In these verses from the second chapter of Acts, we jump ahead a bit in our Easter story to the days right after Pentecost. As Luke tells it, Jesus has ascended into heaven, but before he did, he told the disciples to stay in Jerusalem and wait for God to reveal a way forward. You’ll know it when it happens, he tells them, and you’ll know just what to do.
And they did. Pentecost comes, the Spirit moves, sweeping over the crowds in Jerusalem with tongues as of fire, people speaking different languages and understanding them. Peter, seeing that this was the moment Jesus had promised, takes hold of it and preaches the sermon of his life. They all watch as a crowd of 3,000 comes forward to be baptized. And suddenly the disciples find themselves in a new situation. Now the people are standing there, still dripping wet from the waters of baptism, looking to the disciples and asking them the same question the disciples had asked Jesus before he left: What do we do now?
I.
We’ve heard your message, we’ve dropped everything and followed, we’ve been through the waters of baptism, we’ve died with Christ and risen to walk again “in newness of life. Now tell us, what does this new life look like? Tell us, what happens next in this Kingdom of God? Tell us, what do we do now?
And you can almost imagine the disciples standing there, kind of looking at each other, dumbstruck by what they’ve just witnessed, and perhaps the reality of what they’ve gotten themselves into sinking in, that they are now the ones in charge—kind of like new parents on the drive home from the hospital when it hits you the nurse will not be checking in. This is it, it’s just you and this new baby that someone decided was okay to come home with you. The disciples are standing there holding this new baby of the church, the crowds looking back at them, and they hear themselves say to the crowd,
Well, we think we’ll just keep doing what we did when Jesus was here.
And the people say, Wonderful! What was that?
Well, we listened to him teach a lot.
Good, so now you’ll teach us?
Sure… err—Yes! Of course, we’ll be the ones to teach you.
Wonderful. Now, what else did you do?
Well, mostly we just walked around together.
You just walked around together?
Yes, we walked around a lot, actually. Like, almost too much, some days we wondered if Jesus even knew ew where we were going (You can imagine the blank stares)
Well, we didn’t just walk around; we talked along the way as we walked.
You talked as you walked.
Yes, we talked. (Now people are starting to dry off.)
Wait, wait! We didn’t just walk and talk, we did things together, we shared things together, we were just “together.”
You were together?
Yes, we were together. We shared what we had and made sure everyone had enough. We shared our lives together. We ate together.
—You ate together?
Oh, yes. We ate together all the time. And there was always someone new around the table, someone Jesus had introduced us to. And it was always special, but this one time, our last meal together, it was very special. We’ll tell you about that soon. Yes, we shared our lives together, what brought us joy, what broke our hearts. Doubts, worries, fears—all of it.
That’s what we did: we listened to Jesus tell us the story of our faith. We shared our lives together, shared all we had with those in need, and we broke bread together, a lot. That’s what we did.
The people are leaning in.
And that’s what we’ll do now. How does that sound to you? Does that sound like the Kingdom of God?
The people, still standing there, wet from their baptism, say, “Yes.” Yes, it does sound like the Kingdom of God.
And they were off.
II.
They may not have been the most creative bunch in the world, but give the disciples credit, they didn’t overthink things. Their idea of the church was simply to continue doing what they’d been doing while Jesus was still with them. To continue living and acting as if Christ was still there, because they knew that he still was. And the way they knew to live and act was “together.”
Koinonia is the fancy Greek word that shows up over and over in the New Testament to describe the way the early church committed to living together, a word we usually translate as “fellowship” or “community,” but it really means “sharing.” Outside of “resurrection,” it’s probably the most important word in the New Testament—maybe just as important. The New Testament tells us this is the one thing where, if you don’t have it, you don’t have a church. This commitment to living in community, to share in life together, richly and deeply, was the defining feature of the early church. It’s at the heart of what Luke summarizes in these short verses.
They shared a story: the apostles’ teaching about who Jesus was and who they were, and who God was calling them to be. They shared their stuff—one of the more uncomfortable descriptions of the early church; the way they gave up individual possessions and “held all things in common.” They shared meals—lots of meals. They shared their time, and also their prayers: their joys, their celebrations, their concerns, their hopes, their doubts. Their faith, in other words. And amid all this sharing they found that not only did they have enough, but they had precisely the abundance of life Jesus spoke of. That’s it. That was the church.
And of course, when we say it like this, it sounds simple, and it is. But it’s simple in the same way a poem is simple. It’s as simple as falling in love. As simple as selling all you have and following after Christ. Simple as being born again. And it may seem to us idyllic and even a bit niave, especially when held against all the things that would be soon be added to the mix, some of it good and necessary and inevitable, some of it unfortunate and regrettable: the programs, the budgets and initiatives, the denominations, the divisions. Luke holds up this snapshot right there at the start and reminds us of what the church was at its core, at its heart: a people committed to sharing their lives together in Christ. And we still are. The church is “most the church” when we’re truly living in this way—when we’re sharing our lives in all their fullness and complexity. Showing, in all of it, in some small, imperfect way, how it will be in the Kingdom of God.
