“Just because you Ameri-can, doesn’t mean you Ameri-should” - a sermon on the Tower of Babel + Pentecost

This sermon was preached on Pentecost Sunday, 2025, which was also our Children’s Sunday celebration at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church in Westborough. The Bible passages read were Genesis 11:1-9 and Acts 2:1-21.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve been really honing my skills in a couple of favorite board games. I made the discovery– thanks to some friends in our young adult fellowship group– that one can, for a relatively low price, download the electronic versions of several popular games, and play against several computer opponents as much as one wants. This is particularly useful if, by some chance, one’s wife isn’t always available, or more likely, is interested in doing something else with their leisure time.

I’ve been told that one of the reasons that perhaps my particular wife doesn’t always want to play board games with me is because I can come off a bit competitive, and my wife really, really hates to lose. But! You’ll notice I said that I appear to be competitive. The fact of the matter is that I’m not actually all that fussed if I lose the game because another player is more skilled or just had better luck. I like seeing my friends happy, and when people win games, they’re happy! 

In reality, the person I’m most competitive with is myself. When I seem frustrated, it’s because I missed an obvious play that would have been smarter than the one I chose. When I appear to be concocting a diabolical plot, I’m actually calculating a few steps ahead, weighing my options for maximum point value and trying to figure out the most efficient use of my resources.

This complicated dance of planning and overthinking, of looking for strategic alliances and teasing out the structures of a well-developed game is entertaining and engaging when the stakes are no higher than the point value of a bird card played in a metaphorical forest habitat. 

But sometimes– maybe a lot of the time– we start to apply this stress-inducing practice in other areas of our lives. We become obsessed with life hacks, with optimization and efficiency, with saving time or money or energy with no idea what we’re actually saving it up for. We make decisions and set goals based only on what we think we should be capable of, rather than what we authentically value or how we understand our true vocation. We build the tower of Babel up to the sky, without stopping to think about what we’re going to do once we get there.

Or, to quote celebrity hairstylist and Queer Eye host Jonathan Van Ness:

Many of us have heard the story from Genesis many times before– the tower of Babel is striking in its imagery, and it offers a clear lesson about the importance of humility before God, of remembering that God is God and we are not, and any attempts to take on power reserved only for God are destined to end in disaster. And I’m usually on board with any opportunity to reiterate the importance of trusting God with our human brokenness, and taking powerful people down a peg or two. But the story still leaves me unsettled.

Maybe it’s something about the line, “this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them.” It sounds so hopeful– like a graduation card, promising potential and prosperity and all the possibilities in the world unfurling before us in abundance. Because who doesn’t want to believe that success is ahead of them, that anytime we feel lost or stuck or confused about our direction, we are only at the start of a very exciting new story?

The people who built the tower, after all, didn’t do so for the sake of violence or dominance, or to try to take something away from anyone else. It says right in the text, “let us make a name for ourselves; otherwise we shall be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.” They built for the sake of their own preservation, because they were afraid of being lonely, disconnected, and forgotten. They thought if they could just complete this one teensy task–creating the tallest tower in the world–everyone would finally see them. They would finally be known.

It’s just all so incredibly human. Which I suppose is why, Genesis tells us, God had to put a stop to this ambitious project. Because it’s so typical of us broken people to think that the best way to be loved is to produce something bigger and more expensive and more technologically advanced than anything before it. It’s so classic of us to think that we will never make our mark if we’re not maximized and revitalized and moisturized– if we’re not the very best.

God does not wait for our perfection to send us the Holy Spirit.

God does not require peak performance and optimal functioning to do God’s most life-giving work.

Perhaps the destruction of Babel was not so much a punishment for human self-importance or presumption, but rather God’s intervention before humanity took on a responsibility they could never truly live up to, God’s firm redirection before we set a standard we’d live to regret. It was a reminder–that the Holy Spirit moves most freely right in the middle of our mess.

In the story of Pentecost, we learn that the events took place on an ordinary day, when the disciples were simply “all together in one place.” There’s a strong argument to be made that they weren’t really doing much at that particular moment, considering that it comes after they’ve witnessed Jesus’ ascension, and returned to Jerusalem. In their shock and awe at all the events of Holy Week, of witnessing the resurrection and ascension of their friend and teacher, they seem to need some time to process everything– to feel confused, to think and pray about what’s coming next. To breathe.

And the rushing wind fills the house where they are sitting. Though we hear that soon after the Holy Spirit descends, a crowd gathers to witness and marvel at the morning’s events, it’s unclear exactly how big the group is or how quickly it gathers. In other words, this is not a well-organized event put on by The Twelve Apostles, LLC. There is no run-of-show checklist or day-of coordinator equipped with clipboard and walkie-talkie.

The disciples receive the Holy Spirit and are tasked with sharing the gospel through the mundane and everyday, not through any particularly cutting-edge or technologically advanced methods. Later in this chapter from Acts, we hear about life in the early church, “Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people.” 

While a rushing wind and miraculous language skills might be helpful, obvious signs that the spirit is upon these disciples, it’s clear that God is working just as powerfully in the midst of relationships– relationships built through prayer and singing, over meals with thoughtful conversation and plentiful laughter. Maybe even over a board game.

So much of the Holy Spirit’s work requires a slowness of presence– a willingness to let go of the optimal in order to take in the vulnerable. It demands that we stop manufacturing and streamlining and scheduling– stop all that building for a minute, and remember that God comes to dwell with us, not the other way around. 

I’ll admit– this is a tall order. It goes against everything the world tries to teach us to value, even in our faith communities. Honestly, talking to my church community about the need to slow down and make room for God’s spirit gives me a lot of anxiety about what might happen the next time I ask for volunteers for a project, or hope to get good attendance at a youth event I’ve planned. I’m used to evaluating my worth based on what I can plan or produce or give to others.

But I’ll repeat myself in case anyone else would also like to hear it again, shall I?

God does not wait for our perfection to send us the Holy Spirit. God does not require peak performance and optimal functioning to do God’s most life-giving work.

We don’t have to build a tower just to reach God’s love. In fact, whenever we try, God will knock down all our fancy plans and defenses, as if to say, stop getting distracted. I’m already here. And the Holy Spirit moves us, not to a mountain peak, but to the abundant table, where we are sustained without calculations, loved without measure. Thanks be to God.