There’s a lie we often inhale… It whispers in boardrooms, bleeds into sanctuaries, and mutates into Sunday morning perfectionism—the praise-performer mindset. And the worst part? We start believing it’s holy. Blessed are the burned-out, for they shall be told to volunteer again. But here’s the truth, tucked like contraband into the folds of the gospel: You are not what you produce. Not to God. Not ever.
By Rev. Rian Adams | St. James Episcopal Church – Port St. Joe, FL
This Sunday, churches will be draped in red, prayers whispered with reverence, and someone in the back will still ask,
“Wait, what’s Pentecost again?”
Let’s clear it up. Pentecost is often called the birthday of the Church—but don’t expect cake and streamers.
Think fire. Wind. Multilingual mayhem.
And Peter gives a sermon that somehow converts 3,000 people after being accused of being hammered drunk by noon.
It’s chaos. It’s holy. It’s where the Spirit showed up... loudly.
Pentecost happens 50 days after Easter. It aligns with the Jewish festival of Shavuot—a harvest feast celebrating both abundance and the giving of the Law at Sinai.
In Acts 2, the disciples gather. Suddenly: wind. Fire. Unexpected languages. The crowd thinks they’ve lost it.
But Peter—fisherman-turned-fiery-preacher—declares:
“This is what the prophet Joel promised. The Spirit is for everyone.”
No theological degree required. No spiritual résumé needed.
The first Church service was loud, strange, and wildly inclusive.
You thought your worship service was a little dramatic? Let’s talk medieval Pentecost.
Burning rose petals from the ceiling
Southern Italian churches wanted to simulate the flames of Acts 2, so they dropped flower petals—sometimes on fire—from trapdoors above.
Nothing says “Holy Spirit, come” like lighting a monk on fire.
(Source: Joan Chittister, The Liturgical Year)
Releasing live doves indoors
Medieval French churches lowered a dove on a string through a “Holy Ghost Hole” in the roof to represent the descending Spirit.
Lovely symbolism. Less lovely cleanup.
(Source: William S. Walsh, Christian Festivals and Customs)
Wind machines and firecrackers
In parts of Germany and Poland, parishes built literal wind machines to mimic the “mighty rushing wind.” Some added firecrackers and drums to the mix.
The original liturgical surround-sound.
(Source: Ronald Hutton, The Stations of the Sun)
Transylvanian water fights
In Eastern Europe, folks shouted “The Spirit is poured out!” while dumping water on each other during Pentecost processions.
A liturgical soaking.
(Source: Folk Customs of Europe)
Theology Under the Pyrotechnics
All this fire and flair isn’t just medieval pageantry. It’s deeply theological.
Pentecost is the moment God takes the divine message global.
No more sacred languages or gatekeeping.
The Spirit shows up uninvited and speaks in every language to every person.
It’s a reversal of the Tower of Babel.
At Babel, humanity tried to build upward and got scattered.
At Pentecost, God comes down, fills the people, and sends them outward with power.
The Church begins not with conformity, but with chaos, diversity, and Spirit-fueled courage.
Especially for small, faithful congregations like ours on the Forgotten Coast—this feast is not nostalgia. It’s our origin story.
1. The Holy Spirit is not a polite guest.
She doesn’t knock. She blows the door off the hinges.
If you’re waiting for “respectable” Spirit, you’re going to wait a long time.
2. The Spirit doesn’t require credentials.
The Spirit fills doubters, loudmouths, fishermen, tax collectors, and day laborers.
You’re already qualified.
3. The miracle wasn’t just speech—it was understanding.
God speaks in the language of the listener.
Our job? Learn to speak in love and actually listen back.
4. Your spark is enough.
Pentecost isn’t about feeling holy all the time.
Sometimes you show up with fire. Sometimes just smoke. The Spirit still works.
5. Church is supposed to be a little weird.
The first one looked like a revival crossed with a flash mob.
So if your small group feels like misfits—good. You’re doing it right.
Deconstructing your faith?
Tired of performative religion?
Wondering if church can still be real?
Pentecost says: Yes.
God’s Spirit isn’t stuck in a book or behind the altar rail.
She’s in beach baptisms, messy community meals, hard conversations, holy silence.
And She still falls on the unqualified.
Which means She’s falling on you, too.
Here at St. James Episcopal Church in Port St. Joe, we believe the Spirit still moves.
We may not drop fire from the ceiling (OSHA would not approve), but we are expecting the unexpected.
So:
🟥 Wear red.
