A couple of years ago I took a “personality” test on-line that attempts to highlight the user’s natural gifts. Of the top five traits that the test revealed, the number one for me was my sense of connectedness—that all things are linked and have meaning together. It’s no surprise, then, that when I think of Pentecost, I think of unity.

Luke’s account in the Book of Acts stands in contrast to the story of Babel we find in Genesis (11.1-9). There, people are trying lay claim to something they were never intended to do or be. They overextend themselves, assuming that they have all the answers, that they are fully independent, and that they themselves are gods. It’s a disaster. And it results in confusion, discord, and divergence.

The Pentecost story represents a reversal of course from the dysfunction of Babel. People from all over the known world had come together to commemorate the giving of Torah on Sinai—God’s revelation to the people (this is what Pentecost celebrates in Judaism). But when they gathered, they received a new revelation, one that transcended their respective differences, but one that was nevertheless communicated in their own cultural context by the power of the Spirit. Just like at Sinai, the birth of the Church was accompanied by signs of God’s presence, but this time they came as understanding, harmony, and unity.

This connectedness is the same outcome that Jesus prays for in chapter 17 of John’s Gospel, a vision of oneness of the people situated in the fullness of divine love. But this divine unity doesn’t mean uniformity; Luke makes this clear as the people retain their ethnic uniqueness throughout. Instead, God’s unity means we have a common purpose and goal—recognition of Christ as Lord.

As we celebrate the birth of the Church this weekend, let’s be mindful of what it means to live out this truth. Let’s see and experience our connectedness in Christ. Like the crowds that Peter witnessed to, we retain our unique strengths, but we don’t have to have all the answers. Instead, let’s live what one writer calls an “inter-independence,” as fully differentiated persons freely sharing our gifts and talents with one another to uplift the Body and maintain its overall health. Let’s manifest an abiding presence with each other, valuing diverse opinions and including those voices in our journey together. And in the end, let’s understand that we are perfected only in Christ.

Happy Birthday to the Church; through the Spirit of God that connects us, may she have many more!

“O guiding night! O night more lovely than the dawn! O night that has united the Lover with his beloved, transforming the beloved in her Lover.” So reads the fifth stanza of “Dark Night,” the poem from which we get the saying, “the dark night of the soul.” But notice how the poet—the sixteenth century mystic John of the Cross—doesn’t convey a sense of fear or anxiety. Instead, this song is about the “beloved” who has found solace in God. But it took the cover of “darkness” for this transformation to occur.

This week we find ourselves at the culmination of the 2021 Lenten season. Just like in the biblical account, the weeks leading up to this moment seem to have been a blur. But now time is slowing down again, sharpening our view as things come to a screeching halt at Good Friday. But given what occurs, many have asked, “what’s so good about it?”

Luke’s Gospel has Jesus proclaim with his last breath, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” (23.46). While this verse is familiar, it portends a voyage into the darkness. The ecumenical version of the Apostles’ Creed tells us that Jesus “descended to the dead” during this time, a mission of plumbing the depths of desolation and despair as only God could. It is a time of silence. It is a time of mystery. It is a time of deep, abiding trust. And the “darkness” of Good Friday is one through which all Christians must pass.

The mystery of Friday—and Saturday—is a time of transformation. It’s under the cover of this darkness that God comes to us, softly, silently. But before we can respond, we have to “descend” into the depths of our very selves and face the demons that would blind us to the loving reality of the cross. We must die to the old self, imitating Christ’s self-emptying for us, and trusting in the Spirit’s promise to enliven us once again.

The first “Good Friday” inaugurated a new age. In the years since, many have commemorated this time by setting aside these final hours of Lent as sacred moments of reflection and introspection. My prayer as the season winds down, in this liminal time between Friday and Easter, is that we the beloved remain faithfully grounded in love and can share in the refrain, “O guiding night! O night more lovely than the dawn!” That makes for a “good” Friday—and every day beyond.