Pentecost Sunday - May 24, 2026

St. Pauls - Pentecost - May 24, 2026

Jesus showed them his hands and his side.

That doesn’t sound a lot like Pentecost. When we think of Pentecost we usually think of the rush of a violent wind, divided tongues of fire, speaking in other languages, intoxicated by the Spirit. That’s how Luke describes it in The Acts of the Apostles. But John’s account of Pentecost tells about locked doors, fear, wounds, peace, a shared breath, being sent.

Luke tells us that the disciples were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. At this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each.

Those of us who speak more than one language might be the best equipped to grasp the import of this miraculous moment.  Those of us who are bilingual (or better yet, well versed in many languages) understand implicitly that a language equals far more than the sum of its grammar, vocabulary, and syntax.

Languages carry the full weight of their respective cultures, histories, psychologies, and spiritualities.  To speak one language as opposed to another is to orient oneself differently in the world — to see differently, hear differently, process and punctuate reality differently.  To speak across barriers of race, ethnicity, gender, religion, culture, or politics is to challenge stereotype and risk ridicule.  To attempt one language as opposed to another is to make oneself a learner, a servant, a supplicant.  It is a brave and disorienting act. 

Has there ever been a time when we’ve needed such brave, border-crossing acts more acutely than we do right now?  As the world grows more and more tribal; as nations, cities, and even faith communities turn on each other out of suspicion and selfishness; as we’re forced by the pandemic to physically separate from those around us, can it be that God desires to pour out the Holy Spirit on us, so that we might learn new and life-giving ways of being the Church, being the Body, being Love incarnate for a frightened and imperiled world?  What languages do we need to speak right now that we’ve never spoken before?  Where does the fire need to fall, to burn away all that hinders us from being bearers of Good News in this dark time?   

This is where we need to turn to John’s gospel this day. In John’s gospel Pentecost is more quiet and intimate. It’s Easter evening and the disciples are afraid. They’re hiding behind locked doors. Jesus came and stood among them. Peace be with you, he said. Then he showed them his wounds from the crucifixion. He showed them his hands and his side. 

I wonder why Jesus did that. I wonder what he wanted them – what he wants us – to see. 

I think there’s more to be seen than just the mark of the nails and the piercing of the sword. I think it’s about more than simply being able to identify Jesus as the one who was crucified. I think that in showing us his wounds Jesus is identifying with every person who has ever been or is wounded. I think the open wounds of Jesus hold the pain of the world.

And as the poet Warsan Shire writes in her poem,                                  what they did yesterday afternoon that pain is everywhere:

later that nighti held an atlas in my lapran my fingers across the whole worldand whisperedwhere does it hurt?

it answeredeverywhereeverywhereeverywhere.

The wounded body of Jesus is an emblem of our wounded world (see Caputo, Cross and Cosmos, 9). To look at Jesus’ hands and his side is to see the wounds we’ve received and the ones we’ve inflicted on others.  

And I wonder what that brings up for you. What hurts your heart today? What are the tender spots of your life? What’s festering deep inside that you don’t want anyone to see? Where do you see another hurting? Can you hold his or her gaze, or do you look away because you just don’t want to see? In what ways have you and I added to the pain of another? 

The daily news breaks my heart. I see fear. I see death. I see protests. I see anger. I see violence. I see prejudice and racism. I see arrogance. I see privilege. I see unemployment. I see poverty and economic hardship. I see blatant disregard for our environment and building a wall throughout our pristine land. Those are the open wounds of our country and we’re hemorrhaging. We’re bleeding out and some can’t breath.

America is in a hard place these days, and we have been for quite a while. We certainly are not all together in one place on this day of Pentecost. Our country is divided, fragmented, and wounded. And so is my heart. Maybe yours is too.

It’s not easy to talk about our wounds; whether it’s our individual wounds or our national wounds, whether it’s the wounds we’ve received or the ones we’ve inflicted. To talk about our wounds requires us to look at what we’ve done and left undone. It means we each have to look within ourselves. It means taking responsibility for our lives. It means valuing the life and wounds of another as much as our own.

We might need to confess and we might need to forgive. We might need to reach out to another and we might need to open ourselves to another’s reaching toward us. We might need to offer the ointment of healing to another and we might need to receive another’s ointment for our healing.

I know all that in my head and it makes sense. But most of the time I don’t want to face or deal with my wounds. It’s too painful. It’s a vulnerable and risky place to be. And maybe you feel like that too. More often than not I just want to deny that they hurt. I want to ignore or forget my wounds, relegate them to the past. I want to cover up and hide my wounds so you can’t see them. Sometimes I make judgments about and blame others. Other times I want to use my wounds, revel in them, and play the victim so I can get some attention or sympathy. And maybe worst of all is when I use them as a justification for hurting someone else. 

But Jesus doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he shows up behind the locked doors, stands among the disciples in the midst of their fear, and says, Peace be with you. Then he shows them his hands and his side. He shows them his wounds and then he says again, Peace be with you.

Jesus wounds sit in the middle of the peace he offers. Peace bookends both sides of his wounds. And what if that’s true for us? What if we all live with a wounded peace? What if the only real peace we can offer comes out of the wounds we’ve suffered?

Peace be with you, Jesus says. What does that mean when you’re afraid and you’ve locked the doors of your house, your heart, your life? 

Peace be with you, Jesus says. What does that mean as we continue to disagree with one another and label them the enemy rather than disagreeing with one another and loving them inspire of our disagreements? What does that peace mean when we continue to draw lines between one another?

Peace be with you, Jesus says. What does that mean for the Muslim community in San Diego and all those terrorized by the shooting? What does that mean in light of America’s racism?

Peace be with you, Jesus says. What does that mean for you and me today? What is this peace Jesus offers? What does it look like, feel like? 

I don’t have a lot of answers to the questions I’ve asked. Each one of us must figure out how to be peace in this county. I can’t tell you how to do that but I can tell you this. The peace Jesus offers doesn’t mean serenity or lack of conflict. And it doesn’t mean that we necessarily get our way. And I think it’s more than a truce, an agreement to disagree, or the resignation to go along in order to get along. 

The peace Jesus offers changes hearts. It sends people into the world. It heals lives and let’s all people breath. The peace Jesus offers will be found next to our wounds. It’s a wounded peace. 

Peace be with you, Jesus says.

What will you do with your wounded peace today? To whom will you offer it? And how will you let it make a difference in the life of another?  Something to ponder, pray about and listen for the Spirit’s answer.

Let Us Pray

God, source of all life and being, 

on this day of Pentecost, 

when you first gave us the gift of your Holy Spirit, 

we bring our concerns for the world to you. 

We do this:

that your energy, light, and love may be unleashed 

to transform what is broken;

to heal who and what are wounded;

to make straight what is crooked and destructive;

to build up and enliven what is good and true;

that your will may be done on earth as it is in heaven.

AMEN+