“When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. 2 And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. 3 Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. 4 All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, “What does this mean?” But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.’”
-Acts 2:1-4; 12-13
On Pentecost Sunday, when the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles with tongues of fire, many witnessed these signs and assumed they were drunk. It’s a fair assumption, I suppose. Pentecost, after all, was a major feast for the Jews with people traveling from all over the region to celebrate the first fruits of the harvest. Much like Fiesta, it was a multi-day party with excess tradition, eating and drinking. So, when the crowds witnessed people who were seeing, hearing, and speaking things that others could not comprehend, what else were they to assume than drunkenness from a new wine?
I spent many formative years intoxicated on wine. I describe myself as a prodigal. I grew up in the church, but after confirmation in my teenage years, I ran away from the faith. My god became lacrosse, and my church became the team. I placed my hopes in the glory that came from success on the field and made religious-like sacrifices to achieve these goals. For a time, it worked. I became quite good, earning a scholarship to play at my dream school, the University of Virginia. During my freshman year, I was a contributing player for the 2006 undefeated national championship team.
On the surface, it would have looked as though I was thriving in my “new religion.” I was well liked, made athletic honor roll, and played on my dream team. Underneath the surface, however, I didn’t like the person I was becoming. If you know anything about lacrosse, you will know that it is a fast sport with a fast culture. My teammates used to say that we partied “8 nights a week,” and they nicknamed me, “Joe College,” because I partied harder than all of them. I had a lot of fun, but there were too many mornings that I would awake to foggy memories that I regretted.
During a vulnerable and depressed moment, I reached out to an old lacrosse coach who worked with a Christian ministry called Young Life. In sharing my existential angst with him, he convinced me to spend my summer break at a Camp in Saranac, New York. Where I grew up, in Columbus, OH, it was not popular to identify as Christian. In my narrow and anemic imagination, I presumed God to be lame and harsh. After all, church was boring and often made me feel guilty. The idea of spending my first summer break in college at a Christian camp was hard to fathom; it neither advanced my career nor did I have friends doing it. I worried that I would miss out on all the fun and fall behind in the rat race to a formidable resume. Yet, albeit reluctantly, I drove northward to camp – hungover and wondering if I had made a terrible decision.
What I experienced, however, changed my life indelibly. A friend of mine frequently says, “grace is expecting punishment, but receiving a party.” That summer, I experienced grace. Like the prodigal son, I took the long journey home expecting punishment and dreadful servitude to a harsh God; but what I experienced was the playful delight of a God wildly in love with his creation, who robes his children with his righteousness and throws a party. I discovered the God of Israel, who raised Jesus Christ from the dead and poured out his Spirit as a new wine for my thirsty soul. This transcendent and spacious story of God in scripture expanded and redirected my story, such that I am now a priest moving to a new city and new church.
When you read the holy scriptures, wine litters the pages and is used in various literary forms. It is used in the literal linguistic form, in that it is present at Jewish feasts (Gn. 14:18, Lk. 22:7-23), offered in the temple (Ex 29:40; Lev. 23:13), used for medicinal purposes (2 Sm 16:2; Prov 31:6; 1 Tim. 5:23), and miraculously created by our Lord in Cana (Jn. 2:1-11). In this form, we are warned that excess consumption of wine or other forms of alcohol should be avoided (Pr. 23:19-21; 29-35), as “Joe College” needed to hear. That said, the resounding description of wine in the pages of scripture, for those who consume it in moderation, corresponds best with the Rite 1 Eucharistic prayers: that it is a “holy gift” and “creature,” which “gladdens the heart” (Ps. 104:15).
More significantly, wine’s presence in scripture appears in the allegorical or symbolic form to convey spiritual realities in and beyond the literal. When you read God’s promise of renewal for Jerusalem in Isaiah, particularly chapters 25 and 65, wine is used to convey the abundance of delight and satisfaction that will be enjoyed by those who faithfully keep the covenant. Jesus’ miracle in Cana is seen as a foretaste of that delight. More famously, wine is incorporated into the sign of the New Covenant, Holy Communion. Following our tradition’s teaching on this, we faithfully receive the “outward and visible sign” of the wine as the “inward and spiritual grace” it conveys: mainly, “the Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” his real presence to and for us.