Now, we have to say, this is also when the church is at its most frustrating, and at times most infuriating and even disappointing—living in community is hard. It’s so hard. Luke is honest about this, too—just keep reading. It’s hard to live together. It’s hard to make decisions together, to reach some consensus, or if not consensus, then to choose a path forward—to say we’re going to go this way and not that. It rubs against some of our most persistent human impulses toward getting our own way.
It’s hard to abide each other’s failures and hardheadedness—and for them to abide ours. It’s hard to disagree and find a way to keep liking each other, or if not like each other, at least commit to love each other. Heck, commitment itself of just about any kind is increasingly countercultural. We’re more used to being free agents in the world, atomized and untethered, with actual human contact becoming increasingly optional in ways large and small. A friend sent me a video the other day that he took of his 15-year-old son ordering a pizza the “old-fashioned way,” over the phone, something he’d never done before. They were all sitting around on their back patio, trying to contain their laughter as his wife coached their son through what to say. The app is so much easier, and yet, how important is the friction we encounter when sharing in this world with others? That friction is actually life itself.
III.
It doesn’t sound like much, Luke’s description of the early church and what they did. And yet within these simple movements, it says that they were all “in awe, at all the wonders and signs being done” among them. And I used to read that and wonder, gosh, what happened? Where did those signs and wonders go to inspire awe like that? And I’ll confess there are still moments when the thought does visit me. But if you spend enough time in churches, you start to get it. You start to see signs and wonders everywhere.
I’m in awe every Sunday when we gather in this room with its soaring rafters to direct our attention and devotion to something greater than ourselves. When I look out over the pews and see all of you, and when I think of what you’ve carried with you. Your grief, your worry. How you made it here again to this place, sometimes—it feels like—against all odds. Aching bodies, sleepless nights, backseat fireworks on the ride here. Someone said to me once, I never need church more than I do after surviving the car ride here. Some weeks, it is indeed a wonder we all made it here in one piece.
When we lift our voices in song together—where else do people sing? Where else do adults gather and sing together, and isn’t that kind of a wonder? I never heard my father sing but in church, and even then, it was in something just above a mumble. Which means I never would have heard my father’s voice in song if not for the hymns of the church and the company of so many others that gave him permission to do so. I’m in awe of that, and grateful.
When we approach the table with our open hands, or look to the waters, splashing around up there in this indoor hottub, and yet the Spirit moves every time. When we welcome a newborn into our midst, and watch them float down the aisles. When we make the audacious claim that “they belong to us, too” and commit to love and nurture them, no matter who God reveals them to be. Each one is a sign of the world to come. When we send someone home, and process out to the sturdy walls of the columbarium. Also a sign of the world to come.
I’m in awe of so many of the movements here throughout the week, the groups that meet, the ministries that run like clockwork, made possible by the gifts of so many: Meals on Wheels, Cancer Support, prayer groups, folks studying French or the Enneagram. Even committee meetings—God bless you— and all the decisions made with intention and care.
When our Caregivers gather each Monday to lift the prayers and concerns of this church and our wider circles of care. When we review all the lists where names are cataloged, kept, and rotated using a formula that, nearly 3 years in, I have not yet begun to understand, but I am so glad someone else does. I believe it’s like calculating for Easter, something about the moon—thank God someone knows. They lift every name, offer every update, plan every meal to be delivered, and sign every card—you know these cards. Chances are you’ve received one. Signs and wonders.
This is to say nothing of all that happens beyond these walls. All the prayers offered, the gifts given, the care shown, the tables gathered around. All the places we go from this place, blessed and filled with the Holy Spirit, taking the church with us.
IV.
It is a wonder to live the way we hope to live, and every now and again do, which is to live not completely for ourselves. To live wholly and fully with others. To walk this Christian journey together, knowing that this is the only way it can be walked. This has always been a wonder, a scandal even—there’s something alarming about people refusing to live solely for themselves. It’s surprising and makes folks suspicious. The idea that in our broken and fragmented world, where we’re so quick to separate and sort, so naturally choose sides and tribes, when this is so very much the norm, that people would come together voluntarily and commit themselves to one another despite all that would keep them apart, making room for each other, giving grace and space to each other, lifting voices and offering human touch—where else does this happen?
It is a wonder. And I’m in awe of it. Its simplicy. Its abundance. All of it a sign of the Kingdom of God.