When my friend, David Henson wondered on Facebook where all the Pentecost posts were, it exposed me. Not that the world rotates around me. It’s just… I haven’t been here. My mind has been elsewhere.

I wonder if they all are.

All the minds, that is.

All the minds are elsewhere when it comes time for us to remember Pentecost.

Drifting. Eyes glazed with window stares at the green leaves and sun-danced radiance shimmering off flower petals and windshields. The sudden birth of the world, woken from the winter slumber, and our brains become like overcooked stew, still stirred and served.

We miss Pentecost for the fury and fever of Holy Week, met by the exultant alleluia! of Easter. Then suddenly, it is over, as theologians call the game.

And Pentecost, the granddaddy of church holidays, the most important, most revolutionary, most inherently true to the name gospel which means “good news,” that one day is lost to sun worship.

In mourning, the eulogy is written for this movement, birthed from nonviolent revolution and drawn by GOD to the fitting conclusion that it is us that have the divine spark! Us that are given the keys to the future, not Peter. And it is us who are ordained to love and transform the world.

But instead, we have gone back to the old gods.