Returning to Acts 2, we might be tempted to read the throw away accusation against the apostles being drunk on a new wine as insignificant. After all, St. Peter quickly refutes the crowd, saying “Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known… these are not drunk, as you suppose.” To be sure, it was only 9 o’clock in the morning; the disciples were not drunk on alcohol. However, they were intoxicated with a new wine, in ways that the crowd did not suppose; the new wine of the Holy Spirit.
To understand the allegory of the new wine, we must unpack a parable that appears in each of the synoptic gospels: the parable about new wine and old wineskins. In St. Luke’s account, Jesus says: “people do not pour new wine into old wineskins. If they do, the new wine will burst the skins; the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, new wine must be poured into new wineskins. And none of you, after drinking old wine, wants the new, for you say, ‘The old is better.’” (Lk. 5:37-39). New wine stretches and expands as it ages and the old wineskins are not able to contain this growth.
In the context, Jesus is anwering the critical questions of the Pharisees and teachers of the law about why he and his disciples go about eating and drinking while John the Baptist and his disciples fast and pray. Jesus answered them saying, “Can you make the friends of the bridegroom fast while he is with them? But the time will come when the bridegroom will be taken from them; in those days they will fast” (vv. 34-35). In essence, he is saying that you will only have me with you for a time; so let’s eat, drink and be merry together. There will be a time after Jesus ascends to the heavenly Father, however, when we will need to return to the ascetical practices of fasting. It’s within this context that Jesus speaks of the new wine and old wineskins.
It is common to assume that Jesus’ teaching about the new wine and old wineskin is a kind of radical renunciation of the religion of the pharisees; a kind of extreme discontinuity between Jesus’ ministry and those who have come before him. Perhaps you’ve heard something like this: “The old covenant religion is harsh and ritualistic adherence to the law while the new covenant religion of Jesus is merciful and flexible, and it’s all about grace.” Many of us have experienced this legalistic form of religion in the church, giving credence to this interpretation. This undoubtably shaped my false presumptions about God before my prodigal return. While there is an exhilaration to novelty and some truth to this interpretation, it simply does not hold up to the dynamic complexity of the new covenant. Jesus doesn’t throw the baby out with the bathwater; grace restores nature and makes us able to keep the law.
In the context, you will recall, Jesus gives immediate credibility for the old things: the practices of the John the Baptist and the old wineskins. He says that his disciples will need to fast when the bridegroom departs, and speaks of not wanting the old wineskins to be ruined. Old wine is, after all, better, he says in agreement (Lk. 5:39). Jesus says it starkly in his Sermon on the Mount, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfil” (Mt. 5:17). The old law is not bad, it simply needs to expand to hold the new thing that God is doing. What is the new thing that God is doing on Pentecost?
When the new wine of the Spirit fills the apostles at the feast of Pentecost with tongues of fire, they are made able to proclaim the good news of Jesus in the tongue of different tribes and nations. No longer is the religion of Israel mediated through a single culture and language, but it is now conveyed in the native language of Cretans and Arabs, Greeks and Asians, even 21st century Texans who speak English. On the Feast of Pentecost, the Spirit is reconciling people to God and one another from every nation, tribe and language under the name of Christ.
If the new wine is poured into a new wineskin, it will expand with the wine, but if poured into an old wineskin, it will burst. In the book of Acts, this New Wine of the Spirit begins to expand within the new wineskin of the church; it expands in abundance out of Jerusalem, cascading its joy of salvation to Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth. The Spirit’s missional expanding becomes the structure of the whole book of Acts.
As you watch the story of Acts unfold and see the cascading abundance of New Wine spreading throughout the whole world, there are simultaneously two things you see: the new wine expanding and the old wineskins remaining. The new wine and new thing that God is doing is joining a multiplicity of people to himself and to the story of Israel. It is what St. Paul describes as a ministry of reconciliation and a breaking down of the wall of hostility, which previously divided Jews and Gentiles. The theologian Willie James Jennings describes this as the “revolution of the intimate.” The tongues of fire pronounce the gospel in people’s mother tongue. Jennings says, “this is not generic speech, formal pronouncements, but the language of intimate spaces where peoples inside talk to one another.”[1] God is intimately joining a disparate people to himself and to one another. He gives us words in our heart language because he wants us to know him intimately even as we are intimately known by him.
