theory—it’s deeply personal. If you’ve ever been forgiven when you didn’t deserve it, or welcomed when you had nothing to offer, or found strength when you should’ve been spent—that’s the Spirit. If you’ve ever spoken kindness you didn’t know you had, or listened longer than you thought possible, or stood up when everything in you said sit down—that’s the Spirit. The Law tells us what is right. The Spirit helps us live it.

Before we move on, it’s worth noting that this shift from law to Spirit wasn’t theoretical for the early church. It had immediate consequences. Just a few verses after the events of Pentecost, Acts tells us that the believers devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, to fellowship, to the breaking of bread, and to prayer. They shared their possessions. They held things in common. They cared for one another’s needs. It wasn’t just a change in belief—it was a change in lifestyle, in community structure, in priorities.

This wasn’t forced communism; it was Spirit-driven generosity. This was the fruit of people whose hearts had been set on fire by something bigger than themselves. The Spirit didn’t just help them speak in new languages—it helped them live in a new way. A way marked by equity, compassion, and sacrifice. They ate together with glad and generous hearts. They praised God and found favor with all the people. And Acts tells us, day by day, the Lord added to their number. Not because of flashy marketing or a great location, but because of how they lived.

That’s the Pentecost challenge to us. The Spirit isn’t interested in creating more polite believers. The Spirit is interested in building a community so compelling, so compassionate, so countercultural, that people want to be part of it. If our churches today don’t look something like that Acts 2 community—devoted, generous, unified—it’s not because the Spirit has stopped moving. It’s because we’ve stopped listening.

This aligns with Imam Feisal’s message—faith isn't primarily about words or rigid doctrines; it’s about actions of love. Pentecost wasn't a singular historical event; it continues today. It’s the Spirit moving people beyond traditional boundaries and divisions into a new, radical community bound by love for God.

In Acts, Pentecost gathers Jews, Gentiles, Romans, Greeks—people who shouldn’t have united, yet did. Observers thought they were drunk or crazy. That’s how radical it was. Pentecost created a community refusing to be limited by labels or divisions.

Now listen, I’ve been accused of denying Christ and being anti-American because I prayed in a mosque and embraced Imam Feisal that close to ground zero. People suggested I'd go to hell for praying with Muslims and loving Jewish relatives. Yet, the Pentecost story compels me to believe that true faith and the true church are defined not by whom they exclude, but by the radical love they embody and include.

The Kingdom of God isn't some distant apocalypse. Pentecost means we live in it now. It’s our responsibility to build God's Kingdom, modeling radical inclusion. We can create a world where Muslims and Christians respect differences without hatred, where Israelis and Palestinians mourn together, where Republicans and Democrats pass the peace sincerely, and people of all colors, orientations, and beliefs share communion at one table.

So what would a Pentecost-shaped world look like?

It would look like hospital rooms where people of every race, language, and background sit side by side and pray—not in unison of words, but in unity of heart. It would look like boardrooms where decisions are made not just for profit margins but for the sake of justice. A Pentecost world would have courtrooms where mercy and accountability coexist, and classrooms where every child is told not only that they matter, but that their voice is vital.

In a Pentecost world, the language barrier isn’t what separates us—it’s what makes our chorus more beautiful. People wouldn’t be afraid of those who speak differently, believe differently, or look differently. They would be seen as bearers of divine image, as part of the same breath that swept through that upper room.

A Pentecost world is one where churches aren’t fortresses of doctrine but launchpads of love. Where confession doesn’t just mean admitting personal sin, but confessing the systemic brokenness that keeps others down. Where forgiveness doesn’t just apply to individuals but to nations and peoples. Where we stop saying "not my problem" and start saying, "this is ours to heal."

In a Pentecost world, old women dream dreams again, and young men see visions—not because they’ve earned some special status but because the Spirit has been poured out on all flesh. All. Not just the ones we agree with. Not just the ones we feel comfortable around. All flesh means the undocumented teenager and the retired veteran. It means the trans woman and the single dad. It means the CEO and the man who sleeps under the overpass.

In a Pentecost-shaped world, the Church leads—not from a throne of power, but from the foot of the table, where it makes sure there’s always room for one more. We stop asking who deserves a seat and start pulling up chairs. We light the candles, we pass the bread, and we make the table longer every time someone new shows up. In that world, we don’t guard our boundaries; we open our doors. We don’t hoard truth; we share grace. And every time we do, we speak a little more fluently the language of the heart.

You see, I believe in a world where the Holy Spirit breathes new life into the systems we take for granted. Where healing replaces harm. Where addiction is met with compassion and resources, not shame. Where no child goes to bed hungry because we’ve decided to care not just for our own, but for each other. Where the value of a person isn’t determined by their income, their vote, their skin color, or who they love, but by the undeniable truth that they are made in the image of God.

In that world, guns aren’t tools of fear but relics of a past we’ve outgrown. Rights are not privileges for a few but protections for all. And instead of building taller walls, we build longer tables. A Pentecost-shaped world is not some utopian dream—it’s the Spirit's invitation to us. And it begins, always, with love.

But this Kingdom only comes when the Church lives Pentecost today, embracing diversity, acting in love, and being unafraid of radical inclusion. It begins with us, right here, deciding to embody the Pentecost vision—to live our faith not just in words but in actions of love.

So today, may you feel the Spirit rushing like a mighty wind. May your faith be grounded in actions of love. May you embody Christ’s radical love daily. And may we, together, make our part of this world as holy, sacred, and blessed as God's Kingdom is meant to be. Amen.