Readings: Acts 2.1-21 John 20.19-23

Over the last few weeks we’ve read several stories from the New Testament that challenge our capacity to believe – a resurrection, angel appearances, an ascension… and now today we read of Pentecost: another tale of the unexpected. Flames appearing on people’s heads? A miraculous ability to speak a foreign language? (If only!)

But it’s too easy, in a world where ardent secularists rubbish the poetry of religion, to forget that Pentecost – the birthday of the Church – marked the beginning of a wave of cultural transformation that would substantially re-shape more than half the world. The culture that we inhabit now is made rich with art and music; it is made reasonably fair with a legal system built on an idea of personal liberty; it is made hopeful with the belief in personal freedom as a human right. And all of these can be traced back to Christian principles being worked into polity and culture. So before we dismiss Pentecost as a fairy tale, let’s consider its importance in the gospel stories, and ask what it might say to us today.

The Holy Spirit is often referred to with the somewhat dull-sounding label “the third person of the Trinity”. But the imagery that both Luke and John use is far from dull. Luke describes a rushing, mighty, violent wind, and tongues of fire – both images of transforming and even frightening power. Mighty winds – gales, tornadoes – are destructive forces, and we all learn at our mother’s knee that if we play with fire, we might get burned. Luke’s imagery is far from gentle, mild or passive: this is a God to be reckoned with.

John, though, uses the image of breath – “Jesus breathed on them and said, receive the Holy Spirit.” This is an intimate scene – you have to be close to someone for them to breathe on you. But it’s also a theological point: the Greeks used the same word – pneuma – for spirit , breath, or moving air. Jesus’ breath, the breath of life, the spirit of God – they are all inter-connected ideas.

The same ideas play out in the English word Inspired, which comes from the Latin verb spirare (to blow into or upon, or to breathe into) which, added to the preposition in- gives the sense of filling with, or directing into. Dante used a variation on this in 1308, giving it the sense of suggestion or prompting, and by the 16th century “inspiration” also meant creative power.

Everyone who works on creating something out-of-the-ordinary hopes for inspiration. The poet needs a muse; the preacher hopes for unction, the painter waits for illumination. Even scientists speak of the flash of inspiration – the idea that seems to come out of nowhere – that will suddenly lead them down a new avenue. Inspiration is that something extra – the mysterious flash that brings the focus, the new angle or the missing piece that pulls all the ideas together. We can work as hard as we like, but without inspiration our work remains nothing much more than workmanlike. Where do we find inspiration? Perhaps there is a clue in the location of the Pentecost story.

Both Luke and John tell us that the moment of inspiration happened when the disciples were all together in the Upper Room – a kataluma, a large, all-purpose guest room where people would gather to eat, socialize, or have important meetings, and then at the end of the night they might roll out their sleeping rolls and sleep there too.

This particular Upper Room was where the Last Supper took place – where Jesus had told his friends, “I am going away… but another comforter will come” (it’s worth noting, by the way, that “comforter” in 17th century English wasn’t anything like a duvet, or comfort food, or any of the other things we associate with making ourselves feel better… it’s a motivator, or a jab in the ribs to get you moving! )

At the Ascension, Jesus had told them thaty they would be witnesses to all they had seen and heard, but first they had to go to Jerusalem and wait. What for, exactly, he didn’t really say – he was a little vague on the details. And neither did he tell them when it would happen; we, with the benefit of our liturgical year, know that Pentecost always comes ten days after Ascension Day. But the disciples had nothing much more to go on than to wait in Jerusalem, not knowing what for or how long. So rather than rush out to try to make things happen by themselves, they did what he said: and the Upper Room, where they had said their farewells to Jesus, was where they waited.
When Pentecost eventually came, whether it was with the drama of wind and fire, or the intimacy of feeling a friend’s breath on their faces, they suddenly found that they had the power, energy and inspiration to carry on the work of Jesus without him: not by trying harder, not by following instructions, not by finding a replacement for him, nor even by trying to imitate his work. Instead, in some mystical way no-one was able adequately to explain, all the pieces come together and they were filled with the same energy and vision and stamina and urgency as Jesus.

~

There’s a classic episode of Morecambe and Wise – one of those that’s sometimes replayed at Christmas – where their star guest was a youthful André Previn. Morecambe introduced him as Andrew Preview. They agreed to play Grieg’s piano concerto, but Morecambe missed all his cues, and when he eventually did play, it was a catastrophe. Previn stopped the show and pointed out that he was playing the wrong notes. But Morecambe memorably replied, “I’m playing all the right notes. But not necessarily in the right order.”

It’s been my experience, developing my work as a writer, that the elusive moment of inspiration, when the words seem to come in the right order, only comes along if you punctuate work with moments of retreat. If you don’t work, and just wait for inspiration, it doesn’t come. Equally, if you work too hard, you get no inspiration. But if you keep working day by day, and then take time out to wait and rest, then it seems inspiration can catch you unawares, and suddenly one day it’s as if the pages seem to write themselves. The right words come in the right order, and there’s some extra, glowing quality to the work.

Malcolm Gladwell would say that it’s an interaction of the spheres of the brain – that if you train one part of your brain to take precedence, the creative part recedes. It’s only when you allow the other side of the brain space to do its lateral work that the mysterious, instinctive ability kicks in. That’s why when you’ve been working all day long it’s sometimes when you’re washing the dishes and not thinking about anything in particular that the great idea suddenly comes to you. I always recommend to students and writers alike that they take plenty of breaks. Work hard and intensely, but take breaks to walk around the garden and let the brain relax. The learning, and the writing, and the processing goes better if we make space for inspiration. It may be a geographical place, or it may be an activity that we do regularly (like running or swimming) but it needs to be somewhere the brain can withdraw from work and the worries of life to allow for subconscious mental processing.

The Upper Room, then, becomes symbolic of respite, relaxation, withdrawal from the world: and the place they said goodbye to Jesus at the Last Supper later became the place they were filled with such force of inspiration that they went out and quite literally changed the world.

If we want to be inspired, and not just impressive; if we want to be world-changing and not just workmanlike, then we too will need to find our equivalent of the Upper Room, and withdraw often enough to give room for inspiration.