In 2011, the psychologist Daniel Kahneman published a book called Thinking, Fast and Slow, in which he distinguishes between two separate pathways in our minds. “System 1” is the fast path, in which the mind quickly synthesizes information and makes decisions without conscious input. With System 1, you can complete the phrase, “in sickness and in _____,” or drive on the route you’ve been taking home for decades. “System 2” is the slow path, in which your conscious processes of logic and calculation are engaged. With System 2, you can write a letter, or decide on the best way to drive from Charlestown to Braintree for an appointment at 4:00pm. (Trick question: No matter when you leave, you will be late.)

Thinking, Fast and Slow is a good book. And it’s a great title. The title came to mind for me this weekend, as I sat through the eighth hour of a special diocesan convention on the day before Pentecost, and saw two different sides of the Holy Spirit: Fast and Slow.

The Holy Spirit is, after all, the mind of the Church. Or at least, it’s the Person of the Trinity to whom we assign most of the processes of discernment and decision-making in the Church, the one for whose intervention we pray when we are in need of guidance.

In the modern Church, we often associate the Holy Spirit with the spontaneous and disruptive, the unexpected and miraculous. “Pentecostalism” is, after all, the tradition of speaking in tongues and miracle cures, whose adherents have believed in sudden outpourings of the Holy Spirit since the Azusa Street Revival and even before. When the Holy Spirit shows up, it’s with a sudden rush of wind and fires lit on people’s heads, with charismatic gifts and remarkable events. Most days, the Holy Spirit seems like a System 1 person of the Trinity.

But the Holy Spirit has a System 2, as well; the Spirit moves in more deliberate ways. Last week, I think, I wrote that the Holy Spirit shapes and guides the Church over generations, smoothing out our liturgies, refining our prayers into words that stand the test of time. It’s certainly true that the Spirit shapes us over the course of our lives; it’s no accident that “spiritual journey” has become such a common phrase, cliché as it may be. (When you’re facing the 93 South of life, where the future seems intractable, the Spirit is certainly there.)

And the Spirit moves in church conventions, too, even as they move at a comically glacial pace. Our election convention was already half an hour behind the agenda by the time the first vote was cast. (45 minutes, it turns out, was not enough time for a Eucharist with 500 people.) Each ballot took a few minutes to cast a vote, followed by twenty minutes of counting, then a few minutes to announce the results of that ballot, followed by another twenty minutes for the candidates to decide if they want to drop out before the next one, round after round of electronic voting, each of which was theoretically instant but which took forty-five minutes nevertheless.

But sometimes, the Spirit can’t do its work without some delays. Those forty-minute breaks were essential to the process. The hour we took for lunch between ballots 2 and 3 was absolutely necessary. Taking the time to reflect, and pray, and wait in a beautiful church between rounds of voting transformed what could’ve been a process of political scheming into a holy time of discernment. Sometimes, parliamentary procedure and Robert’s Rules can stifle the movement of the Holy Spirit—but sometimes all that structure and rigamarole slows things down just enough, gives just enough space, for the Spirit to help us work.

The Spirit can move fast, when it wants to, shattering our preconceptions and overturning the world in a matter of minutes. But mostly it moves slow, in our conventions and in our lives, gradually reshaping and redirecting us. The Spirit is not only fire, but wind; not only sudden transformation that burns down everything, but a gentle breeze that slowly takes us where we need to go.

I spent Monday and Tuesday this week at our annual Clergy Conference. Along with time to catch up with old colleagues in ministry and participate in important conversations with diocesan leaders, every year’s Clergy Conference includes a series of presentations by a guest speaker. Sometimes these are great. Sometimes they’re just fine. This year, I was really blown away.

Our speaker this year with Debie Thomas, an Episcopal layperson who serves as Minister for Lifelong Formation at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Palo Alto. Debie was raised in the United States by Indian immigrant parents, who came from the southern Indian state of Kerala, where they were members of the community of Mar Thoma Christians, who date their history back two thousand years to the ministry of Saint Thomas in India. Her father was an evangelical pastor in the US. Debie herself is a writer and a mother, “a seeker, an explorer, a believer, and a doubter,” as she puts it.

