It started with a spider plant.
A little over two weeks ago, a mourning dove decided that the hanging spider plant just outside my back door was the perfect place to build a home. I watched her — patient, deliberate, unassuming — weave together a modest nest in the trailing green fronds. Then came the eggs. And then, this past weekend, those eggs became two small, fuzzy, miraculous lives: Francie and Bingo, named with all the authority that nieces and nephews rightly claim over such matters.
I have watched the parent
doves take turns. I have watched them sit through rain and wind and the
occasional startling from a curious pastor stepping too close to the door. I
have watched them keep vigil — steady, gentle, unhurried — over something fragile
and becoming. And I have found myself, on more than one occasion, undone by it.
Then Sunday came.
Pentecost Sunday. The day we celebrate the arrival of the Holy Spirit — that
wild, rushing, fire-breathing breath of God that descended upon the disciples
and set the whole world spinning differently. And as I prepared to preach, I
kept thinking about the bird outside my door — and the question that has
followed Christian theology from its very beginnings:
Is the Holy Spirit a dove? Or is the
Holy Spirit a goose?
It is a more serious question than it might first appear. The symbol we assign to the Spirit shapes the Spirit we expect to meet. And the Spirit we expect to meet shapes the faith we dare to live.
The Dove: A History of Gentle Certainty
"And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up
from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit
of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven
said, 'This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.'" —
Matthew 3:16–17 (NRSVUE)
All four Gospels record
some version of this moment, making the dove one of the most well-attested
images in the New Testament (Matthew 3:16, Mark 1:10, Luke 3:22, John 1:32).
The dove descends. It alights. It rests. It is a moment of holy stillness — the
Spirit settling upon the Beloved as witness and blessing.
But the dove's symbolic
roots reach further back than the Jordan. In Genesis, it is a dove that Noah
sends out from the ark, and it is a dove that returns with an olive branch —
the first sign that the waters of chaos are receding, that God is keeping covenant,
that dry ground and new life are on their way (Genesis 8:8–12). Peace. Promise.
Providence. The dove carries all of it.
The early church embraced
the image enthusiastically. By the second and third centuries, the dove had
become standard iconography in Christian art, appearing in catacombs and on
sarcophagi as a symbol of both the Holy Spirit and the soul in God's keeping.
The church father Tertullian drew explicit connections between the dove of Noah
and the dove of Jesus' baptism, seeing in both a God who hovers over chaos and
brings forth new creation.
And there is something
genuinely true in the dove image. There are moments when the Spirit does feel
like this — tender, arriving quietly, resting gently upon a thing. A still
small voice. A peace that passes understanding. The Spirit that broods over troubled
waters and does not abandon us. The dove tells us: God is near. God is gentle.
God can be trusted.
I have felt that Spirit watching Francie and Bingo's parents hover over that nest. Steady. Faithful. Present through wind and weather. There is something of the divine in that kind of constancy — the love that shows up every day, that doesn't leave when it gets hard, that keeps its warmth over small and fragile things.
And yet.
For all its beauty, the
dove image has a shadow side. Doves are domesticated. They are manageable. They
can be caged. And throughout history, a domesticated Spirit has served
institutional comfort more than prophetic fire. A dove-Spirit can be trained to
stay in the sanctuary, to bless the status quo, to descend only on approved
occasions. A dove-Spirit rarely overturns tables.
Something about the Pentecost story resists the dove. Because what came in that upper room was not gentle. It was not quiet. It was not tame.
The Goose: A History of Holy Wildness
Enter the Celtic church —
and the wild goose.
While the Roman church was
building cathedrals and systematizing theology, the Celtic Christian tradition
flourishing in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales was developing its own vivid,
earthy, Spirit-saturated faith. Deeply rooted in the natural world, attentive
to the presence of God in every creature and every turning of the season, the
Celtic church listened to the Spirit differently. And what they heard sounded
less like a cooing dove and more like the sharp, startling,
impossible-to-ignore cry of a wild goose in flight.
The Celtic term for the
Holy Spirit was An Geadh-Glas — the Wild Goose. This was not accidental. Geese
migrate across vast distances, driven by instincts they did not choose and
cannot explain. They are loud. They are communal — they fly in formation, taking
turns at the front, supporting one another in the slipstream. They are fierce
protectors of their own. And they are fundamentally impossible to control.
The Iona Community,
founded in Scotland in 1938 by George MacLeod on the ancient Celtic island
where Columba first brought Christianity to Scotland, recovered and championed
the Wild Goose image as central to their understanding of the Spirit. Their
worship and music — much of it created through the Wild Goose Resource Group —
has spread this image across the global church, reclaiming something old that
many traditions had forgotten.
And when we read the
Pentecost story without our stained-glass filters, the goose makes far more
sense.
"When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all
together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the
rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting.
Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each
of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in
other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability." — Acts 2:1–4 (NRSVUE)
There is nothing
domesticated about this moment. This is not a Spirit that alights gently and
rests in holy stillness. This is a Spirit that arrives like a storm — loud,
disorienting, physically overwhelming. The disciples do not look peaceful. They
look, by all accounts, as if they might be drunk (Acts 2:13). The Spirit has
blown the roof off their expectations and is now doing something entirely new,
entirely beyond their management.
The prophet Joel had seen
it coming centuries before:
"In the last days it will be, God declares, that I
will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall
prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream
dreams. Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out
my Spirit, and they shall prophesy." — Acts 2:17–18 (quoting Joel 2:28–29,
NRSVUE)
All flesh. Sons and
daughters. Young and old. Slave and free. This is not a Spirit that respects
the categories human beings have erected to sort themselves into hierarchies of
worth. This is a Spirit that honks loudly at every wall and keeps flying straight
through.
Jesus himself, in his
conversation with Nicodemus, reached for the wind as the Spirit's closest
analogue:
"The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the
sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is
with everyone who is born of the Spirit." — John 3:8 (NRSVUE)
You do not know where it
comes from or where it goes. The Spirit is not trackable. It is not
controllable. It does not ask our permission before it shows up, and it does
not linger because we want it to stay. It goes where it will, and our calling
is not to cage it but to follow.
Paul's letter to the Romans offers one of the wildest descriptions of the Spirit's work — the Spirit that intercedes for us with sighs and groans too deep for words (Romans 8:26), that helps us in our weakness, that works all things together for good in ways we cannot see and did not plan (Romans 8:28). This is not a Spirit content to sit decoratively atop a baptismal font. This is a Spirit actively at work in the groaning and becoming of the whole creation.
Back to the Spider Plant: What Francie and Bingo Taught Me
So here I am, two weeks
into watching a dove family outside my back door, arguing that the goose is the
better symbol of the Holy Spirit. I want to be transparent about this paradox —
and I think it is actually the point.
Because what the dove
outside my door has shown me is both the beauty and the limitation of the dove
image. The parent doves are faithful, and they are lovely, and watching them
has cracked my heart open in ways I did not anticipate. There is genuine grace
in their patience, their steadiness, their refusal to abandon what is fragile
and small (they have to keep those eggs at a toasty 99 degrees). I believe the Spirit is capable of that tenderness. I do not want to
lose it.
But Francie and Bingo are
not going to stay in that nest. That is the whole point of a nest. It exists
for the leaving.
At some point — and it
will be soon — those two squabs will edge toward the rim of the spider plant.
They will look out at the wide and terrifying expanse of the backyard. And
something in them — some ancient, uncontrollable, God-given instinct — will launch
them into the air before they are entirely sure they are ready. They will fly
because they were made to fly, not because anyone assured them it was safe.
That is the Spirit I want
to proclaim. That is the Spirit I believe is calling the church — calling each
of us — in this moment.
The dove-Spirit whispers:
stay where it is warm. The goose-Spirit honks: there is somewhere you have not
yet been, and I will meet you there.
The dove-Spirit says: I
will keep you safe. The goose-Spirit says: I will keep you faithful — and those
are not always the same thing.
The dove-Spirit settles. The goose-Spirit migrates. And we were made for migration — made to follow the Spirit into uncomfortable and life-giving territory, formed in community like a skein of geese, taking turns at the front when the headwinds are hardest, trusting that the wind beneath us is the same wind that has been blowing since before the world was made.
The Goose and the Fire: Why the Wild Spirit Wins
In the end, I do not think
we have to choose between the gentleness of the dove and the wildness of the
goose. God is large enough to be both. The Spirit that broods patiently over
Francie and Bingo is the same Spirit that blew through the upper room like a
hurricane.
But when I ask which image
will keep the church alive and honest and humble and brave — when I ask which
image we most need in a world crying out for prophets who will speak truth and
communities that will cross every dividing wall — the answer feels clear to me.
We need the goose.
We need the Spirit that we
cannot predict, the movement of God that refuses to be institutionalized, the
holy wildness that shows up in unexpected people in unexpected places and says:
yes, you too. Your sons and daughters will prophesy. Your old ones will dream.
Your young ones will see visions. All flesh. All of it. The Spirit is on the
move and is not waiting for an invitation.
Ancient Celtic Christians
were not naive about this. They knew the wild goose was not comfortable. Geese
honk when you are trying to sleep. They get in the way. They poop a lot and everywhere! They do not quietly
bless the arrangements you have already made. They call you out of your settled
places and into the open sky.
But they also fly
together. They share the burden of the wind. They are relentlessly oriented
toward the destination — and they do not leave the struggling ones behind.
That is the community of
the Spirit. That is the church at its best. That is Pentecost — not a gentle
benediction, but a launching. Not a quiet descent, but a wild rising.
"For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children
of God." — Romans 8:14 (NRSVUE)
The wind is blowing. The
geese are calling. Francie and Bingo will leave the nest.
And so, beloved, will we.
Come, Holy Spirit — come as the wild and
unbridled goose.
Honk
loudly over our settled places.
Call
us out of our nests and into the wide open sky.
We are ready - or we will be - when the wind catches us.
