What if? A Choose-Your-Own-Ending Story

What if I were in the upper room when the wind started? What if I weren't Peter, or James, or John, or even Matthias? What if I were some wholly unknown person--maybe one of the women? (Not Mary or Mary or the other Mary--someone no one ever heard of or ever will.)

I cringe in terror at the sound of a hurricane right in the house with us--we all do, even fishermen who are used to Lake Galilee's erratic and temperamental attitudes. Maybe especially those fishermen, come to think of it. But gradually our fear transforms to a holy, shivery awe as we realize this wind is not of the earth. We lower the arms we'd thrown over our faces, and lift our heads. Everyone is staring at everyone else, mouths open. I suddenly remember hearing about Jesus telling Nicodemus that the Spirit is like the wind. He said he'd send that Spirit to us--another comforter, he said. We wouldn't be alone anymore. Not that we're alone now--I've never experienced anything like this unity. Still, Jesus is gone, and it's terribly lonely!

Fire! There's fire, too? My arms prickle with chills as I watch flame divide into little tongues which settle just above each head. Mine, too? I try to roll my eyes far enough back to see above my veil, but can't. Then the murmuring begins, and quickly grows to shouts of praise and amazement. Hebrew, Aramaean, Greek, and things I can't begin to recognize--what is this?!

The joy becomes too big to contain in one upstairs room. We spill out and down the stairs in a peoplefall of singing and rejoicing, and see that crowds are gathering. "They're drunk!" someone shouts, and I have to admit, that is what it feels like. Are we drunk? On what?

Peter begins to speak and the crowd (ourselves included) quiet to listen.

But I'm not Peter, or James, or John, or Matthias. I'm not Mary or Mary or anyone that anyone has ever heard of, or ever will.

So, what happens next?

Abiding is Invisible

In John 15, Jesus tells his disciples that they need to abide in him the way branches live in a grapevine. We've been discussing and arguing and analyzing what that means ever since. We check ourselves, check each other, check our actions, and check the church manual. We make sermons and songs and blog posts about abiding.

Most of all, we try to be sure we're doing it. Doing it right. Whatever it is. We look for fruit. That should tell us. He said if we abide, we produce fruit. Well, what is fruit? Good works? Converts? Proselytes?

Here's my two-cents' worth. True abiding is invisible, and subject to Heisenberg principle. If you can look at it, it's not there. (My own slightly tilted definition.) A baby at its mother's breast has no idea there's a mommy and a me and what's flowing between us and wrapped around me is love and it's making me grow. 

It just grows.

A branch on a tree doesn't have a clue that there's a tree and a trunk and a cambium layer and water and sunshine and air. It doesn't even know there are apples. 

It just makes them.

I am above all things a discussing, arguing, analyzing checker. I couldn't possibly recommend that we quit that. So maybe we should give our busy little brains other things to discuss, argue, analyze, and check. Maybe the nature of Christ, or the history of religion, or Hebrew dualism or Greek verb tenses. Yeah, that ought to keep us occupied. In the meantime, we can be silently, constantly, almost unconsciously twining tendrils of our being into God's heart. Or, more likely, God can be twisting tendrils into ours.

We'll be abiding. Someday we'll get close enough to look the Vine and the Vinedresser in the face and hear the words, "Fruit! Good job!"

We'll be astonished. And we'll be one with the One.