Her presentations grappled with each of the readings appointed to Pentecost, asking how each one might point us to a way in which the Holy Spirit is leading the Church today. What are the “dry bones” in our lives and in our churches, the things that seem dead and gone that only God can restore to life? How does the Holy Spirit translate the language of our faith into the language of our own lives, so that we hear God speaking to each one of us in a way we can understand, as the disciples heard at Pentecost? How does the Spirit pray for us, when we do not know how to pray for ourselves, with “sighs too deep for words,” as Paul says? What is the truth toward which Jesus is leading us in this “post-truth” age?

It was a week of many questions, and few answers. But luckily, Pentecost is still a few weeks away. I wonder, between now and then, whether you might pick one of those questions, and explore it in your prayer between now and then.

The Fourth Sunday of Easter, just past, is always one of the most idyllic Sundays of the year. Every year, we read one of the portions of Jesus’ “Good Shepherd” discourse, hearing those tender words, “I am the Good Shepherd.” We read the beloved 23rd Psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd,” and sing favorite hymns like “Shepherd of souls, refresh and bless” or “My Shepherd will supply my need.” And in a world in which many of us feel as though we “walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” it’s comforting to be reminded that we need “fear no evil, for thou art with me.”

Even in a society in which most of us couldn’t shear a sheep to save our souls, many of us find this pastoral imagery deeply moving. And falling as it often does in mid-April, with flowers beginning to bloom and greenery returning to a mud-brown world, Good Shepherd Sunday celebrates the joyful fulfillment of Easter’s promise of new and abundant life.

But all of that is assuming one of the two possible readings of Jesus’ words. The pastoral imagery is what we get from Jesus saying, “I am the Good Shepherd.” But what would it mean if we switched the emphasis around? What would it mean to say, “I am the Good Shepherd,” instead?

“Shepherd,” in the ancient Near East, was not just a pleasant pastoral image evoking rolling green hills, nor was it merely the less-romanticized daily occupation of a large portion of the population.

“Shepherd” was also one of the most common images for kings and earthly rulers. For thousands of years, kings of Sumeria, Assyria, and Babylonia described identified themselves as the shepherds of their people:

•Gudea (Sumerian ensi; 2144–2124 BC) was a “shepherd who leads the people with a good religious hand.”[38]
•Lipit-Ishtar (Isin; 1934–1924 BC): “Lipit-Ishtar, the wise shepherd, whose name has been pronounced by the god Nunamnir.”[39]
•Hammurabi (Babylonia, 1792–1750 BC): “I am Hammurabi, the shepherd, selected by the god Enlil, he who heaps high abundance and plenty . . . [the one] who gathers together the scattered peoples.”[40] “I provided perpetual water for the land . . . [and] gathered the scattered peoples. . . . In abundance and plenty I shepherded them.”[41]
•Amenhotep III (Egypt; 1411–1374 BC): “the good shepherd, vigilant for all people.”[42]
•Seti I (Egypt; 1313–1292 BC): “the good shepherd, who preserves his soldiers alive.”[43]
•Merneptah (Egypt; 1225–1215 BC): “I am the ruler who shepherds you.”[44]
•Merodach-baladan I (Babylonia; 1171–1159 BC): “[I am] the shepherd who collects the dispersed (people).”[45]
•Adadnirari III (Assyria; 810–783 BC): “unrivalled king, wonderful shepherd . . . whose shepherdship the great gods have made pleasing to the people of Assyria.”[46]
•Esarhaddon (Assyria; 680–669 BC): “the true shepherd, favorite of the great gods.”[47]
•Assurbanipal (Assyria; 668–627 BC): “those peoples which Ashur, Ishtar and the (other) great gods had given to me to be their shepherd and had entrusted into my hands.”[48]
•Nabopolassar (Babylonia; 625–605 BC): “the king of justice, the shepherd called by Marduk.”[49]
•Nebuchadnezzar II (Babylonia; 604–562 BC): “Marduk . . . gave me the shepherdship of the country and the people,” and “the loyal shepherd, the one permanently selected by Marduk.”[50]

