The Spirit’s on Fire—and She’s Kinda Gay About It

Wind, Fire, and That Gut Feeling That You’re Meant for More

A Pentecost Reflection from Acts 2:1–21

You ever have one of those days that’s just… too much?

Like everything’s noisy, messy, out of order, too fast, too loud, and not even in a language you understand?

Welcome to Pride Month.

Also, welcome to Pentecost.

Pentecost didn’t begin in a tasteful little sanctuary with pastel banners and a polite instrumental prelude. It began in chaos. Wind. Fire. Tongues. Not the flirty kind (well… not entirely), but the multilingual, holy-disruptive kind. People shouting, laughing, stunned, stunned some more, just trying to keep up with the divine wildfire.

It didn’t look like the birth of the church. It looked like a holy, queer mess.

And honestly? That’s exactly the point.

Real life is messy. Love is messy. Grief, justice, becoming, (you guessed it!), messy. And the Spirit doesn’t wait for things to be neat before showing up. She crashes the party mid-chaos and hands you a microphone.

Yes, she. Because I call the Spirit “She” for a reason that’s not just about being sassy or subversive (though I’m not above that). In Hebrew, the word for Spirit, ruach, is grammatically feminine. And throughout Scripture, the Spirit is described with images of birthing, brooding, comforting, surrounding. She groans. She hovers. She sets things on fire. You tell me that’s not divine femme energy.

She doesn’t wait for you to be ready.
She doesn’t knock.
She blows the damn door open.

And when she shows up? Everyone’s included. Everyone gets a flame. The Spirit doesn’t ask for credentials. She doesn’t need your résumé. She just wants you willing.

This story gets me every time. Because it’s not a gentle whisper. It’s a drag show in the upper room—wind machines on full blast, tongues lit, everyone catching fire and wondering what the hell is happening.

And what does the crowd say? “They must be drunk.”

And Peter, hot mess disciple turned surprise preacher, says: “We’re not drunk, y’all. It’s only nine in the morning.” (I love that his defense isn’t “we don’t drink,” but “it’s too early.” Pentecost is a vibe.)

Peter quotes Joel: “I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy. Your old will dream. Your young will see visions.”

All people.
That means cis folks and trans folks.
Straight folks and queer folks.
People with clergy collars and people with piercings and tattoos.
People who’ve been in church forever and people who aren’t even sure why they come back every week.

Pentecost is the Spirit’s giant group text that says:
“Hey babes. Get up. Let’s set the world on fire.”

And if that sounds a little intense, it should.

The Spirit is often compared to a dove, but in Celtic Christianity, she’s a wild goose: honking, flapping, chaotic, untamed. She will honk at you mid-anxiety spiral, mid-panic-cleaning, mid-scroll-of-despair and say: Get up, beloved. You’ve got something to say.

Because you do.
You’ve seen beauty that stopped you in your tracks.
You’ve seen injustice that made you want to scream.
You’ve felt love that saved you.
You’ve felt grief that remade you.

You’ve witnessed something real. So now you’re a witness.

And being a witness doesn’t mean you have to be polished or perfect or performative. It means you show up with your full self—queer joy, neurospicy mind, tired heart, glittery rage, sacred longing—and say: “This matters. I’m not letting it go unnoticed.”

The Spirit didn’t give you a flame to sit pretty. She lit you up to light up the world.

And here’s where it gets real gay. The Spirit could’ve picked a single language, a centralized voice, a neat theology. But she didn’t.

She picked every language. Every accent. Every cadence and cultural rhythm.
She queered the whole thing.
Because queerness, at its core, resists the lie that there’s only one right way to speak, to love, to show up in your body. Pentecost is queer not because it’s rainbow-themed (though I’m here for that too), but because it says: Every voice belongs. Every expression is holy. No one gets left out.

Even if church has told you otherwise.

Even if your family hasn’t seen it yet.

Even if you’re still learning how to see it in yourself.

The Spirit isn’t waiting for your confidence, just your consent. She is moving, disrupting, calling, sending. And she’s whispering (sometimes yelling): The world needs what you carry.

So: light your candle. Grab your mic. Let your weird, sacred, queer little self be the good news.

Because the moment is now.

And you? You are not just welcomed. You are wanted.
Not in spite of who you are, but because of it.

So go ahead.
Speak up.
Show up.
Shake sh*t up.

And let the Spirit do what she does best:
Set everything ablaze—with love.

Amen and amen. 🕊️🔥🌈

A Blessing for the Divinely Disruptive
Go now, with your hair windswept and your heart on fire.
Go, lit by a Spirit who doesn’t do subtle—
who crashes through ceilings, kicks down shame,
and hands you the mic you were always meant to hold.

May you speak with courage,
love without apology,
and witness like someone who’s seen the Divine
in glitter, in grief, in the grind,
and in every gasp of joy that said, “This is holy, too.”

Go out—not quietly.
Go out—not neatly.
Go out as you are—bold, beloved,
queer as the day is long,
and called by a God who has always known your name.

And may the Wind whip through your doubt,
may the Fire burn off every lie they told you about yourself,
and may the Spirit kiss your cheek with power, pride, and purpose.

Now go.

You are sent.
And the world is so ready for your flame.

🔥🌈 Amen.