It’s important to know that we Christians didn’t come up with Pentecost. Pentecost was a Jewish feast, celebrating Moses bringing the law, from the hand of God, to the people in the wilderness. Even today, my rabbi friends tell me they celebrate Pentecost/ Shavuot by studying scripture, studying Torah with friends, all night long. It’s my understand they also try to eat foods that have milk and honey in them, which means a lot of ice cream and a lot of cheesecake. Which means, this is something I would very much like to get in on.

In our passage from the Acts of the Apostles, it is Pentecost morning, and Jews are gathered in Jerusalem for that celebration. For the disciples of Jesus, the sound of the violent rush of wind has already come. The fire, tongues of flame, have descended on the disciples’ heads. And the miracle of language has happened—the disciples are suddenly able to communicate across language barriers, and all the Judeans who have gathered in Jerusalem for the Jewish observance of Pentecost, have been amazed. And, for some, skeptical—thus the crack about, “Nah they’re all just drunk on new wine.”

And then Peter steps up. He speaks to the crowd. No we are not drunk, he says. This is the moment of fulfillment of the prophecies of Joel. God is pouring out the Holy Spirit upon us all. And you see the results!

The gospel according to John is weird. It’s strange. It’s really different from the other three gospels, and that’s part of what makes it so fascinating.

For one major difference, take today’s passage. Every year, toward the conclusion of the Easter season, we hear portions of John’s gospel from chapters 14 through 17. These chapters consist almost entirely of Jesus talking to the disciples, interrupted only by a few questions here and there. Here’s the weird part, the thing that really sets it apart from the other gospels: Jesus is doing this on the night of the Last Supper, the night he is betrayed by one of his closest friends. Have a look at the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, to see how much Jesus talks to the disciples after that Last Supper. He says hardly a word, except when he’s begging them to stay awake with him in the garden.

And what is Jesus talking about (and, in chapter 17, praying about)? He’s giving these close friends instructions. He’s preparing them. He’s trying to help them to understand what life as disciples will be like, when he’s gone…

Image: Bonardi, Noel. Love one another as I have loved you, 20th c., Corsica. Courtesy of Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54340 [retrieved April 24, 2025]. Original source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/riot/2831885038/.

…After these things, we are told, Jesus showed himself again to his disciples—his risen self. Here is how it happened: Peter decided to go fishing.

Let’s just think about that for a minute. Jesus is risen—Alleluia! But Peter is feeling the need, after the rollercoaster of Holy Week and Resurrection Sunday and beyond, to go back to something simple. Something normal. Something familiar. He tells his friends he’s going fishing. Six of them say, “We will come with you.”

This is the end of something, and it is the beginning of something. It’s possible the disciples have gone back to Galilee, to fish in familiar waters—that’s where Peter’s boat is, anyway. (The Sea of Tiberius, by the way, is the same as the Sea of Galilee.) They have gone back to the beginning, to the place where it all started. They have gotten into the boats, as was their custom, for an overnight fishing expedition…

Image: Peter Koenig, "Breakfast on the Beach," late 20th century, Parish of St. Edward, Kettering, United Kingdom. Courtesy of the Peter Winifried (Canisius) Koenig website, copyright 2020. https://www.pwkoenig.co.uk/Portfolio/breakfast-on-the-beach

We pick up this morning exactly where we left off last Sunday, the day of resurrection. The last words we heard the gospel witness were, “Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord,’ and she told them that he had said these things to her.” (John 20:18).

It was a moment of rejoicing! Light had come out of darkness, and life out of death. We return to the gospel story on the very same day, but now the sun has set. What has happened in these last twelve hours? Has the news of resurrection spread like the holy fire it surely is? Are the followers of Jesus swarming to the city to see with their own eyes, the wonder of the man who died, living again? Is there, at the very least, a party?

There is not. If Magdalene’s news is being shared, it’s as a furtive whisper. If Jesus’ followers are swarming anywhere, it is not here. Instead, his closest friends are hunkered down in that same upper room where they shared the Passover supper with Jesus. It is not a celebration…

Image: Christ shows himself to Thomas, Mosaic Resurrection Chapel, Washington National Cathedral, artists Rowan and Irene LeCompte. Courtesy of Art in the Christian Tradition, Vanderbilt University Divinity Library.