🕊️ Come curious.
🔥 Expect some Spirit-fueled mischief.
We’ll keep the doves outside, but don’t be surprised if the roof metaphorically blows off.
By: The Rev. Dr. Rian Adams
Jerusalem. Circa 33 A.D. A small band of followers gather near the Mount of Olives. Their Rabbi, whom they watched crucified and then—impossibly—watched rise again, is speaking strangely.
“You will be my witnesses,” He says. “To the ends of the earth.”
And then it happens. He vanishes.
No body. No tomb. No charade. Just sky.
They stare up until two mysterious figures in white (no names, no credentials) appear and ask, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up into heaven?”
The early Church never quite recovered from this moment. Nor should we.
You’d think a story this wild would be center stage in every church. But Ascension Day has always been a bit... overlooked. Like a cousin who shows up at every family gathering but never makes it into the photos.
It’s older than Christmas—third and fourth century Christians were already celebrating it—but it rarely got the pageantry of Easter or Pentecost. Why? Perhaps because it’s awkward.
No baby in a manger. No tongues of fire. Just a vanishing act.
But the Church Fathers insisted it mattered. Athanasius of Alexandria (detective of heresies and lover of mystery) said that Christ’s ascension “fulfilled the mystery of our humanity being brought into heaven.” What began in a womb ends on a throne.
Now for the juicy bits. The parts you don’t hear in Sunday school:
• In some medieval villages, people used to launch clay pots filled with burning herbs into the sky to represent Christ’s fiery ascent. The clergy strongly discouraged it. People did it anyway.
• In parts of England, they used to climb the church tower and drop feathers or rose petals from the top to dramatize the descending Holy Spirit—even though Pentecost was still ten days away.
• In Bavaria, there’s a legend of a golden ladder that appeared over a cathedral on Ascension Day. No photos, of course. But the story stuck.
• And in the French countryside? They used to bless beans on Ascension Day. Why? No one knows. But old monks claimed the “sky-rising vines” reminded them of Christ. (You can’t make this up.)
What does all this mean for Port St. Joe, Florida?
Well, friend, we’re coastal people. We know how to watch the sky.
At St. James Episcopal Church, we celebrate Ascension not because it’s quaint, but because it’s cosmic. We belong to a Church that insists mystery is real—and that the man who walked out of the tomb also walked into the clouds.
And left His Spirit behind.
So we bless the altar. We watch the birds soar. We pray prayers as ancient as the desert monks. We proclaim that the Church isn’t dead—it’s ascending.
And we do it all under this big Florida sky, which somehow still echoes with angel voices.
What happened on Ascension Day?
Was it divine theater? Was it cosmic coronation? Was it the opening of heaven?
Yes.
And it still is.
This Thursday—or Sunday, if you catch the transferred feast—join us. Bring your doubts, your curiosity, your love of mystery. Ascension is a case worth reopening. Every year. Every soul.
You might just find what the disciples found on that hill outside Jerusalem:
Not absence. Presence. Not an ending. A throne. Not goodbye. A commission.
Before the cross. Before the trial. Before the garden. There was a dinner party.
Jesus is reclining at the table in Bethany, surrounded by his closest friends. Lazarus—the one Jesus raised from the dead—is sitting next to him. Martha is serving (of course). And Mary, the quieter sister, slips into the room carrying something expensive. Not a casserole. Not a Passover gift. A jar of pure nard.
She kneels. Breaks it open. And pours it all out onto Jesus’ feet.
In an instant, the house is full of fragrance—sweet, earthy, overwhelming. It clings to everything. And just like that, the mood shifts.
Judas objects. Others are probably uncomfortable too—after all, the best way to complain is about church finances. It's too much. Wasteful. Impractical. Indecent.
But Jesus sees it for what it is: love.
Mary’s act is more than emotional; it’s theological. In a world that keeps love safe, measured, and appropriate, Mary’s love is wildly improper. She touches a rabbi. She pours out a year's wages. She wipes his feet with her hair. She ignores social norms, financial logic, and religious protocol.
And Judas can’t take it. He masks his discomfort in righteousness—“That money could have gone to the poor!”—but Jesus sees through it.
Let’s be honest: it wasn’t just Judas. The whole room probably flinched. A little too intimate. A little too physical. And once Mary left the room?
Cue the rumormongering. Because nothing travels faster through a faith community than unapproved devotion.
