Pentecost

The brilliant French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal lived in the middle of the 17^th century and died at the age of 39. At age 18 he invented a mechanical calculator to help his father calculate his taxes. He worked on the mathematical theory of probabilities, and was also active in the physical sciences, inventing the syringe and the hydraulic press. Yet he was also deeply religious, and in the later years of his short life his philosophical writings were increasingly spiritual, making a challenge to the rationalist approach that had become popular since the work of Descartes. Pascal never lived to put all his spiritual and philosophical ideas into the form of a completed book, and so they were published after his death as a collection of mostly brief passages under the title ‘Thoughts’ (Pensées). Many of these sound surprisingly contemporary for a French Catholic of his time. When he died, a paper was found sewn inside the lining of his coat, on which was written the secret record of an experience he had at the age of 31, initiating his most creative period of Christian writing.

’23 November 1954: from about half past ten in the evening until half past midnight. Fire. The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob, not of the philosophers … Assurance! Peace! Joy! Fire.’

Pascal enjoyed that night beyond doubt the kind of experience of God that has occurred time and again through Christian history since Pentecost: for example, similar phenomena are attested among the Franciscans of the Middle Ages, in the Methodist revival under Wesley, in the first surge of the Pentecostal movement early in the 20^th century, and in the late 20^th century charismatic renewal.

We should be wary of over-systematizing the experience of the Spirit so that a single pattern is held to be demanded for all Christians. But there are sufficient testimonies in the history of the church to convince us that the vital, active, personal, dynamic presence of God among and in his people – in short, the Holy Spirit – is meant at least at times to be an experienced reality, a power that makes a difference, and a challenging force for change.

This is what we should expect from some of the biblical imagery used for the Spirit of God. For the Spirit is breath, air, from the Greek pneuma, from which we get our word ‘pneumatic’ meaning ‘filled with air’. The Spirit is the very breath of life in the Church. The Body of Christ would be a corpse without the Spirit of Christ in it. The prophet Ezekiel, confronted with a vision of a valley full of dry bones, was near to despair: can these bones live? But God breathed on them, even as in Genesis God breathed into Adam the breath of life; and the dry bones came together and were clothed with flesh, and rose up. This is what the worship song is referring to that declares, ‘He lives! He lives! His breath is in you – arise, a mighty army, we arise!’ The Spirit is the breath that animates the body of the Church, so that whatever is of life among us is of the Spirit. And there is that wry observation that challenges, ‘if God were to withdraw his Spirit from the church today, how much of what we do would carry on tomorrow?’ Would we notice the difference?

For the Spirit is also likened to wind, the wind that gets things moving, going back to the Hebrew word that means both breath and wind. When there is no wind, the ship is becalmed and motionless. Now, there is a set of images for the Church that stress how immoveable, how unchanging she is amidst an unstable and continually shifting world. But this is a lop-sided picture when the dynamic notion of the wind of the Spirit is brought in. This wind is not only a gentle breeze, but may be a fearful tempest, the ‘mighty rushing sound’ of Pentecost. The Spirit is the Spirit of God, God in Jesus, who turns out to be the Disturber, the Challenger, the Revolutionary. When the Spirit gets moving in the church, things change: worship changes, structures change, relationships change. Of course, we need to be discerning: not every suggested change is automatically a sign of the Spirit. But when the wind blows, the ship moves on, perhaps through troubled or uncharted waters, and yet, on towards its destination.

This is no guarantee of an easy life! To return to Pascal, the Spirit is also fire, and fire is dangerous. Biblical imagery plays upon the dual function of fire, to burn up and to refine. Fire burns away the dross, but what remains is the purified silver or gold. The process may prove painful where individual Christians and the church are concerned, but it is only to be feared if we are afraid that we may turn out to be all dross, so that there is nothing left! But the Spirit comes and relentlessly but lovingly seeks to burn away all those accretions to the life of the church that have outlived their usefulness, all those things that fail to serve the ends of the Gospel, all that prevents the life of Jesus from being manifested. Every movement of revival or renewal or rededication has borne witness to this refining activity of the Spirit, in whose hands the church becomes an instrument of the Kingdom, powerful and effective. And the end product is worth the pain of the purifying fire.

The Holy Spirit as Breath, Wind, Fire: dynamic images, suggesting vitality, movement, change in the church. But this Spirit is not some impersonal force, but personal, loving and intimate. The Spirit is God with us and in us and among us, and still the God who is revealed in Jesus, all grace, all giving, all forgiving. And so we can open ourselves to the Spirit as to a familiar friend. We can come in simplicity and say, Come, Holy Spirit, and fill us anew, and anoint us, that we may become the church you long to see. Come as the Breath that will animate us; come as the Wind that will move us; come as the Fire that will purify us. Come, and glorify the name of Jesus.