Acts 2.1-4
Galatians 4.1–7; 5.16–26
Introduction: A Spirit That Breathes
Let us pause for a moment and notice our breath.
In… and out.
In the quiet rhythm of breathing, we are reminded that life
itself is a gift.
Breath is
not something we force; it is something we receive.
And it is no coincidence that both the Hebrew and Greek
words for Spirit
— ruach
and pneuma — also mean breath, or wind.
On this Pentecost Sunday,
we recall
how the Spirit came like a rushing wind,
like fire
resting on each one, filling the room, filling the people.
But before the noise and the proclamation, there was the
gathering.
The
waiting. The stillness. The breath.
At Bloomsbury, we are blessed with a group called Breathing
Space
— a space
where people come together to reflect on Scripture,
to pray, to
meditate, to listen, to speak, and to be silent.
It is a space for the Spirit. A space for becoming.
A space
where we breathe deeply of the life God gives.
Today, as we read again the familiar Pentecost story,
and as we
reflect on Paul’s words to the Galatians
about
what it means to live by the Spirit,
we will do
so with this invitation:
to
give space for God’s breath to move in us.
Not only in tongues of fire,
but in
gentle stirrings of the soul.
Pentecost is not just about what happened back then.
It is about
what is happening now
— as we
open ourselves to the breath of God.
Pentecost as Disruption and Gift
Acts 2:1–4
The book of Acts tells us that “When the day of Pentecost
had come,
they were
all together in one place.”
This simple sentence carries a world of meaning.
They were
gathered, they were waiting, perhaps they were uncertain.
Jesus had promised the Spirit,
but what
exactly were they expecting?
A quiet inner sense of peace?
A gentle
affirmation of faith?
What they got was wind. And fire. And noise.
What they
got was disruption.
A sound like the rush of a violent wind filled the house.
Flames
appeared and rested on each person.
Suddenly they found themselves speaking strange languages.
This was not a tame spiritual experience.
This was
not a private religious feeling.
This was a
public, visible, communal upheaval.
And yet, this disruption was also gift.
It is easy to forget that Pentecost was already a Jewish
festival
— the Feast
of Weeks —
a
time of thanksgiving for the wheat harvest,
and also a
celebration of the giving of the Law at Sinai.
At Sinai, God’s presence descended in fire and smoke,
and a
covenant was formed.
Now, at Pentecost, God’s Spirit descends again
— not on a
mountain but on people —
and a new kind of covenant community begins to form,
not written
on tablets of stone,
but on
hearts open to the Spirit’s movement.
The disruption is the gift.
The Spirit
shakes things up, not to cause chaos, but to bring life.
Wind and fire are dangerous, but they are also creative.
They clear
out what is dead and ignite what is new.
In the birth of the church,
we see that
the Spirit of God is not simply about comfort,
but about
transformation.
And notice this: everyone is included.
The fire
rests on each of them.
The Spirit does not come to the leaders only,
or the most
eloquent, or the most faithful
— but to all
who are present, regardless of status or ability.
The miracle of Pentecost is not just that people speak,
but that
others understand.
It is a miracle of communication,
of deep
connection across difference.
Where Babel confused language and scattered people,
Pentecost
draws people together
through
understanding and mutual recognition.
And isn’t that exactly the kind of miracle we need today?
In a world where division seems to grow stronger by the day
— between
nations, faiths, identities, and ideologies —
the Pentecost Spirit still speaks, still breaks through,
still draws
us into communities of difference held together by divine breath.
Here at Bloomsbury, we are already a kind of Pentecost
community
—
multilingual, multivoiced, multicultural,
holding
together differences not by force but by Spirit.
We are a church where people are invited to speak in their
own voice,
to listen in
their own language, and to be truly heard.
And our Breathing Space group reminds us
that the
Spirit does not always arrive with noise.
Sometimes the miracle is in the stillness,
the quiet
conversation, the shared silence.
The same Spirit that rushes like wind
also
breathes gently in stillness.
Both are real. Both are holy.
Pentecost is disruption. And Pentecost is gift.
From Enslavement to Adoption
Galatians 4:1–7
If Acts tells the story of the Spirit’s arrival,
Galatians
tells us what it means to live in the Spirit’s presence.
In this short but powerful passage,
Paul offers
a vision of radical transformation.
He speaks of a movement — a liberation —
from enslavement
to adoption.
From being controlled by external rules and systems
to living
in intimate, Spirit-led relationship with God.
Paul’s language of slavery may feel distant or
uncomfortable,
but his
point is deeply pastoral.
He is saying that a life lived according to religious
obligation
— trying to
earn acceptance, or prove worth —
is not the
life God wants for us.
In Christ, through the Spirit,
we are no
longer servants obeying a distant master.
We are dearly loved children,
welcomed
into the household of God, co-heirs with Christ.
And this is no cold legal transaction.
Paul says, “God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our
hearts,
crying,
‘Abba! Father!’”
That word Abba — not a theological title, but an
intimate cry —
speaks of
closeness, of trust, of safety.
The Spirit doesn’t teach us to recite doctrine.
The Spirit
teaches us to cry.
To cry out in longing. To cry out in love.
To cry out
in recognition that we belong.
This is the spiritual freedom Paul describes
— not
autonomy, but relationship.
Not
licence, but belonging.
The Spirit invites us into the kind of freedom
that only
comes from knowing we are loved,
held, and
welcomed just as we are.
And this is precisely what Breathing Space helps us
discover.
In prayer,
in reflection, in deep listening,
we
learn to let go of striving and performing,
and
to simply be.
To notice the presence of God already within us.
