I do not like writing sermons on Saturday night.

I physically dread writing sermons on Sunday morning.

Now, sometimes I admit it’s sort of a challenge – sort of fun – to stand in front a group of people and give what is called an “off the cuff” speech. Just start talking and see where it all goes –

But Sunday morning worship is not one of those times. I like being prepared. I usually read the lessons a couple of weeks in advance, and chew on them for a while, wrestle with the text a bit until at last we are both a little weary and one of us … either me or the text … has cried Uncle and the sermon has begun to take shape. It may come as a complete shock, but it takes a certain amount of work to sound as unprepared as I do…

I have nightmares to this day about walking into class, unprepared for the big exam.

So was it Monday – or Tuesday – oh it doesn’t matter really one of those “sometime this week days” when Mrs. Mesley, our beloved organist, let me know that one of the members of the All 4 One quartet had broken an ankle … and the quartet would be unable to sing.

My first thought … my very first thought was: “How amazing! I don’t know anyone who sings out of their ankle! But my pleadings, cajolery, threats and offers of bribe were to no avail – apparently the young gentleman really was not supposed to stand on that ankle and so whammo, just like that, I get to preach.

Did I mention that I hate writing my sermons on Saturday night?

I wonder if the apostles – Jesus’ poor straight men – ever felt the same way?

He’s here a while – we get a couple of good years – a couple of really good years where the good news is boldly proclaimed, God’s favor is spoken, the poor are uplifted, the righteous called to love the unrighteous, and then that fateful mistake – where he angered the wrong guy in Jerusalem. And everything he ever did, it seems, just starts to come apart.

Trial – Good Friday wasn’t that many days ago, remember? Trial – conviction – sentence – and execution. Death.

And in what is probably the most amazing failure in human history, he fails to stay dead! Spends some time with his buddies – straightening out the path for them letting them know what is expected of them: “Feed the sheep, Feed the sheep. Feed the sheep!” and then once again, he’s gone. Lifted from their sight in a manner most incomprehensible.

We’ve had two thousand years to chew on this story – two thousand years to think and to wonder – to study and ponder – to delve into the mysteries of the forming of the new testament and its relation to the hard hard human heart …

They had a couple weeks. Those disciples, they had a couple weeks. They were still processing all this – still very very early in the understanding process – when that day came when they, the disciples, were all in one place somewhere in Jerusalem, and also there were, gathered, devout Jews from all over under heaven – and then come that list of country names that are very hard to pronounce.

And the Spirit moved.

It is no coincidence that in both Hebrew and Greek, the word for “spirit” and “wind” or “breath” are all either the same or very similar. The story of the day of Pentecost is the culmination – the completion of the Old Testament lesson of God. Throughout the Old Testament, God seeks to tell us that God is larger than we are dreaming at the moment. It begins with the spirit of God – God’s very breath – brooding over the chaotic waters that came before creation. Genesis tells us, God’s breath hovered over the waters, until God spoke, and there was light.

In the story of the tower of Babel, I have always pictured a wind blowing through that great city, where the tower rose toward the sky that the warriors there might one day storm the very palace of God – and as that wind blew through the great city, it sucked the words from the inhabitants’ mouths – taking the common language of God from them - leaving them mute to one another, each understanding only the words they themselves said – bringing back that old evil chaos – and great division.

Until finally, at Pentecost, that wind blew back, bringing with it the words it had stolen away millennia before. Loosening the tongues of the disciples to speak plainly and for all to understand the mighty purpose of God, the mighty acts of the maker, and the mighty victory claimed by Jesus, God’s anointed, who had stolen out of the mouth of death it’s words of final authority.

No prep time.

No “okay, guys, let’s stay on message … we’re talking sound byte time here…”

No blinding repetition of the same falsehoods over and again, until they attain “truthiness.”

Just the simple truth. God’s acts on behalf of God’s creation in the person and work of Jesus, God’s beloved.

Feed the sheep. Feed the sheep. Feed the sheep. There is no mention in the text of sermon prep time – and there is that passing reference to Peter that – no these men were not drunk as it was only 9 a.m. Obviously, Peter never met either of my grandfathers. But I suppose that’s not the force of Peter’s cry – actually – but instead to warn those who would proclaim Christ crucified and raised that, when you stop and think about it, there is a certain off-tone ring to that message. Raised from the Dead?

Feed the Sheep.

The words will come, good disciples, and in tongues that all can understand.

Feed the Sheep.

KEEPING ON TASK is the only way to KEEP ON MESSAGE.

Feed the Sheep.

Christ is risen. Rejoice, child of God. As your life is hidden in Christ, so shall you also rise. Amen. Alleluia.