The prophets condemn, again and again, the incompetent and unjust “shepherds” who have led their people:

“Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture! says the LORD. Therefore thus says the LORD, the God of Israel, concerning the shepherds who shepherd my people: It is you who have scattered my flock, and have driven them away, and you have not attended to them. So I will attend to you for your evil doings, says the LORD.” (Jeremiah 23:1-2)

“Mortal, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel: prophesy, and say to them—to the shepherds: Thus says the Lord GOD: Ah, you shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep?” (Ezekiel 34:2)

“The diviners see lies;
the dreamers tell false dreams,
and give empty consolation.
Therefore the people wander like sheep;
they suffer for lack of a shepherd.
My anger is hot against the shepherds,
and I will punish the leaders;
for the LORD of hosts cares for his flock.” (Zechariah 10:2-3)

And it’s easy enough to connect the dots: It would be odd to prophesy against the literal shepherds among the people of Israel, as if agricultural mismanagement were their concern. God is speaking to the self-proclaimed and metaphorical shepherds who lead the human flock.

The situation has gotten so bad that in the end, God gives up hope that human shepherds will take care of God’s sheep. Enough time has passed, and enough evidence has been gathered: God’s people have been led by too many shepherds who act like the hired hand, who runs away at the first sign of trouble. So God finally announces: “Thus says the Lord GOD: I myself will search for my sheep, and will seek them out…I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep, and I will make them lie down, says the Lord GOD.” (Ezekiel 34:11, 15)

And so it is that Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd.” I am the one who will lead you in a way your kings have not.

Two thousand years later, in a world still torn apart by war and violence, exploitation and mismanagement, it should be clear that there are still plenty of shepherds who “destroy and scatter the sheep.” We can follow them, if we’d like. We can set our hearts on anger and vengeance, we can follow the paths of destruction. Or we can wait, and search, and seek out the Good Shepherd who leads us beside stiller waters. We can look for God our Shepherd leading us in the paths of peace. We can wonder what it means to follow Jesus, and to let him seek us out, when the world is darkened by the shadow of death. And we can find comfort in the relief he brings. Because Jesus is not only the good shepherd who cares for each of our souls, and not only the good shepherd, unlike all our mighty kings. He’s both; and that is a good shepherd, indeed.

These days we’re used to life being disrupted by crises large and small, from a global health crisis to a dilapidated subway system and everything in between.  So it was a nice change, on Monday, to have life disrupted by an extraordinary but harmless event.

I don’t know about you, but all around me I saw people shaken out of their routines. Yuppie couples used to working from home in separate rooms spent a few hours sitting side by side in the park outside our apartment, gazing at the sky as the sun slowly dimmed. Crowds of office workers stood along the boardwalk outside the Schrafft’s building, chatting and sharing glasses. At home, we built a pinhole projector box and wandered around the neighborhood, keeping track of the shape of a tiny crescent sun.

I’ve even heard reports—I’ll keep them anonymous for now—that strangers talked to one another (talked to one another! in Boston!) and lined up along the streets, sharing protective glasses as they stared up at the sun.

And that was just the partial eclipse.

Over the last few years, we’ve gotten used to life being disrupted and new kinds of community being formed by cataclysmic crises and dire events. I think of the surreal stillness of the world outside in the spring of 2020, so different from the stillness I heard in the air yesterday. I think of the periodic outpourings of solidarity we feel with the people subjected to the latest rounds of violence, terror, and war throughout the world. I think of the aftermath of elections and sports championships, expressions of collective effervescence balanced by expressions of rage and despair.

But when the sun is briefly blotted out, there are no losers. No one is hurt. There is no crisis bringing us together—only awe, and joy, and wonder.

“The solar eclipse was life-changing,” one headline declared on Tuesday morning. But I wonder whether life will really change.

