This Sunday is Pentecost, when we mark the descent of the Spirit to the new church in Jerusalem. The Holy Spirit’s arrival was made manifest by the disciples’ sudden proclamation of the gospel in foreign tongues, and Pentecost often—and rightly—includes an emphasis on how God in the Spirit says yes: to the nations, to women and men, to young and old alike (Acts 2:17; Gal. 3:28).
Less celebrated is when the Spirit says no. But no can be a life-giving word just as much as yes—some denials save us from things that distract or destroy—and this, too, is a theme in scriptural teaching on the Spirit.
The Bible and Christian tradition sing of the Spirit’s expansive work. At Pentecost, Peter quotes Joel 2:28–32, fulfilled as the Spirit is poured out on all flesh (Acts 2:17). Christians have long cited passages such as Genesis 1 and Psalm 104 to understand the Spirit’s presence and activity in all of creation, and there’s a triumphant feel here, as the Spirit guides a frustrated world toward God’s good ends (Rom. 8:20–21). There’s also a note of humility for the church, a recognition that we are not the sum of an omnipotent God’s work in the world. The Holy Spirit gives life to all and is working among all, even those who do not know him (Acts 17:25–28).
Yet there’s a countermelody to God’s yes of life and belonging in Jesus. A countermelody is a line of notes that complements the primary melody in a piece of music. It’s found in pop and classical music alike, and you may know examples like “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine).”
In Scripture, the countermelody is the negative side of the Spirit’s guidance. Think of passages like Acts 5, where the Spirit strikes down Ananias and Sapphira for their deception and theft, causing “great fear” to seize the “whole church.” Less violently, in Acts 16:7 the Spirit does not allow Paul to enter Bithynia, indicating that part of the Spirit’s guiding work involves restraint. The prevailing direction of the Spirit’s work in Scripture is positive and expansive, but there is unmistakably a negative and limiting dimension of the Spirit’s activity.
Jesus’ words in John 16 about the Spirit’s work of conviction point us this way. “When he comes,” Jesus says of the Spirit, “he will prove the world to be in the wrong about sin and righteousness and judgment” (v. 8). And the very nature of the Spirit’s connection to Jesus—he will glorify Christ and make his lordship known, this passage says (vv. 14–15)—requires a no to those things that can lead us away from Christ and his purposes. The Spirit guides us both in the way of peace (Rom. 3:17; James 3:17) and away from danger (John 16:13; Acts 16:7).
While this negative dimension of the Spirit’s work is too often neglected, it is well attested in the Christian tradition. Theologian Hans Boersma, in his reflection on compunction or grief over sin, points to various thinkers, including John Cassian, Abba Isaac, and Anselm, who refer to the necessity of sorrow over sin in the Christian life. Without this Spirit-induced grief for our moral failings, Christians are unable to go further up in the life of Christ.
Similarly, Christoph Friedrich Blumhardt, a German Lutheran theologian of the 19th century commonly identified as a precursor of Pentecostalism, emphasized “negative experiences” of the Holy Spirit. He became convinced that much of the work of the Spirit is not about Christian triumph but about our weakness, sorrow, and even anxiety. It is in these negative experiences, Blumhardt thought, that believers learn to rely on the grace of Jesus.
Catholic theologian Yves Congar warned against the ways rigidity can stifle spiritual vitality. A few years ago at a conference, I heard another Catholic, Matthew Levering, turn that notion on its head, suggesting that extreme moral lassitude could be an equal danger for the church by stymieing the Spirit’s work.
More publicly, the work of Christian witness in the world has also involved saying no. Bishop George Bell’s stand against Allied “area bombing” during World War II comes to mind. So does British social reformer Josephine Butler’s prayerful and sustained work against the Contagious Diseases Acts in the 19th century, a series of laws that legalized prostitution in the United Kingdom and subjected the women involved to abusive treatment.
Thinking about contemporary controversies, I find myself reticent to wade into areas where I lack expertise. Yet I wonder if a fear of being drawn into culture wars holds me back from courageous public witness—from clearly and consistently saying no to injustice and unrighteousness. I wonder if I am unwilling to offer correctives that might be needed because of a self-consciousness about how I might come across. This can include matters both personal, such as weighing in on grounds for divorce, and much more public, related to the mistreatment of the unborn and undocumented.
As a pastor, my concern with this countermelody of the Spirit is primarily practical: For those of us serving in local church ministry, what does it mean to “keep in step” (Gal. 5:25) with the Spirit’s no as much as his yes? Two things seem important here.
First, we must recover the “negative” side of pastoral guidance. If restraint is a part of the Spirit’s work in believers and in the church, then restraint is part of the work of pastoral ministry too.
