Spirit Possession [Pentecost A]
The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
Acts 2:1-21
Spirit Possession
They'd been warned. Many times.
But most recently as Jesus was ascending out of their sight. From the clouds above, he warned them: There
will be a Spirit. It's coming. Upon them.
To over come them. And, yes, to
possess them. There will be a Spirit. It's coming.
That kind of warning would be
enough to keep me up at night. Just
sitting nervously in the upper room.
Praying. Wondering when the
Spirit will enter. What day? What hour?
Holy Ghost. Speaking for myself:
I'm not comfortable with the idea of being visited by a Spirit – like some
Ebeneezer Scrooge, lying frightened in his bed clothes. I'm even less comfortable with the idea of
possession – a Spirit moving me, directing me, living in my body. They make horror movies about stuff like this.
Maybe the issue is control: who is
in control. If I invoke the Holy Spirit
to make bread and wine be for us the Body and Blood of Christ, like I do,
often, I want the Holy Spirit to show up.
That feels like it's on our terms; It's not – but it feels like it. I'm saying words with my mouth and directing
with my hands; we're praying together – in one accord. After the invocation, I expect that when I
bring the chalice to my lips I will, we will, drink in the Blood of
Christ. Holy Spirit, on demand.
But what if I had, we had, there
was, no control. What if the Holy Spirit
– that ghostliest person of the Triune Deity – showed up uninvited and
unannounced and just wreaked havoc on the world we have so carefully constructed? What if that happened in an Episcopal
Church? Long-time members might wonder
why the parish secretary forgot to put it in the bulletin. You'd be looking over at your neighbor: What
page are we on?
The group that experienced the
first Pentecost was, like us, an orderly group of Church people. They were the disciples, members of Jesus'
family, and other followers of Jesus – a total gathering of one-hundred and
twenty people, according to the book of Acts.
After Jesus' ascension, they gathered together for common prayer. Besides prayer, they also took care of
business. Judas' departure from the
group left them with eleven disciples.
But that wouldn't do: they had always had twelve disciples. And so as good Church people they had the
nominating committee offer two names and while they were waiting, between
Ascension and Pentecost, they filled Judas' unexpired term.
They were gathered and they were
waiting and they were being Church people – prayer and business. Everything was in proper order. Until things got weird.
It started with the sound – a
violent sound. Like the sound of a sand
storm ripping through a city. The sound
of danger. And it was thick. It filled the entire house. On that Sunday morning – while they were
praying together, remembering their Lord's resurrection – it happened. It happened during church.
After the wind, there was the
fire. It lit them like candles. A flame on every head. The Spirit, that Holy Ghost, that Jesus
promised them, showed up. And there was
no missing it.
But it was more than just an
atmosphere. The wind filled the
room. The flames danced on their
heads. Had that been the end of it, it
would have been much safer – an interesting Sunday morning. But the Ghost got inside – inside of
them. And that is the most terrifying
thing of all. In the words of Emily
Dickinson: “Far safer, of a midnight meeting external ghost, than an interior
confronting that whiter host.”[1]
The other scary thought is this: no
one gets away. There is no opting
out. The Holy Spirit does not politely
approach each member of the church to ask permission. All of them were filled with the Holy
Spirit. Holy Spirit words coming out of
one-hundred and twenty mouths. All possessed by the Spirit – every last one of
them.
Not just Peter. Not just the Twelve. Not just Mother Mary. All of them.
No one gets away. And no gets
left out. Sons and daughters
prophesy. Young ones and old ones dream
new dreams. Slave and free are soaked by
the Spirit. All of the distinctions that
mattered in that society, and in our society, no longer matter. Not because the distinctions are not
real. Not so that individuality is
washed away – Paul's letter to the Corinthians makes that clear. But because the Holy Spirit doesn't care
about our social norms. Because the Holy
Spirit can and will use each and every one of us.
We are the possessed – the bodies
through which the Spirit moves, the gifts the Spirit uses, the hearts the
Spirit transforms. The moment you were
sealed by the Spirit in baptism, you opened the door, to let the Holy Spirit
in. You are possessed. Ready to be used. A mouth through which the Gospel of Jesus is
meant to come. And all of the excuses
that might come to mind – that you are not ordained, or holy enough, or old enough,
or you're too old, or whatever else – might be true. But there is no opting out. The Spirit will use you anyway – despite, or
maybe even because of, those things.
It's living in you. N.T. Wright says, “To invoke the Holy Spirit,
then, is not simply to hope for a gentle nudge from time to time.... It is to
take the risk of having all that wild, untameable energy sweep through us.”[2] That stuff will change world. It will change us – our lives, this city,
this parish.
And it is in us – in you and in
me. All of us possessed by the same
Spirit – the Holy Spirit of our Living Christ.
That same Spirit that filled the room, that lit the fire, that caused
the Gospel message to burst out of one-hundred and twenty unsuspecting mouths,
is in you. It is the breath in your
body, the blood in your veins. The
Spirit will not be satisfied until it completely takes over, until you look and
act and sound just like Jesus. You are
the host. And the Spirit has work to do.
It's pretty wild stuff – this Holy
Spirit. Consider yourself warned.
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