Adopted

Pentecost is the Spirit lifting us into the arms of God. Not because we’re worthy, but because this is where we belong.

Today is Pentecost—what we often call the “birthday of the Church.”

But it’s not the kind of celebration with cupcakes and piñata’s. It’s the kind like we find in the book of Acts.

The windows blow open. Everyone starts speaking different languages. And nobody really knows what’s going on except that something holy is happening (Acts 2:1-41).

It’s wild. Chaotic. And completely unexpected. Yet at the same…it is also divine and beautiful.

As my good friend Rev. Dawn once said, "Pentecost is the Holy Spirit doing some of her best work."

​Indeed.
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Today, however, instead of preaching again from that same wild story, I thought we’d look at Pentecost through the lens of Paul’s letter to the Romans.

Tucked inside this epic masterpiece is an unassuming moment where the Holy Spirit shows up to do her thing.  To surprise us. And draw us into something just as powerful, just as holy. Just as she did in that first house church in Jerusalem.

For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs: heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if we in fact suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.              Romans 8:14-17

I've called this lesson “Adopted” because, at its core, that's what Pentecost is. A great act of divine adoption. The day the Spirit says: I got you. You’re mine.

October 28th is Cali’s “gotcha day.” Meaning, it was the day we adopted her and she joined our family. The day she got not just a new name. But a new life. That’s Pentecost. Where those who are led by the Spirit of God become a beloved child of God.

Today is the day that your wealth or poverty, your social status or family name, your birthplace or political affiliation no longer define who you are, or where you belong. God has claimed you. And God has named you: beloved.

Another reason I wanted to focus on this adoption metaphor, it turns out that caring for the widows and orphans is pretty important to God. In fact, it’s one the clearest ethical through-lines in Scripture. There are over 40 passages where God calls us to care for those left without family or support.

In Isaiah, God says, “Learn to do good; seek justice. Rescue the oppressed. Defend the orphan; plead for the widow” (Is.1:17).

And in the gospel of Luke, Jesus raises a widow’s son who has died, not just to show compassion for the grieving mother, but to restore her social and economic security in the community (Luke 7:11-17).

Back then, adoption wasn’t a backup plan for people who couldn’t have children. It was a holy act of saving grace. It kept kids off the streets where they often sold themselves to survive. When children were adopted, their family debts were erased. Their future secured - with full rights and full access to the inheritance. Adoptees got a new name, a new future, a new place at the table.

Pentecost isn’t just about a Spirit who showed up like a holy hurricane, twisting tongues and lighting the sky on fire. She continues to show up, day-after-day; roaring in and gathering us all together while God boldly declares, “Gotcha. You are mine.”

It doesn’t matter what we do, what we have, or what others think of us. We are God’s beloved now, fellow heirs with Christ. Which makes Paul’s declaration both bold and shocking good news. He’s telling us, the same Spirit given to Jesus, the very one that breathed life into the lungs of those first believers, is the same Spirit given to us by God to whom we cry,  “Abba, Father.”

Which leads us to another thing I love about this passage.

There’s a certain tenderness in Paul’s use of the word “Abba.” It’s the word Jesus used to describe his relationship with God. The same word he spoke from the cross at this death.

In Aramaic it means, “Dada” or “Daddy.” But really, it’s less of a word. And more of a sound, like one an infant makes. Think: Ah-bah

Abba is marked with trust and belonging. When my kids were small and couldn’t speak full words they’d reach up with their sticky little hands and babble, “abba.” To me, it sounded like they were saying “up.” But what they were really saying was, “Hold me.”

Pentecost is the Spirit lifting us into the arms of God. Not because we’re worthy, but because this is where we belong.

When family and friends knock you down, your Abba is there to lift you up. When the world crucifies you, Abba cradles you through death into everlasting life.  This is what Divine Love does. It clings to us and never lets us go.

There’s a heartwarming story about a young girl who had spent pretty much her entire life in foster care. The only constant in her life was the case worker assigned to her when she started high school. As she bounced from house-to-house, this case worker never gave up on her.

At her graduation, she showed up and handed the girl an envelope. But instead of a letter releasing her from the system, the young graduate found an official document—signed by a judge—that said she’d been adopted by the one person who had walked through hell with her all those years.

Pentecost is like God handing us a document saying, “You’re not on probation. You’re not being evaluated. You’re not temporary. You are mine forever.”

Today, we celebrate the certification of our belonging to God’s family. A family Jesus describes like this when he’s told his mom and brothers are outside waiting for him.

He looks at the crowd in the room and asks, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” Then, pointing to the group, he says, you are. “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my family” (Mt. 12:50).

It might seem like Jesus is dismissing his biological family. But really, he’s expanding it. He’s blowing open the windows and walls of familiar bonds so the Spirit can to do her thing.

Pentecost reminds us that we are to work together with the Spirit, welcoming others into God’s family.

This is the work of the church. The work of God’s Spirit moving through the world. Like St. Irenaeus, one of the early Church Fathers, said,  “Where the Spirit of God is, there is the Church, and every kind of grace.”

Because here’s the thing I’ve learned, as the Spirit move in us, grace flows through us. Like a child muttering “abba,” this flow is something anyone can do because everyone belongs to it.

Now, one last thing worth pointing out is that in both the Greek and Hebrew the word used for Spirit is the same word used for breath. A reminder for us all, that when we breathe in God’s Spirit, we also breathe it out into Anamesa. It’s probably the most basic and most natural way to participate with the Spirit or Breath of God here in the kingdom of heaven.

Unfortunately, not everyone sees themself in this divine partnership. Some of us have what’s called the “orphan spirit.” A gnawing sense that they don’t belong anywhere.

You might think you’re not good enough, or faithful enough to be on God’s team. You might think there’s something you did, or didn’t do, that makes you unworthy of such a position.

Maybe you think you doubt too much, or pray too little, or say the wrong things, or never get it right.

But Pentecost says otherwise.

God’s Spirit is your social worker who never gives up or abandons you. She adopts you, just as you are. The faithful and faithless alike. Because the Spirit doesn’t exclude anyone from the guest list. In fact, she expands it until everyone is seated at God’s table.

Henri Nouwen reminds us, “The Spirit of God is gentle. She does not push or force. She invites and waits…She opens us up to a new world, of community, and of love.”

This is the kind of church Pentecost gives birth to. The community of love that lives into our adoption—loving God, loving others, and serving both.

Like I said at the beginning, I believe the world is aching for this kind of Church. A true sanctuary where all are welcome. A sacred space where our diversity makes us better and kinder, not more fearful and meaner.

We are not gatekeepers of God’s grace, but greeters of God’s love. We are not holy bouncers who determine who’s in and who’s out. We are the red carpet that welcomes everyone in.

Perhaps that’s why the liturgical color for Pentecost is red. It represents the fire that God’s Spirit has ignited within us. The kind that warms and invites. And lights up the way for others to find their divine inheritance.

Pentecost wasn’t a one and done holy act. God’s Spirit continues to breathe wildly and mysteriously all around us.

With this sacred breath, the same breath that filled the lungs of creation, she’s constantly building something beautiful within us and all around us: A community of love in the space between inhaling and exhaling.

This is the space where God finds us and whispers, “Gotcha.”

We are God’s beloved. We are Christ’s body.

And we are filled with holy breath of love that says, “You belong.”  And “You belong.” And so do you.

“For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.”

Always, and forever.