God Breathes Upon Us Yet Today

Homily for the Solemnity of Pentecost

(My I Pad chose to update itself as I was calling up my homily for today. I had to "ad lib" the homily.  Many complimented me, but I am posting what I had written. as I cannot go back and recover my spontaneous words.)

There is a quiet wonder in this feast, a sense that we are standing before something vast and ancient, something that began long before us and yet somehow includes us. Pentecost is the moment when the breath of God, first whispered over the waters of creation in the Book of Genesis, becomes the breath that animates the Church, the breath that seeks to enter every human heart willing to receive it.

And if we listen closely, we begin to understand that Pentecost is not only a story about the apostles; it is a story about us. It is the story of how God continues to breathe life into the world through ordinary people — through believers who open their hearts to the Spirit and allow God’s dream for humanity to become visible in their lives.

In Genesis, God breathes into the dust and humanity becomes alive. That same breath moves through the prophets, through the psalms, through the long history of Israel’s hope. And today, that breath rests upon us. Pentecost is the moment when God’s breath becomes the Church’s life — not only in the Upper Room, but in every place where believers gather, pray, forgive, reconcile, and hope. And so Pentecost is happening here, in this chapel, just as surely as it happened in Jerusalem.

The disciples are behind closed doors, their fear stronger than their courage. Jesus enters quietly, stands among them, and breathes peace. We know those locked rooms. We know the places where fear, disappointment, or uncertainty keep us closed. Pentecost happens whenever we allow Christ to enter those rooms and breathe something new — a new courage, a new tenderness, a new willingness to trust. This is not only for the apostles. It is for every believer who longs for God to make something new within them.

Paul tells us that the Spirit gives different gifts, but always for one purpose: the building up of the Body. The Spirit never works in abstraction but always seeks embodiment. Consequently, Pentecost becomes real when a parent forgives, when a neighbor offers compassion, when a discouraged person finds strength to begin again, when a believer speaks a word of mercy that heals a wounded heart, when a community chooses unity over division. These are not small things. These are Pentecost moments — the Spirit making God’s plan visible in the here and now.

At Babel, pride fractured communion; at Pentecost, the Spirit restores it. That restoration continues whenever we choose understanding over suspicion, reconciliation over resentment, humility over self-assertion. Every time we allow the Spirit to heal what is broken in us or between us, the world becomes a little more whole, a little more capable of reflecting the unity God desires.

This chapel, and every church where Christians gather for worship, has been a place where the Spirit gathers people — sisters, families, neighbors, visitors, those who come every week and those who come when their hearts need rest. The Spirit continues to breathe here today. Pentecost is not confined to the Upper Room. It happens wherever believers gather in faith, wherever hearts open to God, wherever the breath of the Spirit finds room to move.

If we allow ourselves to be still, Pentecost reveals a truth that can sustain us: the breath that created the world is still creating, the fire that descended upon the apostles still burns, the Spirit who formed the Church still forms us. Pentecost is not a memory; it is a movement. It is God’s breath in us, making His plan for humanity visible — today, in this place, through our lives.

May we allow that breath to move freely within us, so that the world may see, in us, the God who is still creating all things new. “Come, Holy Spirit, and renew the face of the earth.”