In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

This morning, beloved, for the feast of Pentecost, I want to speak to you about the transforming Spirit. Transforming means to go from one form to another. You’ll have to pardon my Kentucky accent. In Kentucky we do not distinguish very subtly between f-o-r-m and f-a-r-m. It’s f-o-r-m I’m talking about: transforming.

When the Holy Spirit comes down on people in the Bible, note that they change. They change dramatically. We had these instances last night in the Old Testament readings at vespers services, for those of you who were where you were supposed to be last night—at vespers. That’s where you were supposed to be last night, at vespers. You heard those examples. The Holy Spirit comes down upon the charismatic leaders, the judges, for example: Gideon, Jephthah, Samson. And they’re all very different when the Holy Spirit comes down upon them. The prophets—Jeremiah, Ezekiel—they were very different.

This morning, these apostles, who were in the upper room with the doors shut for fear, the Holy Spirit comes down upon that upper room, and these are completely transformed men. They’re not the same at all. The Holy Spirit transforms. He’s the Spirit of transformation.

In the reading we had from Ezekiel last night, this is described as a new heart. It’s about that new heart I want to speak to you this morning. The gift of the Holy Spirit has something cardiological about it. I want to speak this morning about three aspects of the Spirit’s transformation. Here’s my thesis this morning. I may have to repeat it. I may have to, because I think it’s subtle. Here’s my thesis: that there are three major examples of the Holy Spirit’s transformation of three human capacities. You might say, “Well, there’s more than three capacities in a human being.” Fair enough, but we’ll just limit it to three for this morning.

I describe these capacities as instinctual, having to do with instincts. That is to say, these capacities are native to the human psyche. These three instincts are integral parts of the human composition. I am not a Lutheran. Much as I love Luther, I am not a Lutheran. I do not believe that the grace of God covers us over. I believe the grace of God comes into the soul and transforms the soul. We begin that process this morning with this precious little boy who joined the Church.

Let me talk about these three instincts that are integral parts of the human composition. I’m taking them in a theological order. This may not be the best psychological order, but it’s a theological order. The first we’ll call the rational instinct. Now, when I speak about rational, I’m not talking about the rules of reason; I’m not talking about that. You see, the rules of reason, the rules how to get a valid syllogism, you can feed that into a computer. A computer will do it. Back when I taught logic, in the ten years before I came here, when I taught logic, I found that my students had much better success with symbolic logic, because it was the most like math. You get this symbol; you don’t know what it means, but you just move this symbol around, you come up with the right answer every time. But if you put those things, put those ideas into a sentence—lost. They simply did not have sufficient linguistic education to distinguish between a noun and a predicate, for example. It’s something that’s presumed in logic. I’m not talking about the laws of logic, which are really mathematical. I’m not talking about something quantitative.

The rational instinct means that there is in the human being the presumption of logos in this world. The implicit presupposition that existence in what the Germans would call der Velt, the world, existence, is supposed to make sense. It’s a presupposition we have, calling that the rational instinct. Human beings instinctively make the presumption that der Velt is supposed to make sense. Indeed, it takes years of education to destroy this fundamental human instinct. We have institutions in this country right now designed to destroy that. You see, to see existence as David Hume saw it does not come natural to the human soul. I’m thinking particularly of David Hume’s theories about causality. Even the average toddler, faced with a flame, will not put his hand into it more than once. He knows what will happen. He already has sufficient inductive argument for it, because the little toddler has not yet been exposed to David Hume. And do not expose your children to David Hume until they’ve read people like P.G. Wodehouse.

The toddler’s spirit of induction does not require further proof of the principle of causality. If the older boy throws a ball through a windowpane, he knows the first time that the ball breaks the window. He is incapable of regarding the two simultaneous events as mere coincidence, that the window broke as the ball went through it, without causality. According to Hume, he’d have to do that a bunch of times before he could really be sure about that. This instinct, this rational instinct, does not require a large inductive argument before being very careful as you lean over the top of the Sears Tower. For David Hume, you would have to throw several objects over to demonstrate that there really is a law of gravity.

