I love John’s prologue. Not only because it speaks to the humanity and divinity of Jesus, but because—well—it reminds me of tacos. Yes. Tacos. Stay with me.

You probably didn’t catch tacos in the text, but you may have noticed that John skips the usual birth story. No baby, no manger. No shepherds or wisemen. No angelic choir. What we get instead is a poetic, cosmic overture—about Incarnation. The Word becoming flesh. God showing up with meat on his bones and dust on his sandals.
 
And here’s where tacos come in. The root word for incarnation is “carne”—which, in Spanish, means “meat” or “flesh.”  Any taqueria worth its salt will serve up carne asada—grilled steak tacos.  Who doesn’t love a good steak taco? Growing up in church, I was taught the Bible was the Word of God. And in many ways, it is. It’s sacred, shaped by divine breath.
 
But John is pointing to something deeper. When he says “the Word became flesh,” what does that mean? Is John saying Jesus is the Bible? Or something more profound?
 
John uses the Greek word logos—which means  more than simply “word.” It also speech, reasoning, message, and communication. It’s where we get English words like “logic” and “dialogue.” Perhaps it’s better for us to understand that John is telling us Jesus is the divine logic of God—God’s mind, God’s messaging and meaning wrapped in flesh.
 
In logos, we find the content of God’s thoughts made visible in the actions of Christ. We see this first in Genesis: God speaks, and creation happens. “Let there be light,” and—boom—there’s light.

God’s Word does more than just describe reality; it creates it. One day, God speaks—not with a sentence, but with a person: Jesus.
 
It’s like God looked at the empty tortilla of the world and said, “Let’s fill it with something good.” And we get a God taco. Jesus, packed full of grace and truth, radiating love, healing hearts, and telling the kind of stories that rearranged people’s souls.
 
When I think of Jesus—God with meat—I think of tacos. Because tacos warm my heart and feeds soul like Jesus does.
 
This God-taco moved into the neighborhood and knocked on our doors. He laughed with us, wept with us, touched our lepers, hugged our kids, and even healed our wounds. But most importantly, Jesus came and made sure everyone had a place at the table, especially the ones whom religion pushed away.
 
One could argue Jesus was the originator of DEI by embodying diversity, demanding equality, and welcoming everyone. This is why he is the Good News. The logos—the logic, the message, the movement of God who conveys divine intention through action. He doesn’t just tell us who God is. He shows us.
 
John tells us, “To all who received him… he gave the power to become children of God.” And that’s where we come in. You see, Jesus needs you and me—in all our ordinary fleshiness—to carry his mission forward. He has left it up to us to reveal God’s love to a hurting world. 
 
Now, let’s imagine the church is a taco. Jesus, obviously, is the meat. But we’re the onions, cilantro, guac, and salsa. Each of us brings a little flavor, a little salt, a little spice to the party. Together, we become the full-bodied taste of Christ.
 
Now, I get it. I’m sure it sounds just as silly to think of yourself as a taco as it does Jesus being one. John says anyone who sees Jesus and trusts what he says has been given the power to be God’s child.
 
Born from the Spirit of God, we each carry a word inside us—a slice of the logos. Some of us carry justice. Others, compassion. Some speak mercy, tenderness, courage, hope. Whatever your word is, don’t just say it—flesh it out.
 
Jesus didn’t come to be worshipped. He came to be followed. And following him means putting meat on your word. Being a holy and sacred taco.
 
As we build a community of love in the space between, we’re building upon what God has already spoken into us: life. Full and abundant. This is more than just saying I believe in Jesus. It’s about taking on his flesh and bones and being the good news ourselves.
 
You see, faith isn’t just some theory. It’s something that sweats and struggles with us. It shows up at the hospital at 3am. It feeds someone without asking why they’re hungry. It forgives when you’d rather hold a grudge. It’s about loving God and others with your hands and feet. Serving both with your whole heart.
 
Paul tells us we are one body with many parts. Each of us adds to the substance of Christ. If we are his body, then we must move like he moved. I can tell you to love God, love others, and serve both—but unless we actually do it, these words are just meatless bones.
 
A few years ago, Corey Booker said: “Don’t tell me about your religion. Show me how you treat people. Don’t preach your faith to me. Teach it through your compassion. In the end, I’m less interested in what you have to sell and more interested in how you choose to give.”
 
Sounds a lot like Jesus to me. John says he is the Word of God made flesh. And His entire message, his divine logic and message, can all be boiled down to one word and one action: Love.
 
Every time we show love, the Word becomes flesh again. That’s because, the Incarnation wasn’t a one-time event. It’s an ongoing invitation.  It’s a call to embody Christ—not just admire him. It’s a call to carry the weight of divine love into a hurting, hungry world.
 
So instead of counting calories and measuring our waistlines, let’s count the ways we can become little Christ’s in the flesh. Let’s measure our lives not by what we consume, but by how we nourish. Let’s do the work of Christ—feeding the world with the savory goodness of God’s love.

People are hungry out there. Hungry for justice, hungry for kindness, hungry to know they matter. And you—you, with all your flavor and heart—you get to feed them. With your compassion. With your presence. With your willingness to show up in the space between hurt and healing to meet them in God’s glory.
 
You are not just a child of God. You are a holy and sacred part of Christ’s body. You are his hands. His heart. His seasoning. Your tenderness is the salt. Your mercy is the lime. Your welcome is the warmth of the tortilla. Your courage is the spice.
 
When we work together, we make a feast. Not for ourselves, but for a world starved for grace. So, who will take on the weight of the Word? Who will bring their flavor, their gift, their yes? Who will wrap their little slice of the divine in grace and serve it to someone who’s starving for hope?
 
The Word still longs to become flesh. Not just once in Bethlehem—but again and again, in places like Prince Edward Island, Sherman Oaks, and right here, right now, in you. So go. Be tender-hearted. Be tacos. Be the Word made flesh—full of grace and truth.
 
Work Cited:
Adapted from an original sermon entitled Fleshiness on July 18, 2021.

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.