I want to begin with a line from the psalm we have just read together—I will say, ”This is the day that the Lord has made,” and I invite you to respond, “Let us rejoice and be glad in it!”

This is the day that the Lord has made!

Let us rejoice and be glad in it!

And that’s Easter, isn’t it? From the beautiful flowers and the exquisite music to the happy faces and the sweetness that surrounds the day, both spiritual and edible. This is a day when we are invited to immerse ourselves in joy—the greatest joy, joy based on one entirely absurd proposition: He is risen…

Image: Image: First Apostle to the Apostles, by Mary Jane Miller, Guanahato, Mexico. 2008. Courtesy of Art in the Christian Tradition, Vanderbilt University Divinity Library.

About six hundred years ago, someone had the idea to use what we call “The Last Seven Words of Christ” or “The Last Seven Words from the Cross” as the center of worship on Good Friday. These words are taken from the gospel accounts of the passion of Christ. They’re not single words, but statements. What binds them together is that they are all words spoken by Jesus during a time of prolonged suffering. Jesus is in pain when he speaks.

The service of Seven Last Words is a way to reflect on Jesus’ suffering, and perhaps, the suffering of the world around us. It may lead you to remember a time of your own suffering. No matter what you hear in these words, they are words spoken by the one who did not run from suffering, but accepted it, and tried to find connection to God in it…

Image: Icon of Crucifixion, painted in a Christian community of Syria or Egypt, ca. 1560; Courtesy of Art in the Christian Tradition, Vanderbilt University Divinity Library

We know that the most beautiful things can happen around a table.

We know that the most treacherous things can happen around a table.

Tables are where we come when we know we are welcome.

Tables are where we are required to be,

even though we suspect we might not be welcome at all.

Tables can be places where we let down our hair, metaphorically speaking,

and maybe after a nibble or two, a sip or two, start to say what is real.

Tables can be places where we are guarded, watchful, suspicious,

because we don’t feel safe in that company.

Tonight, we come to Jesus’ table, the table of the Christ…

Image: John August Swanson, “The Last Supper,” Last Supper (2009), from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=56552 [retrieved April 13, 2025]. Original source: Estate of John August Swanson, https://www.johnaugustswanson.com/.

It is the first day of the week, the week that will bring Passover to Jerusalem. From the east side of town Jesus enters, riding a donkey colt, a not-even-fully-grown animal. Jesus is dressed in his usual dusty robes, hems darkened with the earth of Judea, and Galilee, and wherever his travels have taken him. He is hardly the image of a king, but here he is, being received as one. Someone put their cloak on the donkey, a makeshift saddle. People are laying their cloaks on the ground for the donkey to walk upon, a mark of respect for people who are usually much better dressed that Jesus happens to be. And there is singing—it is a joyful procession, with the sound of music in the air—the psalm we have already read together this morning:

Give thanks to the Lord, for the Lord is good;

God’s mercy endures forever!

Open for me the gates of righteousness,

I will enter them and give thanks to the Lord.

This is the day that the Lord has made;

let us rejoice and be glad in it. ~Psalm 118:1, 19, 24

The air is festive, but also, subdued. Though the people are celebrating, Jesus himself, and probably at least some of his disciples, are still remembering the anointing, which happened only last night… the fragrance of the ointment is no doubt still on his body, perhaps his robe. Everyone heard what he had to say: Mary of Bethany was anointing him for his funeral.

At the same time, on the western edge of the city, a very different parade is entering. Pontius Pilate enters the city, riding a mighty warhorse. He is at the head of of a legion of Roman soldiers. Their armor is glinting in the sunlight. They carry implements of war. There are drums.

Jesus is coming to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, as any devout Jew within a reasonable distance does. He is coming with friends, and probably family. Though he is aware of what awaits him this week, he comes in peace.

Pilate is also coming because of the Passover, but not to celebrate it. He’s coming to manage it, to control it. Passover commemorates the liberation of the Israelites from enslavement in Egypt. There is always a strong of insurrection in the air during the Passover celebrations. The Romans are there to show the Jews that they are large and in charge. They are making it clear: pushing back at Rome would be a fool’s errand. Pilate comes ready for war, if that’s what it takes to keep everyone in line…

Image: Copyright Kate Bowler, 2025.