The principle of causality, you see, I take that as the example; it’s a fundamental that testifies to a natural, innate instinct in the human mind, or in calling a rational instinct. This instinct quietly forces the mind toward a basic thesis, namely, that things are supposed to make sense. This instinct is engaged in the quest for logos, because the source for logos is God. The presupposition of logos implies the presupposition of God’s existence, and that presupposition lies at the base of every world culture. Thomas Merton describes, in The Seven Storey Mountain, how his mother found him one day—he discovered this when he read her journals—when he was just a little kid, a toddler; she came in and found him faced with the pilot light on the stove. And he was bowing down and adoring the pilot light on the stove. He had never been taught about God. He had never been told that he had a soul. That’s his instinctive reaction to the flame.

You see, beloved, atheism is not a natural inference. It is a strange and improbable inference. It is founded on the kind of argument that can be found only in a highly controlled environment. One cannot be an atheist safely and leave open a single window. Now, my favorite atheist—at least my favorite atheist writer—is Clive James. I never heard of Clive James until this past year, but I’ve been reading his incredible book, Cultural Amnesia, and getting a good education on how an atheist faces history and culture. I’m not sure my wife appreciates that I’m reading that book, because it has required me to buy another hundred books. That is not an exaggeration, is it, darling?

Clive James, my favorite atheist recently, my favorite atheist, says that atheism should be the default position of the human psyche, that we have to prove there’s a God. I want to know why. Why? Why should that be the default position? How is it that most people, at all times, accept the existence of God? Indeed, it takes an enormous amount of education and application of the mind to come to a different conclusion. A 15-year-old atheist? I’m sorry; I cannot take that seriously, and I don’t. I just sort of laugh, but I don’t want to destroy their self-image. You see, atheism is not an experience that most human beings find the default position. On the contrary, serious atheism is a truly tough intellectual challenge. Atheism does not come easily to the human psyche. In fact, atheism does violence to the human instinct. Atheism violates a deep and pervasive instinct: man’s natural disposition, his perceived affinity to logos. He presumes things make sense, and his mind is attuned to that sense. But somebody has to put the sense there! And this is implicitly recognized by most human beings.

Now, how does the Holy Spirit transform that instinct? What does the Holy Spirit do when he creates a new heart within us? How does he transform that instinct? You see, the Holy Spirit identifies this God, whose existence is presupposed in man’s rational instinct; the Holy Spirit identifies the object of that instinct. The Holy Spirit gives us the full confessional faith.

And this morning didn’t we do it great? This morning, all together, we stood, and we gave voice to what the Holy Spirit tells us. What does the Holy Spirit tell us? Abba, Father! Jesus is Lord! And we stood there this morning, and we said, “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty.” Not just that there’s a god, but we know who he is: “One God, the Father Almighty.” “I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ.” We can only say those things by the grace of the Holy Spirit. Look at Galatians 4, Romans 8, 1 Corinthians 14. We can only say these things because of the Holy Spirit, the full confessional faith, because the Holy Spirit transforms our rational instinct.

Second instinct: I’ll call it the vital instinct. Hear the word “vital”? “Vital” comes from the Latin vita, meaning life. It’s the Latin equivalent of the Greek zoe. For the third time this year, I’m going to give you a quotation from John Lukacs, as I did last week and a few weeks before. “Life,” he says, “is the desire for more life.” Life is the desire for more life. In other words, life is intrinsically acquisitive; it wants more.

Let me give you a “for instance” here. Outside nursing a baby after Zoom. I won’t call on Kimberly. Whom will I call on? I’m going to fall on Rebecca. I suspect that in olden days, you had this experience. A child would cry in the middle of the night. The child was afraid of the dark, perhaps. And you came to the child, and what did you give the child? Reassurance. You told the child that everything is okay. I’m not going to ask for a show of hands, because I’m sure that every mother in this place has done that, and some fathers, too. You reassure the child. You give him assurance that everything is all right.

Now, let me ask you: Is everything all right? Is the mother just lying to the child? I see someone shaking his head yes, and recognize in that person a disciple of Schopenhauer. [Laughter] You see, if Rebecca had been reading Schopenhauer, and little Annie was crying, Rebecca would have said to her, “You should be crying.” [Laughter] “You would cry a lot more if you really knew how things are.” Remember what Jeeves says—Jeeves of P.G. Wodehouse? “Schopenhauer is an unsound author.” [Laughter] I always believe Jeeves.

