Peter and John’s journey to Samaria and their praying for the bestowal of the Holy Spirit on those who had only been baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus highlights one of two clear instances in the Book of Acts in which the effects of Baptism—that first sacrament we all received—don’t always follow the orderly and predictable sequence we have been taught to expect. In the case of the Samaritans, the gift of the Spirit is not granted with their baptism in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, and only after Peter and John lay their hands on them. Another instance is that of Cornelius and his household who first receive the Holy Spirit at the preaching of Saint Peter, and only thereafter receive baptism. And then, there is the most dramatic bestowal of the Holy Spirit without baptism or the laying on of hands. I refer, of course to the great Feast of Pentecost and that outpouring of the Holy Spirit of the disciples gathered with Mary in prayer.
At first glance, these variations might suggest that the Holy Spirit is erratic or capricious, resisting any attempt to predict, direct, or contain the Spirit’s presence and power. There is some truth in this, but not because the Spirit is merely unwilling to be controlled. Rather, something deeper is at work—something essential to the very life of the Trinity. Ancient religions sought to influence or placate their gods, fearing that divine displeasure might bring punishment or destruction. Sacrifices—even human ones—were offered in an attempt to secure favor or avert wrath.
We, too, in subtler ways, can fall into the temptation to try and control God—or at least to secure from God the responses we desire. Even virtuous practices such as fasting, vigils, and asceticism can be co‑opted by self‑centered motives, aimed at producing consolations or spiritual experiences that reassure us. Our disciplined prayer, our meditation techniques, even our efforts to overcome sin and grow in virtue can be undertaken with mixed intentions that place ourselves, rather than God, at the center.
I suggested a moment ago that the Spirit resists our desire for control not simply because the Spirit doesn’t like to be controlled but for some more crucial purpose. One involves the fact that control over another person renders true love and relationship impossible and results, instead, in one that is little more than that of a slave. In addition, any inclination—however subtle—to exert some control over God betrays a fundamental lack of faith and trust in God’s unfailing benevolence and desire for our ultimate and eternal good. This, in turn, highlights the important truth that God not only has no wish to be controlled, but also has no wish to control us or curtail our freedom. Quite the contrary: And as Jesus tells his disciples: I no longer call you slaves, I have called you friends. Worth noting is that Jesus says I no longer call you slaves, meaning that that was what they were prior to becoming true friends. This suggests that before they entered into this deeper communion as true friends, their relationship bore the marks of servile fear and incomplete trust.
And so, this seemingly small detail in the story of the Samaritans reveals something essential: our attempts to control God—or even other people—are signs of an inner enslavement to fear, insecurity, and incompleteness. Only when we relinquish the need to manage God and instead entrust ourselves wholly to his goodness do we discover true freedom. Then the Spirit’s movements no longer appear erratic or unpredictable, because our will has begun to move in harmony with God’s own. What once felt like divine unpredictability becomes the quiet, steady rhythm of a heart aligned with grace. And in that freedom the Holy Spirit is no longer a force we anxiously watch for, or try to control, but the very breath by which our redeemed hearts learn to live, move, and rest in God.