A Homily for the Sixth Sunday of Easter
Acts 8: 5-8, 14-17 1 Peter 3: 15-18 John 14: 15-21
The Holy Spirit always surprises us. That is because the Spirit is like a possum. He plays dead until he is not.
I began this month’s Theology on Tap as I always do. I took a sip of my gin and tonic and asked the room if anyone had opening questions or comments. Our topic was the variety of ways the Eucharist has been understood over the centuries. An older gentleman said, “You can call this a question or a concern, but how am I supposed to think about Holy Communion with Janet’s possum in my face?”
The Holy Spirit always surprises us. That is because he is like a possum. He plays dead until you realize he is not.
I fancy myself a broadminded, affirming fellow, especially with gin in hand, but I could only say, “I don’t follow. Janet’s possum?”
“Yeah, the little fellow is staring right at me!”
I looked at Janet. After serving my drink, she had taken a seat at the table directly in front of me. Now I saw that she did indeed have a baby possum on her neck, a little stuffed toy, such as my dogs might play with. But then the possum sniffed the older man. It was not stuffed; it was a live possum, snuggling with Janet.
Yes, this confirms the Kansas stereotypes of flyover country. But Janet explained that she had rescued Karl, her little possum friend, from a fight with two mean felines. “He’ll be good. He loves the Lord.”
Another sip before I issued my response. Who was I to keep Karl from his catechesis?
The Holy Spirit always surprises us. That is because he is like a possum. He plays dead until you realize he is not.
You cannot see spirits because there is nothing to see, so you never know when they are about. The very word “spirit” suggests surprise. It comes from the Latin “spiritus,” meaning breath. Normally, you cannot see breath any more than you can see wind. All you can see is breath or wind moving other things.
We always access the Godhead through the Holy Spirit.
So, when the Lord Jesus told us to expect a Holy Spirit, he as much as said to us, he will surprise you, because that is what spirits do. They play dead, like possums.
I will ask the Father,
and he will give you another Advocate to be with you always,
the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot accept,
because it neither sees nor knows him (Jn 14:16-17).
On this side of the grave, no believer can see God the Father or God the Son. Whatever experience that we have of them comes to us through the Spirit they poured out upon the world. We always access the Godhead through the Holy Spirit.
As God’s breath, the Holy Spirit is invisible, yet like wind he becomes indirectly visible. You “see” the Holy Spirit; you can recognize him when he moves things around in your world. We discern the spirit in patterns of events. Here are a few examples:
- a setback, followed by another, but then a kind word from a friend follows. It illuminates and comforts.
- A sense of foreboding, a desperately voiced prayer, a sense of some consolation, and then an answer to that prayer.
- A quick judgment about the motivation and intentions of another. Then a revelation of our error and of the prejudice that prompted it, followed by contrition on our part.
The list could continue, but it will never catalog all the ways in which the Holy Spirit reveals himself to individual believers. Indeed, the primordial religious experience is the possum phenomena. You think that you are alone, looking at something inanimate, which comes from the Latin, meaning “not having a soul.” But then you see movement, and you know that you are not alone.
God comes to us in events, and events are always singular, unrepeatable. Another cannot see the breath of God move through your world.
You cannot prove your experience of the Holy Spirit. Why not? Because no one else shares your vantage point, your unique window into the world. God comes to us in events, and events are always singular, unrepeatable. Another cannot see the breath of God move through your world. In the words of St. Peter’s first epistle, all that you can do by way of sharing your sighting of the Spirit is to “always be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope” (3:13).
I mentioned to Janet that I had initially mistaken Karl for a stuffed toy that she was wearing around her neck. A young woman asked, “And that did not strike you as odd?”
I had to confess, “Well, yes, I suppose so, but not as odd as wearing a real possum.”
In my defense, a stuffed toy possum is quaint, even quirky, but it is thoroughly inanimate. It does not require a response because, unlike a live possum, it is not going to do anything. If you realize that a real possum is in front of you, you will respond to it as you would to any other critter. Like for the older man, a live possum may give you the jitters, but it does not compel you to receive it as a fellow human.
This is where possums and spirits part ways. A spirit, an invisible intelligence, demands a personal response from us. We are compelled to acknowledge another, just as when we say to other humans, “Oh, I am sorry! I did not see you standing there.” We must either affirm or deny. We open ourselves to communion or we refuse to do so.
And therein lies the great responsibility that follows every revelation of the Holy Spirit. If this spirit can rearrange the elements of your life at will, then what response do you owe to the very breath, the real presence of God?