I’m thinking of the book that’s usually referred to as Schopenhauer’s masterpiece, Der Velt als Wille und Vorstellung—der Velt, existence, reality, der Velt, the world—as will and Vorstellung, presentation. If one sees existence as will and presentation and that is it, then despair is the only logical conclusion, and I hope none of you are going to succumb to despair. You see, despair does not come natural to us, because we have this vital instinct. Despair is not a natural state. Despair must be worked at. You must think very hard to arrive at a state of despair. The mind itself is not an instrument of desperation. Despair does not come to us naturally.

So the mother is not lying to the child. She assures the child that everything is all right. She does not deceive the child. The mother reassures the child’s vital instinct. Why is the child disposed to believe the mother? Because of this vital instinct: the child really wants to believe. In fact, his very existence requires him to believe that everything is all right. A sane society discourages despair.

Suppose one or the other of you has been reading Schopenhauer—or worse, maybe Jean-Paul Sartre. Suppose I would find somebody here who has just assimilated the philosophy of Jean-Paul Sartre, and I see him reach into his pocket and pull out a great big blade and proceed to slit his throat. What must I do? Take the knife away from him! I don’t say, “Well, it’s your life.” We don’t allow that. A sane society does not permit suicide. Let me give you a sane society: classical Athens, the Athens of Pericles, the Athens of Plato, the Athens of Socrates, the Athens of Aristotle. In ancient Athens, suicide was punished. Now, think about that. [Laughter] Suicide was punished.

I don’t know how many people over the years that I’ve had to deal with—I mean, I’m a priest, for crying out loud—attempt suicide. I mean, I have this memory of this lady who has since died a natural death, but she called me at night right before New Years. If you’re going to commit suicide, New Years seems to be the favorite time. She was telling me at New Years she was going to commit suicide. And the clock struck twelve, and I heard the gunshot at the other end of the phone. I couldn’t call the police, because the phone was tied up. No matter how many times I hung up, I couldn’t break the connection. So I threw on some clothes, because I had been in my pajamas, so I threw on some clothes, went around the corner to a store, used the pay phone—we didn’t have cell phones in those days. In fact, I think Alexander Graham Bell was still alive…

I called the police with the equivalent of 911; I drove over to Jean’s house. I didn’t think she had committed suicide, but I had an obligation to be sure about this. I get over to the house, and there’s a fire engine, a couple of ambulances, and a dozen—a dozen!—police cars. The place is crowding with first responders. I come running up the yard, and several policemen jump in my way and say, “You can’t go any further, sir. Somebody in there seems to have injured herself.” I said, “And just who you think told you that?” I must have been much bolder in those days. I really shoved the policeman aside. I shoved him aside; I ran up on the porch and started banging on the door. I said, “Jean! Open this door!” I’m yelling at Jean, “Open this door!” She came and opened the door. Blood was pouring down her face. She had turned the gun ever so slightly before she pulled the trigger.

What did they do with Jean? They arrested her. Now, they didn’t arrest her for attempted suicide. They arrested her for discharging a firearm within city limits. They didn’t take her to jail. They took her to Baptist Hospital, fourth floor. In other words, we don’t admit; we simply don’t admit that you have a right to do this.

How did ancient Athens punish suicides? They cut off the hand of the person who committed suicide, and they buried it elsewhere, to distinguish between the one killed and the one killer. Very interesting. There are those who believe that Socrates committed suicide. You have the Socrates Club, or whatever it is; it’s a suicide society. Socrates did not commit suicide! It was not Socrates’ option. He was suffering capital punishment; he wasn’t committing suicide. He had simply been appointed by the state as his own executioner. Socrates hated suicide. You don’t have a right to suicide, because you don’t have a right to despair.

Now, this vital instinct: how does the Holy Spirit transform this vital instinct? The Spirit’s transformation of this vital instinct is called hope. Hope. The Holy Spirit fills the human heart with a radical hope, this hope beyond anything this world offers, hope in the face of suffering and death. The Holy Spirit is the enemy of despair. Why is it that the Bible regards martyrdom as the highest of the charismatic gifts of the Spirit? Martyrdom.