This evening’s passage from the prophet Isaiah starts with a reminder:

What God has done.

In these words, directed at the Babylonian exiles, God reminds them of an earlier moment when God showed up, and God took care, and God carried God’s own people out of danger. I’m betting that you could recognize the scene that is described as the passage opens.

“Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters” (Isaiah 43:16). When did God make a passage through the waters? Yes, absolutely—during the great exodus of God’s people from enslavement in Egypt. The people were able to cross on dry earth with the waters held back. But what happened next? The pharaoh’s soldiers followed in chariots pulled by horses, and then…

chariot and horse,

army and warrior;

they lie down; they cannot rise;

they are extinguished, quenched like a wick. ~Isaiah 43:17

God releases the waters, and the pursuing soldiers are drowned by the very seas that stood still so that God’s people could escape.

Our passage opens with a reminder of the remarkable: WHAT GOD HAS DONE.

But then the Lord says a strange thing—but don’t think about things that happened before, kiss today goodbye, and point me toward tomorrow. Now we are going to hear:

What God will do…

Image: Copyright P. Raube, 2025

It is night. A crowd is gathered in rooms illuminated by candles and oil lamps. Shadows flicker on the walls. Jesus’ disciples are there, and perhaps some of their wives. Jesus’ mother is probably there… after all, this is a celebration of her son. The host family are there, of course—the siblings Mary, and Martha, and recently raised-from-the-dead Lazarus. And Jesus—the guest of honor. Just days before this celebration the host family was in mourning—diminished by one beloved brother, wearing torn clothing as a sign of their sorrow, sitting at home with those who came to witness and participate in their grief. Lazarus was in the tomb—had been for four days. But all that changed when Jesus arrived. The one who was lost, was found. The one who was dead, is now alive.

This is a celebration! A thanksgiving dinner. The sisters of Lazarus and the man himself are filled with gratitude for his return to the land of the living. This is also the celebration of the end of the Sabbath, the sweetest day of the week, for tomorrow—the day following this dinner—Jesus will go to Jerusalem for the beginning of the Passover festival. There is every reason to celebrate this night.

Still. Many at this gathering are on edge. The mood is subdued. This is because the threats are out there, and they are getting louder and louder. For at least two years of Jesus’ ministry, there has been talk of killing him. Everyone who follows Jesus, everyone who knows him, everyone who loves him, knows that he has a target on his back…

Image: Copyright Kate Bowler, 2025.

In college I took a philosophy class that was based entirely on The Grand Inquisitor, which was a single chapter in Dostoevsky’s novel, The Brothers Karamazov. The professor was a kind and soft-spoken man, but also anxious. He had a heavy Hungarian accent, and he didn’t look particularly well—he was very pale, sort of grey in complexion. During one class, in discussing ethics, he gave an example of someone who really, really needed a pack of cigarettes, but who didn’t have any money, so, wasn’t it, really, ok that he stole a pack of cigarettes from the Star Market? Sort of a modern-day Jean Valjean, I guess. In a later class, he said, “You know, once I really, really needed a pack of cigarettes, but I didn’t have any money. So I stole a pack from the Star Market.”

He ended up taking a medical leave halfway through the course. I don’t know entirely what was going on with my professor, but I believe at least one thing that was going on was a persistent, unshakeable sense of guilt, or maybe shame. He had unfinished business of some kind…

I’m standing in the doorway of the house, looking out at my father and my brother. They are standing at the edge of the field—my brother covered in sweat, because he’s just come in from working all day, alongside the paid laborers. I can see that my father is pleading with him, leaning in towards him, reaching out his hands to gently touch him. But my brother pulls away. He is standing, stiff as a cut board. Every so often he glances over at the house. He glances over at me. His face is a map of misery.

But here I stand, a purple linen robe over my torn and tattered tunic; my father’s own heavy silver ring on my right hand, a red stone shining in the torchlight; soft calfskin slippers on my dirty feet; and a goblet of wine in my hand. It is, as yet, untouched.

