I love Pentecost.

Not just because of the drama—wind, fire, tongues—but because it reminds us that the Holy Spirit is not polite.

She doesn’t knock. She doesn’t wait for a meeting to end or for us to be ready. She rushes in like wind that knocks picture frames off the wall. Like fire that makes you sweat and rethink everything. She shows up like she owns the place—because she does—and suddenly people are speaking in languages they’ve never learned, shouting in the streets, and everyone assumes it’s some kind of holy happy hour.

And honestly? They’re not entirely wrong. Because the birth of the Church didn’t look like a strategic launch. It looked like chaos. Holy chaos. Sloppy, loud, miraculous, slightly embarrassing chaos.

Happy Birthday, Church.

The real question today isn’t whether the Spirit will show up—she will. The question is: do we actually want her to?

Because when the Spirit shows up, things get messy. Structures wobble. Certainties melt. Comfort zones get singed. The Spirit doesn’t come to keep us safe. She comes to make us brave.

She has always shaken things up: She’s behind the voices of women in pulpits, LGBTQ+ clergy in collars, and people of color claiming their place in leadership. She fueled the civil rights movement. She’s at work in creation care and migration ministries. She’s in the voices of prophets like Bishop Mariann Budde who refuse to stay silent in the face of injustice.

Every time, she whispers (or shouts): the world doesn’t need a quieter church. It needs a braver one.

“You live like Jesus,” she says. “I’ve got your back.”

The other night, I was on a Zoom call with Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe. He said something that lodged itself in my bones: it’s time for the Episcopal Church to normalize risk again.

Not admire it. Not think about it. Normalize it.

And I can’t stop thinking about that. Because it’s true. With a few holy exceptions, the Church — capital C — has become risk-averse. We’re so good at preserving what is, we’ve forgotten how to imagine what could be.

I’ve watched committees — faithful, loving committees — take up a bold, Spirit-stirred, Gospel-driven idea and then, with a level of gentle, Episcopalian precision that would make a neurosurgeon jealous, quietly talk themselves right out of it.

It starts with hope. Maybe someone says, “What if we tried a monthly dinner church in the parish hall?” And for a few beautiful minutes, the energy is palpable. Heads nod. People smile. Someone even says, “Yes, the Spirit is really moving!”

But then… the familiar ritual begins.

“We’d have to move the tables.”
“And the Sexton already works Sundays mornings.”
“Do we have a budget line for candles?”
“Those Sundays don’t work for my calendar.”
“Would this alienate the altar guild?”
“We should create a subcommittee for this.”

Suddenly, the Spirit’s fire gets politely extinguished by a wet blanket of logistical dread. Suddenly, small thinking drives the meeting.

It’s too hard.
Too expensive.
Too weird.
Might have to work with people we don’t know.
Might fail..

And so the brilliant, Spirit-filled idea is placed into the “Maybe Someday” file… which is to say, buried with full honors in the sacred graveyard of postponed dreams. And that’s just in the first hour of the meeting. “Small thinking” has upheld the sentiment that “we’ve always done it like this” for centuries.

The esteemed theologian Walter Bruggerman, who died just this past week, said in his book “The Prophetic Imagination” that “[w]e need to practice prophetic imagination, which dares to imagine the world as though God were really active, present, and engaged.” That would certainly change the tenor of most if not all committee meetings, I think.

The truth is, church committees are often made up of wonderful people who love Jesus — and also really, really love risk assessments. And I get it! We want to be responsible. We want to do things well. But sometimes, I think the Holy Spirit watches our meetings like someone stuck in the world’s longest group text thread, shouting, “Just do the thing already!”

Because let’s be honest: if the disciples had formed a committee on Pentecost, they’d probably still be debating wind insurance and fire code compliance. Instead, the Spirit just went ahead and lit their hair on fire.

So I wonder: what would it look like if we stopped asking, “Will this work?” and started asking, “Is this faithful?”

Too often, the church becomes a place where boldness goes to get gently edited to death. Where the Holy Spirit gets referred to subcommittee. And it’s not just frustrating — it’s heartbreaking.

Because we’ve confused caution with wisdom. We’ve baptized comfort and called it stewardship. We’ve let fear masquerade as prudence, and we’ve used the language of “being responsible” to avoid taking risks for the Gospel.

We are not immune to that here at St. Mary’s. But I also want to say clearly: this parish has done hard things. Brave things. You’ve welcomed newcomers with radical hospitality. You’ve said yes to ministries of justice and compassion. You’ve opened your doors and your hearts and your calendars. And yes, sometimes we’ve taken risks.

But the Spirit never stops calling. Which means the risks don’t stop, either.

The truth is, we’ve all been trained — clergy and lay alike — to think that what God wants most from us is success. Grow the church. Balance the budget. Keep things tidy. Make sure the livestream works and nobody complains too much about the music. If we do all that, then we’ll know we’re doing God’s work!

Except that’s not what God asks of us.

God doesn’t ask us to be successful.

God asks us to be faithful.

And once you really take that in — really let it settle into your bones — it changes everything. Because faithfulness doesn’t require winning. Faithfulness just requires showing up, saying yes, and letting the Spirit do the rest.

Sometimes faithfulness looks raising our voices for someone who can’t. Sometimes it means welcoming someone who may never pledge a dime, but is hungry for belonging. Sometimes it means trying something new — and failing — but doing it anyway, because the Spirit said “Go.”

If we only do the things that are guaranteed to work or reverting back to ways we’ve always done things, then we’re not being led by the Spirit. We’re being led by fear.

And Pentecost? Pentecost is God blowing up the fear factory.

The Spirit crashes in and says, “Stop hiding. Stop managing everything. Stop thinking small. I’ve got fire.”

And that fire is not for decoration.

It’s for transformation. Liberation. Renewal. It’s for that moment when we want to shrink back, and the Spirit shoves us forward with a firm, holy hand.

That’s what she does. She turns cowards into prophets. She takes locked rooms and turns them into launching pads. She looks at confused, overwhelmed, imperfect people—people like us—and says, “Yeah. I can work with this.”

God doesn’t need our polish. God wants our “yes.”

Let’s not forget: the disciples weren’t ready. They were scared. They were hiding. And those are the ones God used to start the Church.

Because God starts with those who know they can’t do it alone — but who are still willing to open the door.

And that’s why Pentecost matters — not because it’s a nice story about something that happened once. But because it’s a blueprint. A holy template. A reminder of what kind of God we follow.

We follow a God who doesn’t reward safety.

We follow a God who breathes life into messes.

We follow a Spirit who doesn’t wait for majority votes or budget approval.

We follow a God who says: You are not small. So stop living small.

So here’s the question I want us to sit with this Pentecost: What would it look like if we started trying to be faithful?

What would it look like if our meetings felt less like time at the DMV and more like bonfires?

What would it look like if we measured success not in pledges or attendance — but in courage, in compassion, in love?

Because the Spirit isn’t waiting for us to be perfect. She’s just waiting for us to say yes.

She’s asking: Are you willing?

Willing to risk joy in a time of sorrow? To risk community in a culture of isolation? To risk truth in a world of spin? To risk love when hate would be so much easier?

Are we willing to be a church where the Spirit doesn’t have to ask permission?

Because if we are — if we are willing — then we may not look perfect. We may not look polished. We may not even look “successful.”

But I guarantee you that we will look like Church.

And that’s more than enough.

Amen.