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We can see this right in the DNA of the church. The church, you'll remember, is "genetically" Pentecostal. The birthplace of the church is Pentecost, at which some pretty strange stuff happened, strange enough that others didn't know what to make of it and so concluded that the apostles were drunk. But what I find really interesting about Pentecost is not just that St. Peter participated in the surprise of the Spirit, but that he had the courage to stand up and essentially say, "This is what the Spirit was talking about" (Acts 2:16). Peter was open enough to God doing something new and different that in the face of the madness that was Pentecost Sunday, he could boldly proclaim, "This is God!" When Jesus ascended and promised the Spirit, I don't imagine the disciples expected the scene that unfolded at Pentecost. And yet Peter exhibits openness to God surprising our expectations.

The heart and soul of that Pentecostal spirituality is not the manifestations, but rather the courage and openness to see God in those unexpected manifestations, and to say, "This is what the Spirit promised."

That means acknowledging God's sovereignty in worship in ways that have to be learned. I think most Reformed folk have learned habits of worship that effectively constrain the sovereignty of God by adopting highly defined and narrow expectations of the Spirit's operations. I long for a kind of "Pentecostalized" Reformed spirituality that expects the sovereign Lord to show up in ways that might surprise us. If we take our Reformed convictions about God's sovereignty seriously, then we can, with Peter, be boldly open to the Spirit's surprise. We need not immediately kick back in fear at what might sometimes appear to be the madness of Pentecost, but can have the courage to say the Spirit is at work.

I think that's exactly the sensibility embodied by Jonathan Edwards, America's greatest theologian. While presenting labyrinthine theological sermons in monotone from his pulpit, the Puritan preacher witnessed strange manifestations, convulsing bodies, and shouts and yelps among his congregants. But Edwards the Reformed theologian was discerning enough not to write this off, but to say, "There's something of the Spirit in this." In Pentecostal spirituality, the Calvinist conviction about the sovereignty of God is extended to worship in a way that makes us open to and even expectant of the sovereign Lord surprising us.

Reformed folk, particularly in the Dutch tradition of Kuyper and Dooyeweerd, often emphasize the "goodness of creation"— that God created a material universe that he pronounced "very good" (Gen. 1:31). And although it is fallen, God is redeeming this world, not redeeming us out of it. An important piece of that affirmation is the goodness of embodiment—the goodness of the stuff we bump into, the bodies we inhabit.

But that's precisely why I've always found it a bit strange that Reformed worship so often treats human beings as if we're brains-on-a-stick. All week long we talk about how good creation is, how good embodiment is. But then we have habits of worship that merely deposit great ideas in our heads, making us rather cerebral disciples. Despite all our talk about the goodness of creation and embodiment, in Reformed worship the body doesn't show up that much.

Pentecostals, on the other hand, embody their spirituality. I would argue that Pentecostal worship is the extension of the Reformed intuition about the goodness of creation and the goodness of embodiment. We can see this in just a few examples.

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May 2008, Vol. 52, No. 5