When we receive the new wine of the Spirit in our mortal body, we must become hospitable and receptive to this new work. We must become like new wineskins that are capable of expanding and incorporating Him and others into our life. This is precisely what begins to happen in the early church. Peter sees a vision and is called to visit Cornelius, the Gentile. There he proclaims the gospel and sees the Holy Spirit descend once more upon a new people group. In Acts 15, the first ecumenical council, the apostles officially declare this new work of God, prohibiting certain Jewish requirements for the new converts as well as calling them to faithful obedience to other moral commandments of the law. More powerfully, St. Paul describes the Gentiles as “citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God” (Eph.2:19).
While the feast of Pentecost in Acts 2 is unique, the new wine of Pentecost never runs out in the life of the church; God continually pours His Spirit into his beloved, expanding her to full maturity. During this new season at Christ Church, my prayer as your rector is that we all will be receptive, hospitable and open to this joining work of the Spirit. This has already begun in your generous and hospitable welcome of me, a stranger to you. You have graciously received me and opened yourselves to what God might do in us together. My prayer is that we will expand together in a deeper love for God and his people, making room for new life, new growth, and new people.
New things are exciting and hopeful, but can also be fraught with some fear. When new things come, people fear the loss of things held dear and good history thrown aside. When you scan the work of the Spirit in the pages of Acts, however, you also see the old wine skins upheld and remain. Remember, Jesus does not want the old wineskin to be ruined; he does not throw out the old for the new, but seeks to mature the new wine for the old wineskins. As the apostles proclaim the gospel of Jesus to Gentiles, they invite these new people into a story that pre-dates them. The sermons of Acts are littered with Old Testament quotes and references of old prophesies being fulfilled in Jesus. The apostles cannot separate the new act of God from his acts of old; it is a fulfillment and continuation of God’s covenantal fidelity. In this way, the new Gentile Christians are invited to worship the God of Israel, who revealed Himself perfectly in the promised Messiah, Jesus Christ. The story of Israel becomes their story, a more transcendent and spacious story than they’ve previously known.
This is, perhaps, most evident in the letters of St. Paul. If anyone is to honor the new thing God is doing, it should be Paul, “the apostle to the Gentiles.” However, Paul is adamant that salvation is “to the Jew first and also to the Greek” (Rom. 1:16). This theme crescendos in Romans 11, where Paul describes Israel as an olive tree. He says to the Gentiles, “You, a wild olive shoot, were grafted in their place to share the rich root of the olive tree” (Rom. 11:17). In essence, the new is matured for the old; the Gentiles are graciously included into the old by the gracious work of God.
The point is that God is the author of both the Old and the New; He joins Jew and Gentile, old and new, together to sanctify a people for himself. As your ninth rector, I recognize that I wade into a river of wine that has been cascading down the ages from the Apostles, the mothers and fathers of the church, and into the hands of previous rectors who have faithfully tended this beautiful outpost of God’s kingdom. The “old things” of this church are beautiful in the sight of God and are not to be lost in the economy of God’s kingdom. The story of Christ Episcopal Church is caught up in this old story of the God of Israel.
One of the great works of a new rector is to learn and discover the old wineskins of a parish. I come into a place with stories that pre-date me. The stories of Christ Church are bigger than me and yet spacious enough for me to find my place. There are old wineskins at Christ Church which have expanded to contain the best of wine, the Holy Spirit. It is my delight to discover these and relish in God’s glory through them. As your rector, I vow to learn these stories, carry them forward, pray in light of them, and continue to build upon the faithful work of those who preceded me.
In St. Augustine’s great work, Confessions, he tells the story of his conversion to the faith. His thesis is that God has made us for Himself and that our hearts are restless until they find their rest in Him. Though I could not articulate it at the time, I have come to understand my prodigal search for life in light of his story. I suspect that many of you can relate, as all of our stories are caught up into the great story of God’s redeeming love in Christ Jesus, our Lord. In one of St. Augustine’s most eloquent prayers, he spills the New Wine out of his overflowing heart, speaking intimately to God: “Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you.”[2] This is the God we find in Pentecost: “beauty so old and so new.” This is the God I found all those years ago at summer camp and the God we will continue to worship together at Christ Church. Let’s drink together this Pentecostal wine of the Spirit, the cup of our salvation.
[1] Willie James Jennings, Acts: Belief: A Theological Commentary on the Bible (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2017), p. 29.
[2] Augustine of Hippo, Confessiones 10.27 (CCL 27: 103-4, trans. Chadwick, Confessions).