My brother is flashing with anger. I am not surprised. In fact, this is the first thing that has not surprised me in the hour since I trudged up the hill to our house. My brother. I am home, and he is not pleased…

Image: P. Raube copyright 2025

That was then; this is now. This is how our passage begins. “From now on…” In other words, something happened, and it changed everything. There was a before, and there was an after.

Our lives as human beings are filled with befores and afters. Before and after we learned to drive. Before and after we met the person we decided was “the one.” Before and after the diagnosis. Sometimes, the befores were better; sometimes the afters were better! How many of these befores and afters truly marked our souls? How many of them were painful? Or joyful? How many of them resulted in a kind of wisdom for which, now, we are grateful?

Both joy and suffering can be our teachers, though I think we tend to assume difficulties will impart more wisdom than our successes. Our parents told us that, that the tough parts of life would give us character. My mother liked to quote Nietzsche, “That which doesn’t kill me makes me strong.” Pain and sorrow can give us wisdom. They can give us a new view on life. Marshall McLuhan said, “I don’t know who discovered water, but I know it wasn’t a fish.” Rabbi Steve Leder explained it this way:

Because a fish is born in water, lives in water, dies in water… ironically, the fish is the idiot that doesn't know it's in water…Look, we are like that fish and…when does a fish discover water? When it's jerked out of it, wriggling at the end of a hook, gasping for breath. That's when a fish discovers water, and it is only pain and disruption that can do that for us…Disruption is the only thing that teaches us anything. It can provide us with some of the deepest wisdom of our lives.

Image: Copyright Kate Bowler, 2025.

Yesterday I read this invitation to reflect. As I read it to you now, I invite you to listen and reflect on the questions it asks.

Imagine yourself when you were 6 years old. Do you remember what you were going through when you turned 10? Remember how you felt at 16? Do you remember your dreams at 21? All those versions of who you used to be are still inside of you. Your 7-year-old self still gets excited when you remember the joy of that day. Your 35-year-old self still wants to cry when remembering the pain of that year. Like a nesting doll, every version of you has been a part of you becoming who you are today. Some versions of you went through some terrible and painful experiences and some felt great joy. But all versions of you were held by God.

I did yesterday what I just invited you to do now. Some of my memories were quite vivid. Other years had so many associations with them it was hard to find a single, real connection. For age 6, I remembered a long-forgotten bulky blue cardigan that someone had knitted for me, and also my sudden fierce need for pierced ears. Also Davy Jones. He was part of the picture somehow.

The most striking thing here, though, is the truth that each of is still all these people—the 6-year-old in the blue sweater, the 10-year-old who has changed schools, the 16-year-old playing Grandma Tzeitel in “Fiddler on the Roof.” They are all the same person who gave birth at ages 26 and 31, who graduated from seminary at 42, and who stands in front of you now at… the age I am now. Each of those moments informed the person I was to become in small ways and large, and each of you can say the same of your 6-year-old and 10-year-old and your every-age selves.

And so it goes with communities…

Image: Copyright © 2025 Kate Bowler, All rights reserved.

…Tonight I’m sharing that just about one third of Jesus’ teachings in the gospels are in the form of parables. Parables are usually short stories, but some are longer. But they are memorable. They are pithy. And they tell stories based on the real lives of the people who are standing or sitting in front of Jesus, listening. Jesus tells stories about yeast, and about seeds. He speaks of working in vineyards—which were plentiful in Judea, they were everywhere. He talks of lost coins—who hasn’t lost something valuable to them? He talks of sheep, which were also plentiful in most of the regions he addressed. And in all these parables, Jesus, generally, leaves interpretation to the listeners—thought not always. Parables are a lot like Zen koans—short statements that confound the brain, but stay with you, and keep you thinking, what IS the sound of one hand clapping?

Tonight’s parable is about a fig tree…

Image: P. Raube, copyright 2025.

When have you engaged in lament? By which I mean, when have you sat down with God for a conversation in which you told God exactly what you think of some terrible thing that has happened?

Notice I didn’t ask, “Have you?” I asked, “When have you?” because, I think we do this, knowingly or not. We read the news and say, “How can this be?” and whether we’re aware of it or not, we are asking God that question. Or we collapse on the couch and ask, “Why is this happening to me?” after we have been fired, or transferred hundreds of miles away, or left by someone we loved. Or we weep on the pillow after we turn the lights out and ask, “How am I going to get through this?” after we’ve heard a diagnosis we did not want to hear.

