Sermons

Sun, May 31, 2020

Cooperative creation?

A sermon for Pentecost
Series:Sermons
Duration:14 mins 23 secs

In the beginning, there was a tiny, hot, dense mass of unknown energy…

which, for some reason, violently exploded and then expanded…

before it cooled…

resulting in the formation of sub-atomic particles…

which came together to form the smaller elements––

hydrogen, helium, lithium.

Giant clouds of these primordial elements coalesced…

and, in turn, stars and galaxies were formed.

But the universe continued to expand.

Protons, electrons, and neutrons continued to combine—

with increasing complexity––

and other elements were formed.

Stars died.

Planets were born.

And, eventually, after billions of years, life sprang forth…

and evolved.

The origin of the universe as we now understand it––

the so-called “Big Bang Theory”––

is a far cry from the irenically mythological tales of creation…

that we find in the Bible.

Indeed, the irenically mythological tales in the Bible are unlike the creation myths of many other cultures.

In those primitively poetic accounts in Genesis…

calmly, powerfully, almost matter-of-factly…

God wills and speaks everything into being…

and, almost magically, it appears out of nowhere and nothing…

seemingly without effort or cost.

There is no hint or suggestion of the underlying violence at the heart of creation.

Indeed, there is no hint or suggestion of the violence that so often underlies the creative act itself:

clay thrown onto a rapidly spinning wheel…

shaped and moulded…

but often destroyed and remade in the search for perfection…

before being fired in a kiln;

sand super-heated, blown, twisted and twirled;

metal cut, welded, ground, and polished;

wood hammered, chiselled, turned, and sanded.

For the artist, the act of creation can…

so often…

be a tortured and painful experience––

psychologically… 

even physically.

And yet, it doesn’t stop there.

Even the act of creating new life––

from conception through gestation to birth––

involves change and discomfort… 

even danger.

It’s messy and, at times, downright painful… 

even violent.

The act of creation––

every act of creation––

involves some combination of change and cost…

starting and restarting…

breaking, discarding, and remaking…

discomfort, disillusionment, and disturbance…

risk and reward.

Without that, nothing good, nothing beautiful, nothing noble comes to be.

 

In this morning’s reading from the Gospel of John––

oddly situated on the evening of the first Easter Day––

the risen Christ appears to the frightened disciples…

huddled away behind locked doors.

He speaks to them a word of peace––

not once, but twice––

earnestly endeavouring to calm their primal fears.

Whereupon–– 

seemingly having done so–– 

he immediately announces…

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you”.

The disciples are commissioned to continue the ministry of Christ.

The disciples are called to continue the ministry of Christ in the world––

loving…

forgiving…

healing…

welcoming…

and challenging the powers-that-be–– 

whoever they are… 

and whenever their words or actions are life-denying, rather than life-giving;

or dehumanising, rather than valuing and enabling.

But, even more than that…

in so doing they are to embody––

they are to incarnate––

the ministry and mission of Christ.

They are to incarnate Christ.

They are called and commissioned to be Christ to their broken and needy world.

In other words, the author of John’s Gospel expects that whoever sees them

would see the Christ who sent them;

he expects that whenever people look at them…

they would see Christ.

 

“When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit’”

The giving of the Spirit in John’s Gospel, then, is to that end…

and for that purpose––

it is to enable them…

it is to empower them… 

in order that they might incarnate Christ…

and continue his ministry and mission in the world.

Some have described this as John’s version of Pentecost––

albeit a highly simplified, symbolic, and stylised one.

But that doesn’t really do it justice.

And… 

in rendering it thus… 

we run the risk of imposing Acts’ story and theology onto John’s.

The Acts story of Pentecost echoes the myth of the tower of Babel…

and it suggests that, in the coming of the Spirit, the myth is reversed––

that the division…

the fragmentation…

and the estrangement of humankind can be healed.

Not so the giving of the Spirit in the Gospel of John!

Although most English translations of our story say that Christ breathes the Spirit on them…

in the original Greek, he literally breathes the Spirit into them.

In so doing…

in the Greek… 

the language and imagery directly recalls the Genesis Two creation story––

of God breathing life into the nostrils of the clay-formed first man.

Our story is suggesting that Christ’s breathing of the Spirit into the disciples involves a new act of creation.

The disciples aren’t just freed up.

The disciples aren’t just filled up.

The disciples aren’t just fired up.

Rather, the disciples are re-made––

they are transformed…

they are re-created.

And, as we acknowledged at the beginning, the act of creation––

every act of creation––

involves some combination of change and cost…

starting and restarting…

breaking, discarding, and remaking…

discomfort, disillusionment, and disturbance…

risk and reward.

The Spirit’s act of creation in us is no different––

or… 

it shouldn’t be.

 

And yet, isn’t that something from which we––

the broader church––

so often shy away?

So often, faith in Christ is presented as the solution to all of our problems…

rather than a problem for all of our solutions.

So often, we present faith as a balm for our brokenness…

or a completion of that which is empty or lacking…

rather than something that disturbs or disillusions.

So often, we treat faith––

we treat religion––

as an add-on to our life…

not as an integral or integrated part…

or even the central part…

and certainly not as something that fundamentally calls everything else into question.

So often our thoughts…

our words…

our ideologies…

our way of life…

do not reflect, or embody, or incarnate the risen Christ—

his values or vision…

his mission or ministry.

So often when people look at us, they do not see Christ…

and they do not experience Christ.

 

And yet, the clear message of John’s account of the giving of the Spirit…

is that we cannot remain the same.

Being a disciple of Christ––

being filled with the Spirit––

means a full and fundamental change.

Indeed, it means a re-birth…

a re-creation.

All that we believe…

all to which we give our allegiance…

all that we are…

and all that we strive to be…

is fundamentally challenged and changed.

It should be messy and painful…

even dangerous.

Being a disciple of Christ––

being filled with the Spirit––

means accepting…

and yet, not a grudging acceptance…

rather, being filled with the Spirit means embracing change and cost…

starting and restarting…

breaking, discarding, and remaking…

discomfort, disillusionment, and disturbance…

risk and reward.

Being a disciple of Christ––

being filled with the Spirit––

means, figuratively, experiencing a spiritual and religious ‘Big Bang’.

Nothing less will enable us to prove the promise of God’s grace…

or see God’s love satisfied.

Nothing less will enable us to incarnate Christ.

Nothing less will enable us to continue…

indeed, to complete…

Christ’s ministry and mission in the world.

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