I don’t really need any new Christmas decorations, but I discovered one last year that tempted me. It turns out that you can buy an angel tree topper that’s advertised as “biblically accurate.” The prophet Isaiah described one such type of angel in today’s first reading: “each had six wings; with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew.” No wonder angels always start out by saying, “be not afraid.” Would you put a figure like that on top of your tree?

Pentecost is the most un-Episcopalian of feast days. Most of us are skeptical of stories of fire from heaven. If we hear a sound like the rush of a violent wind, we assume that it is in fact a violent wind. (This is Kansas, after all.) And if we decide to do anything special to celebrate Pentecost, wearing red is generally good enough. There’s absolutely no need to speak in tongues.

This approach to Pentecost suits my own temperament. But sometimes I wonder if we’re missing out.

We human beings aren’t very good at unity. We want connection, we want to be understood, but we too often define ourselves by the things that make us different from one another. “He’s nice enough, but he’s a foreigner.” “Why does she dress like that?” “He’s a Democrat.” “She’s a Republican.” “I just don’t get it.” Politics, language, appearance. All these things divide us.

Smaller things too. What would happen if I got up in this pulpit one Sunday and started my sermon by chanting, “Rock chalk, Jayhawk, K.U.!” (I thought about trying it today to make a point, but decided I didn’t dare.)

One Sunday, a preacher brought his two children to church with him, a girl and a boy. The boy slept through the entire sermon, and his sister decided that this was the perfect chance to get her brother into trouble. And so at lunch she rather primly asked him what he thought the main point of the sermon was. She had him. Or did she? It turns out the boy was prepared. He replied, “It was the same as always. Blah blah blah blah love. Blah blah blah blah love.”

He wasn’t wrong.

One question that came up again and again in the first years of the Church was the question of just how far God’s love could reach, of how broad this new community should be. Who was in and who was out? Again and again they asked the question: “Can we include this person? This stranger? This foreigner? This person whose appearance and speech and habits are so different from everything we know?” Again and again they asked. And again and again the Holy Spirit taught them that the answer was “yes.” Yes, God’s love could reach so far.

Sheep aren’t exactly admired. They’re seen as stupid, dependent, easily frightened, prone to falling into ditches and getting stuck. And they probably don’t smell very good. Sheep stand around all day and eat grass. No sheep has ever been a hero, or written a great poem, or held a deep thought.

All this bad sheep PR creates some cognitive dissonance for people of faith, though, doesn’t it? I mean, think about it. Today we talk about Jesus as the Good Shepherd, the one who lays down his life for the sheep. But if Jesus is the shepherd, what does that make us?

We might as well face it. It makes us sheep.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself volunteering with a group of people I’d never met before. They were all church-goers, but not Episcopalians. I knew this morning’s sermon was coming up, and I was looking for ideas. And so I asked them what questions they had about Easter. One wanted to know what Jesus meant when he said, “It is finished” from the cross. Another asked why “Good Friday” is called “Good.” A third said, “what’s up with the eggs and bunnies?”