When have you engaged in lament?

Image: Copyright © 2025 Kate Bowler, All rights reserved.

Let’s start with a breath prayer. This is a prayer you will pray inwardly, because it follows your breath.

On the inhale: Spirit of God…
On the exhale: Guide my prayer…

Let’s do that several times, eyes closed or lowered. Relax. This is for all of us.  

Image: Copyright 2025 P. Raube.

Here’s the funny thing about the wilderness: It can be terrible, and it can be beautiful. And it can be both at the same time. If I’m honest, most of my life I’ve only been wilderness-adjacent. By which I mean, I’ve seen the Grand Tetons up close, and they’re gloriously beautiful, but I’ve never climbed a mountain. I love the idea of hiking in the wilderness, but I’ve only hiked in safe places, with paths I could easily follow and my cell phone in my pocket. I haven’t really experienced all the beauty and terribleness of the wilderness.

The other kind of wilderness, though. I’ve definitely been there, as I’m guessing most all of us have been. The pain of losing relationships that were dear to me. Chronic physical pain. Grief for loved ones who have died. Think of the wilderness of the hurricane-ravaged Black Mountains of North Carolina. Think of the wilderness of the burned out neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Some wildernesses are more terrible than they can ever be beautiful.

Throughout scripture, wilderness experiences are so potent and memorable, they’re practically characters. The wilderness to which Hagar and her son Ishmael were exiled. The wilderness where the Hebrews wandered for forty years. And this wilderness, the wilderness of Jesus’ time of testing.

Jesus has just come from a beautiful experience—a heavenly one, really. His baptism in the Jordan, after which the Spirit has led him to the wilderness for testing. But first things first: In any story, it’s important to get your cast of characters right. Our characters here are the wilderness, Jesus, and the devil…

Image: Copyright Kate Bowler, KateBowler.com, 2025. Used with permission.

Recently I read this description of a visit to Scotland by psychologist Andrew Tix. He writes,

Several years ago, my family and I had the opportunity to travel to the Isle of Skye, an island near the coast of northwest Scotland. Because it was dark when we arrived, I didn’t have any sense for the landscape. When I went for a walk the next morning, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by five stunning mountain peaks. There was a thick, Scottish mist in the air that seemed to affect the quality of the light coming from the sunrise. The wind gusted and blew dark, low clouds quickly by me. As I walked, I felt a tinge of fear and stopped. I suddenly became aware that I felt completely overwhelmed by the glory around me. I looked up and saw the moon. At that moment, I realized in a fresh way that the majesty I observed is only a small part of the grandeur of the entire universe.[i]

Andrew Tix is writing about awe. He goes on to share how this single experience of awe changed his life and his outlook on faith. Imagine how the three disciples, Peter, John, and James, were changed by their experience of awe on the mountain with Jesus…

Image: Hochhalter, Cara B.. Transfiguration, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=59300 [retrieved January 24, 2025]. Original source: Cara B. Hochhalter.

When I was young my parents had a coffee table book of photographs from, I believe it was, the past 50 years. There was a whole section addressing the social crises of the 1960’s, including the protest movement against the war in Viet Nam. This photograph, by photographer Bernie Boston, was in that book.

As a child I stared at it in wonder. It was terrifying, and also thrilling. It was taken during the 1967 march on the Pentagon, a protest of about 100,000 people. They gathered for a rally at the Lincoln Memorial and then marched across a bridge that spanned the Potomac. When they got there, they were met by the 503rd Airborne Military Police Battalion. The young man is placing a carnation in the barrel of an M-14 rifle. All I could think looking at the photo—which I did, again, and again—was, What happened next?

The title of the photo is “Flower Power,” and it ran in the next edition of the Washington Star, a paper that no longer exists. It’s named for a movement started by Beat Generation poet Alan Ginsburg who, “in his November 1965 essay How to Make a March/Spectacle, promoted the use of ‘masses of flowers’ to hand to policemen, press, politicians and spectators to fight violence with peace…”

Image: “Flower Power” by Bernie Boston, Fair Use (Non-Profit)