The spiritual gift no one wants to admit they have. The sacred art of whispering judgment disguised as concern. Often practiced by those who claim they’d never waste perfume... but love to spill tea…
Mary is the first to anoint Jesus—not a priest, not a prophet, not Peter.
She prepares him for burial before anyone admits that death is coming. Before the men are ready to see it.
She recognizes what the others deny: that love will cost Jesus everything. And she responds not with theology or strategy or lament, but with devotion. Silent, scented devotion.
When was the last time your faith made people whisper?
We live in a world that praises moderation. But the Gospel calls us to pour it out.
To give away forgiveness, time, attention, affection, and yes, even money, in ways that might look reckless from the outside.
What might it look like for you to anoint Christ this Passiontide?
Maybe it means forgiving someone who hasn’t apologized.
Maybe it means loving your queer child without theological disclaimers.
Maybe it means letting grief be loud, public, unfiltered.
Maybe it means giving to a cause without demanding proof it’s "worth it."
Mary doesn’t say a word. But for days, everyone in that house would smell like her offering. The scent would linger on Jesus’ skin—even as he carried the cross.
That’s what love does. It leaves a mark. It disrupts the air.
And when it’s done in Christ, it prepares the world for resurrection.
Written by: Fr. Rian Adams
BY: The Rev. Dr. Rian Adams
There’s a Sunday in Lent when the church lightens up—literally. The vestments shift from deep violet to rose. The readings crack open a window to joy. And if you’re paying attention, the liturgy softens like a whispered promise: “Easter is coming.”
But if you’ve never heard of Rose Sunday, you’re not alone. Many Episcopalians haven’t. And that’s exactly the problem—and the opportunity.
Blame it on the Reformation, the 1979 Prayer Book, or our polite Protestant discomfort with anything that feels too… fancy. The truth is, Rose Sunday—also known as Laetare Sunday—is one of those deeply Anglican traditions that often gets filtered out in more “low church” settings.
The color rose? Optional. The tone shift? Subtle. The theological depth? Easily missed if no one’s explaining it. And so, in many parishes, this ancient tradition quietly faded like a flower in the desert.
But make no mistake—Rose Sunday is ours. It’s Anglican. It’s ancient. And it’s absolutely worth reclaiming.
The fourth Sunday in Lent is called Laetare Sunday, from the Latin laetare, which means “rejoice.” It takes its name from the opening words of the traditional introit: “Laetare Jerusalem: Rejoice, O Jerusalem.” It’s meant to be a reprieve, a breath, a turning point.
Historically, this was the day when Lenten fasts were eased. Flowers returned to the altar. Music brightened. Priests wore rose—a liturgical color used only twice a year, here and on Gaudete Sunday in Advent (which also means “rejoice”).
In medieval England, Laetare was also called “Mothering Sunday.” It was the one day during Lent when people returned to their home church—their “mother church”—and often their actual mothers. It became a festival of homecoming, warmth, and refreshment.
That’s what this Sunday is: a sacred pause in the wilderness.
In a way, yes. Rose Sunday shows up most clearly in parishes that lean “High Church”—those that embrace vestments, seasonal color shifts, incense, candles, and the full beauty of the liturgical year. But it’s not exclusively High Church. It belongs to all of us.
In fact, part of our Anglican richness is this blending of the poetic and the pastoral, the visual and the theological. Rose Sunday is a perfect example. It’s a theological truth told through color and rhythm: Joy isn’t canceled during Lent. It’s just waiting to bloom.
Let’s bring it back. Let’s make it visible. Let’s embody the hope it offers.
This Sunday, wear pink. Wear it boldly. Wear it playfully. It doesn’t have to match the exact liturgical rose (good luck finding that), but it should say, “I see the joy peeking through.”
Parents, let your kids come to church in hot pink. Gentlemen, dig out that flamingo tie. Teens, rock those pastel sneakers. Let’s be a people who know how to rejoice even in Lent.
God meets us in the wilderness. But He also meets us in the flowers that bloom there.
Rose Sunday is that bloom. Not the full garden of Easter—just the first blush. But it’s enough to remind us that resurrection is coming. That even now, there’s joy.
So come this Sunday expecting something a little different, a little lighter, a little more radiant because Lent isn’t just about what we give up. It’s about what’s being born in us.
And joy? That’s part of it too.
In the rush of daily life, we often miss the sacred hidden in small moments. This Lenten reflection explores the power of ‘sacred pauses’—simple, intentional moments of stillness where God meets us. Slow down, breathe, and rediscover holiness in the ordinary. A call to embrace silence, prayer, and presence.
