Sunday morning, I attended worship at a nearby church. The people were warm and gracious. The music was beautiful, led by a gifted musician who moved seamlessly between organ and piano. The service itself was carefully and thoughtfully choreographed — the prayers, the hymns, the liturgy, even the canopy of red, orange and yellow fabric suspended high above the nave, evoking flames and wind and movement. It was Pentecost Sunday, after all.
And yet, as can happen with holy days and familiar observances, it all risked becoming simply another service. Another Pentecost. Another retelling.
That was how I felt until something unexpected happened.
Brian Henderson
Following a powerfully crafted sermon — which invited us to imagine the Holy Spirit as something like a CPAP machine, a source of sustaining breath and life-giving pressure for weary souls — the service continued beautifully, predictably, reverently. We eventually arrived at the hymn of discipleship: “Jesus Promised Us the Spirit.”
Then came the second verse: “Now the breeze is blowing swiftly, bringing sounds we have not heard …”
And suddenly, I felt it.
I heard it too.
At first, I wondered what was happening. This was not something I expected. I briefly thought perhaps the person beside me was intentionally blowing breath my way, reenacting the gospel story we had heard earlier in the service: “Jesus breathed on or into them.”
But as I continued singing, I realized where the breeze and soft humming sound were coming from.
“Somehow, in that moment, Pentecost arrived for me again.”
Nita sat in the pew directly in front of me with her daughter and family. Nita is advanced in age, and after worship I learned she recently had struggled regulating her body temperature. To help herself manage, she wore a small battery-operated fan around her neck like a pendant. The quiet hum I heard during the hymn was the sound of that little fan, and the gentle breeze brushing across my face came from Nita’s cooling device.
And somehow, in that moment, Pentecost arrived for me again.
Not in spectacle. Not in thunder. Not in dramatic displays of power. But through the soft hum of survival. Through the gentle breeze of a woman doing what she needed to do to keep herself comfortable, present, alive.
Sometimes we simply do what we must to survive.
Nita was doing that.
And perhaps those first disciples were too.
I imagine them gathered behind locked doors not merely as faithful followers awaiting instruction, but as frightened people trying to survive. Arrested by grief. Immobilized by fear. Unsure of what waited for them beyond the threshold.
Honestly, that image feels painfully contemporary.
So many of us know what it is to live inside locked rooms these days — socially, politically, emotionally, spiritually. For many LGBTQ people especially, the world can still feel deeply unsafe. It can feel daunting to step outside and live fully and openly as ourselves.
That locked room of the disciples always has reminded me a bit of the closet I inhabited for so long.
“Fear does not always disappear simply because honesty arrives.”
I wish I could say that once I found the courage to come out, everything became easy. In some ways, life did become freer and fuller. But in other ways, it remains challenging still. Fear does not always disappear simply because honesty arrives.
And yet.
Along the way, there are moments.
Moments of fresh air.
Moments that feel like breath being breathed back into us.
Moments as small and holy as the quiet breeze from a tiny personal fan during a Pentecost hymn.
Glimmers of hope that keep us alive. Keep us awake. Keep us moving.
Perhaps this is how the Spirit so often works — not only through rushing winds, but also through quiet mercies. Through ordinary people. Through survival itself. Through the sacred tenderness of one human being helping another breathe a little easier.
May we each find the courage to step beyond the locked doors that confine us.
And may the breath of the divine — however quiet or rushing it may seem — continue to breathe life into us, keeping us alive to love, to learn and to become more fully ourselves and one another.
Brian Henderson serves as executive director of Association of Welcoming and Affirming Baptists. He lives in Cleveland, Ohio.