To listen
for the whisper of the Spirit,
not as
command, but as invitation.
When we take time to be still,
to reflect
on Scripture not as a set of rules but as a living word,
we begin to
experience what Paul means.
We are not spiritual orphans.
We are not
religious slaves.
We are children of God, breathing God’s breath,
alive in
the Spirit.
And if this is true — if we are God’s children —
then it
changes everything.
Our spirituality becomes not an obligation, but a gift.
Our lives
become not performances, but responses.
Our worship becomes not duty, but delight.
We are no longer slaves. We are children.
Living by the Spirit: Fruit, Not Force
Galatians 5:16–26
Paul’s famous list of the “fruit of the Spirit”
is often
read as a moral checklist
— a series of virtues we ought to cultivate in our lives:
love, joy,
peace, patience,
kindness,
generosity, faithfulness,
gentleness,
and self-control.
And yes, these are beautiful qualities.
But we
misunderstand Paul if we think he’s just telling us to try harder.
This is not a to-do list.
It’s not
even a guide for spiritual self-improvement.
Paul is speaking of what grows naturally
when the
Spirit is given room to breathe within us.
Fruit is not forced. It is grown.
You cannot
make a tree bear fruit by shouting at it
or tying
fruit to its branches.
Fruit grows when the conditions are right
— when the
roots are deep, when the soil is healthy,
when the
tree is alive and nourished.
So too with the fruit of the Spirit.
These qualities emerge not by religious effort,
but by
spiritual openness.
They grow when we learn to live by the breath of God
— when we
allow ourselves to be rooted in love,
when we
open up space for God’s presence in our inner lives.
And this brings us again to Breathing Space
— our
community of spiritual attentiveness here at Bloomsbury.
The practices of prayer, meditation, and scripture
reflection
that we
share are not burdens to carry;
they are
the soil in which fruit can grow.
They are ways of creating space, of paying attention,
of making
room for God’s breath to move in us.
Paul contrasts the fruit of the Spirit
with what
he calls “the works of the flesh.”
And again, this isn’t about policing individual behaviour
— it’s
about two different orientations of life.
One rooted in ego, control, and self-gratification.
The other
rooted in love, freedom, and connection.
Living by the Spirit does not mean we suddenly become
perfect.
It means we
walk a path — day by day — of choosing life over death,
grace
over fear, community over isolation.
It means letting the Spirit shape our desires,
not
suppress them.
It means allowing God’s life to blossom in us,
often
slowly, often imperceptibly.
And crucially, the fruit of the Spirit is communal.
Paul
doesn’t say, “you individually will produce these fruits,”
but rather,
“this is what the Spirit produces in a community.”
The fruit is not just for personal holiness,
but for
shared life.
A community marked by love, joy, peace — imagine that.
A church
that breathes those qualities into the world.
This is the vision of Pentecost:
not just
individuals ablaze with the Spirit,
but a
people living differently, loving differently, choosing to grow together.
And this is what we are seeking at Bloomsbury.
Through
worship, through organising,
through
hospitality and activism and study and care,
we are
learning what it means to live by the Spirit.
Not to force fruit,
but to make
space for it.
The question for each of us is not, “how can I try harder to
be joyful or kind?”
but rather,
“how can I give the Spirit more space to breathe in me?”
The fruit will come.
Slowly.
Gently. Inevitably.
Not as a reward for effort,
but as the
natural result of life rooted in God.
So take time. Breathe deeply. Pay attention.
The Spirit
is not only rushing like wind.
She is also whispering in stillness,
cultivating
in you the fruit of divine life.
And where the Spirit is, there is freedom.
There is
transformation. There is joy.
A Pentecost People: Open, Spacious, Free
So what does it mean for us to be a Pentecost people?
It means more than remembering
a dramatic
moment in church history.
It means more than celebrating
a birth-day
for the church.
To be a Pentecost people is to live with open hearts,
creating
spacious lives,
breathing
the freedom of the Spirit in everything we do.
We have seen how the Spirit comes as disruption
— wind and
fire, breaking through barriers,
forming
a new community where everyone has a voice
and
every language is heard.
We have seen how the Spirit sets us free
from
slavery to fear or obligation,
calling us
into intimate relationship with God as beloved children.
And we have seen how the Spirit cultivates fruit in us
— not
through force or performance,
but through
grace and trust and openness.
All of this points to a way of being.
A Pentecost
people are those who make space:
space for
God, space for one another, space for transformation.
That’s why Breathing Space is not just a group within
the church
— it’s a
metaphor for the whole church.
A breathing space in the heart of London.
A place
where people are invited not to rush,
not
to pretend, not to perform
— but to
pause, to reflect, to listen, to grow.
To be a Pentecost people is to live open to surprise.
The Spirit
may come in silence or song,
in
scripture or conversation, in action or rest.
The Spirit may disrupt your plans or confirm your path.
But always, the Spirit is drawing us deeper into life
— life that
is marked by joy, peace, gentleness, and love.
And this life is not for us alone.
Just as
those early disciples spilled out into the streets,
speaking
words others could understand,
so we are
called beyond ourselves.
A Spirit-filled community is a gift to the world
— a sign
that another way is possible.
In a world of division, we offer connection.
In a world
of fear, we offer hope.
In a world of pressure, we offer breathing space.
So on this Pentecost Sunday,
let us open
ourselves again to the breath of God.
Let us become — together — a people who live by the Spirit:
open,
spacious, and free.
Come, Holy Spirit.
Breathe in
us.
Bear your
fruit in us.
And send us out as your people —
for the
healing of the world. Amen.
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