In his classic Book of Pastoral Rule, Gregory the Great offers guidance in dealing with 36 pairs of types of people, among them, the rich and poor, the impatient and patient, the lazy and hasty, and “those who are successful in worldly pursuits and those who desire the things of the world but are unsuccessful.” With remarkable dexterity and psychological insight, the great pope details the judicious exercise of pastoral authority.
The care and length of this section of Gregory’s book indicates the thoughtfulness necessary in pastoral work. And his comments assume that pastors will give direct guidance to the people under their care—including what we might consider negative or limiting guidance, like rendering judgment on certain decisions and behaviors, telling people what to do and not to do.
In our era, which is marked by misuse of authority, many people both inside and outside the church fear this kind of guidance. Some assume any pastoral effort to instruct others in this “negative” key is inherently abusive. But if the Holy Spirit functions in this way, the art of saying no is—or at the very least can and should be—a healthy and compassionate aspect of pastoral ministry, not heavy-handed or authoritarian but full of grace, truth, and often grief as well.
This art must be learned and honed, and our imagination for pastoring and leadership may need to shift. As he is for many pastors of my generation, Eugene Peterson is a particular hero of mine. His example of long obedience and attentiveness to Scripture is deeply compelling. However, this art is an area where Peterson’s pastoral imagination fell short.
In a recent biography of Peterson, A Burning in My Bones, author Winn Collier mentions several times that Peterson explained his sense of his role as a pastor by distinguishing his work from that of a police officer. This is a profoundly unhelpful dichotomy that seems to sever the pastoral role from any restraining or guiding function that involves saying no as an act of care.
The work of a pastor is not about enforcement of the law, of course. The goal of our work is not behavior modification. But if we are to take the shepherd image of a pastor (1 Pet. 5:1–4) seriously, we must reckon with the reality of the staff. It is deployed to guide sheep toward life-giving pastures and wide-open spaces. Pastors are not police officers, but neither are we absolved from correcting and calling God’s people toward the way of peace, justice, and goodness.
In my own work, I have been struck by the often-explicit desire for direct guidance among people in my church. In a society experiencing profound fatherlessness and distrust in authority more generally, people’s hunger for caring and invested authority is acute. Pastors are called to serve this way. With great humility and compassion, we are called to take the risk of participating in this work of the Spirit among those whom the Good Shepherd has entrusted to our care.
Second, we must reconsider the place of anxiety and “negative” experiences in our walks with God. As a pastor, I’ve often assumed that my task is to participate with the Spirit in alleviating anxiety and guiding those I serve away from this kind of negative experience. After all, as Christians, we have not received a “spirit of fear” (2 Tim. 1:7, KJV).
But sometimes fear is the right reaction to our circumstances, and sometime the work of the Spirit does involve grief, anxiety, and weakness. Recall that the deaths of Ananias and Sapphira produced great fear among God’s people in Acts 5—and consider that we should be grieved over sin (James 4:7–10). This perspective is in tension with the therapeutic vision that informs so much of pastoral care and ministry today.
Much as some have sought to recover a sense of “healthy shame,” we should reconsider how anxiety, grief, and similar negative experiences can be a God-honoring response to sin, injustice, or even trauma. Might there be a “healthy anxiety” that points us to the Spirit’s presence? Theologian Curtis Chang’s book The Anxiety Opportunity proposes that worry can be a doorway into deeper intimacy with God rather than an emotion to be immediately dispelled.
In our own lives and ministries, it’s worth asking, whether we’re encountering anxiety, or sorrow over sin. What seems to be a negative experience may actually be the result of the Spirit’s life-giving restraint. How can pastors conduct our work of care to leave open that possibility?
I have more questions than answers on this point in particular. We live in anxious times, and I often see my parishioners grappling with burdens I believe Jesus desires to lift.
But as I consider this countermelody of the Spirit’s work in Scripture and Christian tradition, I also believe my harmonious participation requires me to be open to how the Spirit may be “negatively” guiding his people. In some of these experiences, the Spirit’s no, may be correcting and guiding us toward a greater yes in Christ and his way of peace.
God’s kindness is meant to lead us to repentance. However, the wise recognize a rebuke as a gift (Prov. 9:8). “Let a righteous man strike me—that is a kindness,” says Psalm 141:5. “Let him rebuke me—that is oil on my head.”
Such instincts still sit uneasily with my pastoral imagination. Yet I know the Spirit sometimes acts in this unexpected and uncomfortable way, and I want to be able to walk these avenues toward greater faithfulness and participation with the Spirit in my life and work. I want to always remember that, sometimes, the Spirit says no.
Peter Coelho is the rector of Church of the Ascension, an Anglican parish in Pittsburgh.
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