Will the woman who yelled out her car window to offer us her glasses as she turned left across a crowded intersection stay so generous toward her neighbors forever? Or will her next round of shouting at pedestrians be a bit less kind?

Will the couples and coworkers who spent an hour outside together make it a regular thing? Or will they go back to spending their lunch hour side-by-side but staring at their phones?

How long will our hushed awe at the magnificence of the universe remain, and how quickly will the static of daily life rise up to drown it out?

Easter is an eclipse moment for our faith: A moment of crisis and wonder, an earth-shaking event that should, in theory, change everything about the way we live.

But will it?

How long will the joy of Easter remain before we return to more quotidian concerns? How long will the hope of Easter lift our spirits before we’re dragged back down to earth? Is the story of the Resurrection truly life-changing—or do our old patterns soon enough re-emerge?

Maybe it’s both. And that’s okay. But we live now in the world after Easter, just as we live in the world after the eclipse. A wonderful thing has happened, and now it’s gone, and we’re left with the memory, wondering: What difference will it make?

So my prayer, today, is this: May our minds be filled with wonder at the glory of nature, on ordinary and extraordinary days. May our hearts be filled with generosity and love of our neighbors, whether we see them on a Monday filled with awe, or simply on a Monday. And may the joy of Easter Sunday and the wonder of Eclipse Monday become touchstones that can draw us back toward hope and joy, on every other plain old boring day.

“Beloved, we are God’s children now;
what we will be has not yet been revealed.”
(1 John 3:2)

Over the last few years, I’ve often heard church leaders refer to Episcopalians, or to Christians in general, as “an Easter people.” It’s a phrase that’s surfaced in my mind during the last week, as we’ve celebrated Easter Sunday and I’ve begun planning for the coming weeks. During this Eastertide—the fifty-day season between Easter Day and the Ascension—our readings on Sunday mornings are taken from the Book of Acts and the First Letter of John, along with the Gospel of John, and in many ways each series of readings is an answer to the question, “What does it mean to be an ‘Easter People?'” In other words, what does it mean to live as a community shaped by the Resurrection?

I was so intrigued by the question that I decided to do something this Eastertide that I don’t usually do, and preach a sermon series. 1 John is one of my favorite books of the Bible, and so I thought we’d stick with it through the season, asking each week: What can this letter to a small group of Christian disciples, two millennia ago, teach us about what it means to be “an Easter people” today?

As is often the case with quotable quotes, the origins of the phrase “Easter people” are unclear. But its most beautiful and defining use comes from a homily given by the late Pope John Paul II during a visit to Australia in 1986:

We do not pretend that life is all beauty. We are aware of darkness and sin, of poverty and pain. But we know Jesus has conquered sin and passed through his own pain to the glory of the Resurrection. And we live in the light of his Paschal Mystery – the mystery of his Death and Resurrection. “We are an Easter People and Alleluia is our song!” We are not looking for a shallow joy but rather a joy that comes from faith, that grows through unselfish love, that respects the “fundamental duty of love of neighbour, without which it would be unbecoming to speak of Joy.” We realize that joy is demanding; it demands unselfishness; it demands a readiness to say with Mary: “Be it done unto me according to thy word.”

I am reminded of my favorite words in our burial service, which come at the Commendation, at the very end. When we have said all that we can say, and offered all our prayers, I walk to stand next to the casket. And the final prayer commending our beloved to God begins:

You only are immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and to earth shall we return. For so did you ordain when you created me, saying,
“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

“Yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” This is what it is to be an Easter people. To rejoice defiantly, in the face of a world of suffering and death. To rejoice, in the faith that this is not the end. To acknowledge a mystery that we can never understand, to commit ourselves to live up to a love that we can never deserve, to stand at the edge of the grave and proclaim God’s praise.

It is not easy to love our neighbors as ourselves. It is not easy to practice rejoicing in a world of pain. It is not easy to be made of dust, as we are. And yet we cannot choose to be immortal instead. We cannot choose to remain invulnerable. We cannot choose not to suffer, in this life; we can only choose whether to stay silent and speechless, or whether to be an Easter people, whether, together, to make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!