When I first came to that parish in Oklahoma, they had a very strong charismatic movement. We had people praying in tongues, giving prophecies, laying on hands for healing, all sorts of things. I had to mention to them, “Oh, you want the highest of the spiritual gifts? The Church has always said that the highest of the charismatic gifts of the Spirit is the gift of martyrdom.” Stephen is described as full of the Holy Spirit, and being full of the Holy Spirit he willingly submits his body to being pelted with stones until he dies. When Polycarp is on the funeral pyre, about the year 155, on the funeral pyre at Smyrna, the great Polycarp—which means very fruitful, much fruit, tutti frutti, polycarpos—he invokes the Holy Spirit. He can’t be in martyrdom without this grace of the Holy Spirit, because of the hope of eternal life. The Holy Spirit transforms this vital instinct.

The third one, the third of these vital instincts, the one I’m going to call the affective instinct: the innate impulse to love. You see this impulse between the mother and the child. You may actually see this impulse between the priest and the child, the father and the child, this impulse between the father and the mother. Now, beloved, the social order is based on networks of love. The whole social order is based on the networks of love.

I was watching something this past week. It was an old interview with Governor Cuomo of New York, and he says, “You know, that except in times of national crisis, Americans don’t seem to be governed by a spirit of community.” I think that’s correct; I think they don’t. We contrast Americans with Canadians, because with Canadians, it’s big-time, very big in Canada. Because you remember Canada is simply a political expression of the Hudson Bay Company. America’s founded on very different principles from Canada. But you see, if you have a society that’s based on something that’s as abstract as individual rights—the whole society is based on individual rights—no, you cannot expect people to instinctively think about society as based on love. And this is the difference between Edmund Burke and John Locke.

Please, before you get one day older, if you haven’t done it, read Edmund Burke’s reflections on the French Revolution. Read that book: Reflections on the [Revolution in France]. It’s an extremely important book. Burke argues that the natural order and the political order are extensions of domestic love. We start by loving one another in the home. Then we love our neighbors. Then we love our communities. Then we love our countries. I think we all know that. That’s why we cherish… That’s why Michael is wearing the uniform of this country. I have no doubt that he is inspired by love; I don’t have any doubt about that whatsoever. For John Locke, the political order is based on individual rights. Edmund Burke was sane enough to see that the home, not the individual, is the proper basis of a sane political order.

This affective instinct, the instinct to love one another, is a trait innate in the human psyche. Now, how does the Holy Spirit transform this affective instinct? It’s called agape. You’re starting to see the three points? Faith, hope, agape. What is this agape? This agape is God himself. Ho Theos agape estin, says the first epistle of John. “For God is love.” That’s why this instinct is inside us: because we’re made in God’s image and likeness. That’s why love comes natural to us, because it is of the divine nature. The Church is the place where believers love one another in God. Again, that’s the message of St. John, isn’t it? “Little children, love one another.” “He who loves is a child of God.”

But more than that, the distinction in quality between the Spirit’s agape is the hardest one, the one I’m even hesitant to preach to you about because I know some of you have not yet accepted it in your hearts. I know that; I see evidence of it, that some of you have not accepted it in your heart, and that is love of enemies, love of those who have hurt us, love of those who have caused suffering to us. Love them! and treat them like you love them. You see, that really is the Gospel: to love people who have offended us and have not apologized, people who have caused great misery in our lives and don’t even know they’ve done it. Love them. Treat them as though you love them, because, beloved, you see that’s exactly what God has done to us. Every single one of us has offended God, and he loves even those who have not repented. He loves even the people in hell.

This love of enemies is the major moral difference between being a Christian and being a Muslim. See, the Muslim has no incentive whatsoever to love his enemies, and he doesn’t. The Christian has every incentive to do it. Now, the Christian may not love his enemies, but if he doesn’t he knows he is violating the mandate of the Gospel, that only the Holy Spirit can teach us how to love our enemies. But if we don’t—if we bear grudges, nurse anger, start to exact justice—this is called grieving the Spirit, and this is incompatible with the acquisition of the Holy Spirit. The love of enemies is the real test of the Christian.

I give you, then, these three—as though they were mine to give!—faith, hope, and love. St. Paul says that these three abide, and we take them to heaven with us. Amen.