Set Free by the Holy Spirit

What does it mean to hide away in fear?

There are so many things in this life that might cause us to retreat, to pull the covers up over our heads, or to lock our doors against the world. We might fear the loss of a loved one or a difficult, life-altering medical diagnosis. We might fear the loss of a job, the loss of our family home, or the creeping uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring. We might fear walking down the street because someone appears to be following us, or we might find ourselves crossing the street because we are afraid of the unknown face walking toward us.

These are the quiet, creeping fears that weave themselves into the fabric of our daily lives. Often, we carry them silently. They don’t necessarily make us hide away in a physical sense, but they can cause us to close ourselves off emotionally and spiritually.

The disciples, however, were quite literally hidden away in fear. They feared for their very lives and safety. It was still so soon after the traumatizing events of Easter. Even with the rumours of an empty tomb swirling around them, the shadow of the empire loomed large. They were terrified that they would receive the same brutal fate as Jesus, public execution on a cross.

So, they hid. They locked the door to the upper room and hunkered down for the night. And it is entirely possible that it wasn’t just the remaining eleven disciples in that room. It is highly likely that a wider circle of Jesus’ close friends, the women who supported him, and other followers were also gathered there, gripped by despair and unknowing. This is an invitation for us to situate ourselves inside that room with them.

Theologian Angela Parker describes the disciples in this moment as a community hiding in fear. She classifies them as being “socially dead.” They were of no influence on anyone, no help to their broader community, unable to make an impact, isolated, and alone. They were just waiting in the dark.

The Breath of New Life

And yet, while the disciples are hiding away, with the heavy wooden door bolted shut, Jesus finds a way inside. The same Jesus they had travelled with for years, who had broken bread with them, who had died and been buried, is suddenly standing in their midst.

Jesus meets the profound fear of those gathered by simply being physically present. He doesn’t arrive as an untouchable, pristine spirit. He arrives with his scars and his wounds on full display. His wounded body provides a glimpse of the resurrection and the enduring promise we have in him, that our pain and our scars do not disqualify us from new life.

He cuts through the thick, anxious air of the room and bids them peace. Twice, he says the words, “Peace be with you.” He does not scold them for running away. He does not shame them for locking the door. He offers peace.

Then, John’s gospel tells us that Jesus breathes on them. Throughout John’s gospel, the spoken word and breath are used extensively. In the beginning was the Word. Now, Jesus breathes the Spirit out into the room. There is an incredible intimacy about this action. You have to be close to someone to feel their breath. In this beautiful scene, we are reminded of the Genesis story of creation, where God breathes the breath of life into the dust to create the first humans. Jesus’ breath transforms their fear into bold living. It is a breath that leads them out of social death and into a vibrant community that can uphold and support our varying identities.

Holding Fast to One Another

With this breath comes a curious instruction, one that has often been misunderstood. In John 20:23, we find a line that reads, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

On first read, we might ask why forgiveness appears to be so arbitrary here. Do the disciples really get to pick and choose who they forgive? Do we get to pick and choose who is worthy of forgiveness? Historically, the church has sometimes wrongly interpreted this passage to do just that, using it to exert moral superiority, to gate-keep the grace of God, and to judge people based on arbitrary senses of moral rightness.

But Jesus only ever judged those who were exerting moral superiority over others, those who were exploiting their positions for wealth, status, and power. For everyone else, Jesus offered radical grace.

As the theologian Matt Skinner writes, “Jesus is not appointing the church as his moral watchdog; nor does he commission it to arbitrate people’s assets and liabilities on a heavenly balance sheet.”

So, how do we understand this passage through a progressive, welcoming lens? In his commentary on John, Cody Sanders notes that the word “sins” doesn’t actually appear in the second half of that Greek sentence. It was inserted for clarity by translators, but it shapes our interpretation in unnecessary and often harmful ways.

Scholars Mary Coloe and Sandra Schneiders offer a much more beautiful, literal translation. Instead of “retaining sins,” Coloe translates it: “If of anyone you hold, they have been held.” Schneiders offers: “Whoever you hold, they are held fast.” She argues that the community that forgives must also hold fast those whom it has brought into the community of eternal life.

What a profound shift this is. Jesus isn’t giving the church a license to condemn; he is giving us the sacred responsibility to hold onto one another. When we forgive someone, we welcome them. When we welcome them, we must hold them fast. We must create a safety net of radical love that refuses to let anyone slip through the cracks. This is the true work of the Spirit.

The Wind That Transcends

This work of the Spirit bursts fully into the open in the book of Acts. If John’s gospel gives us the intimate, quiet breath of the Spirit behind locked doors, Acts gives us the roaring, chaotic wind of the Spirit out in the public square.

Consider the ways the Holy Spirit was at work on that Pentecost morning. First, the promise of the Spirit compelled a massive group of 120 people to gather in anticipation. They rearranged their schedules and synchronized their calendars to make themselves available to God.

Then, the power of the Spirit enabled each person in that room to speak in a language other than their own. This wasn’t just a neat parlour trick; it was a profound theological statement. To learn a language is to learn a people. To love a language is to love a people. By forcing the early church to speak in the native tongues of foreigners and strangers, God was declaring that this movement would de-center the dominant culture and embrace the beautiful diversity of the entire world.

The Spirit got the attention of the crowd on the street through the mighty sound of rushing wind and the sheer, beautiful chaos of all those people speaking together at once. It emboldened Peter to speak to the masses, stepping far away from the fear that once kept him behind locked doors. And it caused the crowds to not only hear the message but to receive it so deeply that 3,000 people decided to follow the way of Jesus that very day.

On this one day, the Holy Spirit transcended multiple layers of cultural, linguistic, and social differences to accomplish God’s purposes of unity and love. As Rebecca Dean writes about the Acts narrative, “It may or may not be the case that we should expect to see the tongues of fire and hear the sound of rushing wind for ourselves, but the Acts narrative offers us more than a glimpse of these marvels: It weaves them into the lives of ordinary people, who are called to notice the signs of the times—both divine and other—and locate them in the wider story of God’s purposes.”

Stepping Out of the Locked Room

This is the good news of Pentecost. It is the time of year when we celebrate our Advocate, the wind of fresh air, the healing breath that infuses new life into our tired bones. We celebrate the third person of the Trinity, often described as a dove descending, the breath of life we receive, and the rush of the wind through the trees.

The poet Christina Rossetti beautifully captured this invisible but undeniable presence in her poem:

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

We do not have a physical form to attach to the Spirit. We don’t have a specific face or a singular voice. But we can absolutely see what the Spirit does when it is passing by. It shakes the trembling leaves of our complacency. It bows the proud heads of our egos.

Most importantly, it empowers us, frees us, unites us, and compels us to action. The gift of the Spirit releases us from our fear and reminds us that God in Christ is with us in all things. We are not called to remain socially dead. We are not called to hide away behind the locked doors of our sanctuaries, or the locked doors of our hearts, distrustful of the world outside.
Instead, we are liberated to go out into the world and serve. We are encouraged to share our faith by how we love, how we advocate for the marginalized, and how we hold one another fast.

Just as Jesus breathed the Spirit out, we are invited today to breathe the Spirit in. It is life-giving and sustaining. It frees us from our self-made constraints, our anxieties, and our fears, reminding us that we are deeply, unconditionally loved by God. There is no longer any reason to hide away. The door is unlocked. The wind is blowing. Let us step out into the fresh air together.
Amen.