There’s perhaps no more complicated character in the New Testament than the Apostle Paul. He is the supposed author of nearly half of the New Testament books, spread the gospel near and far, and shaped what it means to be a Christian more than anyone besides Jesus himself. He led a fascinating life, punctuated by a dramatic conversion. He had many friends and even more enemies. He was a Jew and a Christian, a citizen of Rome, a missionary, a tent-maker, an agitator, an enemy of the state, a theologian, an apostle, and eventually a martyr. But before all of those things, when it comes to what we have in his letters and the stories told of him like this one in the Book of Acts, we need to remember that Paul was, first of all, and for better or worse, a “preacher.”

Earlier this week I joined the leadership of the landscaping and grounds committee to do a walk around of the Youth House exterior to consider the challenges and opportunities presented by recent tree loss. I have to tell you, neither my seminary training nor any search committee I’ve ever interacted with prepared me for how often in ministry I find myself walking around with a small group, looking at something. That’s not a complaint. There is something very holy about joining with others to see what can be seen with human eyes and dream what can’t be seen yet.

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.

I don’t know if the perfect poem exists—that may not be a reasonable category. But if it does, my vote might be Donald Hall’s beautiful poem, “Summer Kitchen,” which is printed in your bulletin, in which he captures, perfectly, a moment in time: an ordinary evening not unlike so many evenings that you or I have known. But as he remembers it years later, after his wife, the poet Jane Kenyon, died too young of cancer, it is revealed as something much more. He writes,

In her wonderful book, The Preaching Life, Barbara Brown Taylor tells of monthly visits she once took as a pastor to celebrate communion with a nursing home on the other side of town.

The annual school year concluding service led by our children.