The risen Jesus has been present with them. "Touch my wounds," he said. "Feed my sheep," he said. They have known the promise of Easter. But they had also seen him taken up, ascended into heaven, with the promise that the Holy Spirit would come upon them. Pretty promises, yes. But only promises. He’s gone. He’s history.

They huddle. They wait. They pray. They pray that God will make good on Jesus’ pretty promise. William Willimon says that prayer is the

bold, even arrogant effort on the part of the community to hold God to his promises. In praying, ‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, we pray that God will be true to himself and give us what has been promised. Prayer is thus boldness born out of confidence in the faithfulness of God to the promises he makes, confidence that God will be true to himself.

When I started college, I took a history course from a professor named Dr. Turner, known universally as "Trivia Turner" (except to his face). His method of teaching was to inundate us with the most trivial historical facts in the hope, I suppose, that by burying us under a pile of splinters, we would somehow see the forest. It didn’t work with me. So, now, over a quarter century later, I still remember, (despite myself) that some guy who founded some colony was known by the Indians as "Fat Guts."

I’m sure ol’ Fat Guts had a great story to tell, but he’s dead; he’s history. The events of his life have long passed. Most people and events aren’t even remembered by history, of course, not even to the extent of recalling insulting nicknames. But, of course, some people and events are very much remembered by history. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, we are still influenced by what they did with their lives. And, as the blockbuster movie is quick to point out, we were changed forever by Pearl Harbor.

The events and people of history are very diverse, but they all have one thing in common —the events aren’t happening, and the people aren’t alive. History, as important as it is, is about things that have passed, and people who are as dead as ol’ Fat Guts.

We are not about the past. As important as the past is to us, its role is to tell us how to be about the present and the future. Because on Pentecost, God didn’t say, "It’s up to you now. Your mission is to organize an historical society to always remember the life, death, and ministry of Jesus and to draw inspiration from those memories." As important as that is, that’s not what God said. On Pentecost, God said, "I am with you. I am in the midst of you. The Holy Spirit is alive in your midst and in your lives. My children, this has not been about history and the past; this is an explosion of life for the future."

I wonder how many of us really believe that? Oh, I know; we say we do, but really, how many of us really believe that on a given day? Do we act like we believe it? I find myself sometimes slipping into thinking of Christianity as history. The way you do that is that you think of Christianity as a marvelous collection of stories, and morals, and guidelines, and music, and statements of faith, and poetry, and prayers that influence and shape your life. Christianity is the record of things, marvelous things, that happened in the past and that influence you now because you allow yourself to be exposed to them and open to them.

Well, there’s nothing wrong with that, as far as it goes. In fact, it’s quite wonderful, as far as it goes. But I’m afraid that sometimes I slip into thinking that—that’s as far as it goes, that Christianity is a collection of inspiring things from the past that have a positive influence on me, like reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther King, Jr. can have a positive influence on me.

History can have a positive influence on us. That’s wonderful. That’s not what happened on Pentecost. There was wind and fire. It was an explosion of presence, and life, and power. Not memory, not history, not the recollection of a great man, not inspiring stories, not a wonderful example from the past to follow — presence, and life, and power—now!

If you want your Christianity to be a museum, you can have it that way. We Anglicans especially have provided you with a wonderful storehouse so that you can decorate your museum with the most beautiful and tasteful and inspiring liturgy and music and hangings and vestments and prayers and gestures and ceremonials and poetry and prayer books. We can really make it a gorgeous place. And you can be inspired, and you will probably be a better person for it, and it will all be a good influence on you, all the stories and songs and decorations which so beautifully remind us of events long past and people long dead.

I have been a patron of that museum, a member of that church, on occasion, on many occasions actually. It’s easy to slip into that, even when I don’t mean to. But I want to suggest that we do something else, something much more dangerous. I want to suggest that we do something bold and even arrogant. I want to suggest that we tell God that living in a museum just isn’t enough. I want to suggest that we do what the disciples did—huddle, and pray, pray out of a boldness born out of confidence in the faithfulness of God to the promises God makes, confidence that God will be true to God’s word. I want to suggest that we pray for God’s presence to be among us, God’s life to be among us, God’s power to be among us. Now. Not history. Life. Now.

Don’t do it lightly. It’s a bold prayer. You’ll be playing with fire. Your life might get messed up. It probably will. Your museum might get burned to the ground. There will probably, some way or another, be an explosion.

So think about it carefully. If you want to worship history, we’ve got great stuff and I’m sure you really will be a better person for it. If you want to know the living God and live dangerously into God’s future, then let us play with fire, let us make our audacious, dangerous, prayer: Veni Sancte Spiritus. "Come Holy Spirit."