May 23, 2021 – Pentecost

It is a tradition, in some churches, to offer this morning’s lesson from Acts in a slightly unusual way. Because the reading tells of the disciples being inspired by the Holy Spirit to speak in different tongues, some churches try to recreate this experience by having not just one reader for the lesson, but a whole string of readers, each of whom reads a verse or two in a language in which they are fluent. The effect is to create a sense of the sound of that Pentecost morning, to paint the landscape for our ears from a rich variety of sounds and inflections, and it might sound something like this:

When the day of Pentecost had come, the disciples were all together in one place. 
Und es geschah schnell ein Brausen vom Himmel wie eines gewaltigen Windes und erfüllte das ganze Haus, da sie saßen. 
Et apparuerunt illis dispertitae linguae tamquam ignis seditque supra singulos eorum.
Todos fueron llenos del Espíritu Santo y comenzaron a hablar en otras lenguas, según el Espíritu les daba habilidad para expresarse.

I appreciate the intent behind these kinds of readings, but there really are two problems with this approach that are immediately apparent. The first is that, most of the time, because of the people who read them, these verses are read in a smattering of European languages, whose colors are different from English, for sure, but not quite the same as the languages of the Parthians, the Medes, or the Elamites. The sounds aren’t quite right. The bigger problem, though, is that the experience isn’t quite right. The whole point of the disciples being gifted by the Holy Spirit to speak in different languages was so that all of the people, all of the visitors from “every nation under heaven” who were in town for the festival could understand what was being said. The miracle was that everyone could understand everything, not that random people in the crowd could understand an extra verse out of twenty. Unless you’re someone who speaks every language known to us, then the experience of these kinds of Pentecost readings is likely to be more confusing than clarifying.

In response to these concerns, some churches try a different approach. Instead of dividing up the reading into separate versions, one for each language, they have different people read the entire lesson in different languages – all at the same time. The lesson is read simultaneously by a whole gaggle of lectors, lined up in front of the church and proclaiming the verses in their best Portuguese, Greek, or Korean. While eliminating the problem of only understanding two verses in twenty, this approach also comes with its own challenges, which are best summed up by a parishioner at another church who asked why the congregation had acted out the story of the Tower of Babel.

My intent here is not to make fun of other churches or make these approaches sound silly, because I think that they are thinking of ways to make the lessons relatable. The day of Pentecost, as we hear it described, was most importantly an experience. It was a cavalcade for the senses, something to be seen and heard and felt and touched. The low bass of the rushing wind, the heat and light of the tongues of fire, the musical cadence of all the languages as they hit the dazzled crowd. Pentecost is a day to be felt, known, and understood not only with our minds, but also with our bodies. It is a festival day, a scene that we can easily imagine in a majestic movie with larger-than-life sets, thousands of extras running around with bewildered looks of joy on their faces, and fanfares and flourishes and LOTS OF NOISE. Pentecost is a celebration on a large scale, a loud, busy, grand, and wonderful day.

But, my friends, Pentecost isn’t just about the pomp and the circumstance, the glorious songs, the incense. It is not just about the noise. Because the devout Jews who were gathered heard the disciples speaking in many tongues not only heard words in their own language; they actually heard the word of God. They heard what the disciples were saying, not just how they were saying it. They were able to listen past the wonder of the words deep into the heart of their meaning; they heard the stories of God’s deed of power in and by and through Jesus Christ. And they not only heard, but they understood. And if they understood, then they couldn’t have been standing simply in one place, straining to hear someone screaming at them in Mesopotamian from a far parapet. They must have followed the sound of familiarity, found the disciples who spoke their language, and gathered in tight to hear what they had to say. They must have huddled together, drawn up close, face to face, breath to breath, to hear and feel the Gospel message as near to them as it had ever been. (You all are shifting in your seats right now, I see, thinking, “BUT WHAT ABOUT COVID?!”)

In the Gospel according to John, Jesus promises his disciples that he will send the Holy Spirit to guide them into all truth. He says he will send them the Advocate (in Greek parakletos, which literally means “the one who is called alongside). The Advocate is the one pulled next to, the one drawn near, the one who comes up close. It is this particular gift of the Spirit that Jesus offers us in his physical absence — not just the rushing winds and fire, but the intimacy of a companion who comes near, walks beside, and shares.

This has always been God’s way. For all of the smoke and fire with Moses on Sinai, the flames that shot out of heaven and licked up the sacrifice on Elijah’s altar, the burning chariots that showed Elisha that he would be a prophet, God has always been a God of intimacy, a God who speaks not only to the people but speaks to them one at a time, in their own language. God called Moses out of a burning bush. God startles Balaam by speaking through the donkey on which he is riding. God offers Elijah the small voice of sheer silence. God has always drawn near to the people, pulled close, and spoken to them person to person.

Jesus, the Son of God made flesh to redeem the world, spent his ministry drawing close. He spoke to the crowds, but he also spoke to persons – to Zacchaeus, to Matthias, to Mary Magdalene, to Nicodemus. He drew close, shared space and breath, and interacted in a personal and intimate way.

And this is how God still works in our world today. Yes, there is a feast, and yes we are celebrating, and yes we sing hymns and think about the Holy Spirit’s life-giving, energizing work in the Church. But we also remember that aspect of the Holy Spirit who comes alongside and speaks the Gospel — not just to the multitudes, but to each of us, in our ear, in the language that is easiest for us to hear. Sometimes it’s English; sometimes it’s music; sometimes it is the sound of the wind rushing through a forest of birds. The language of bended knee, another’s face, bread and wine. 

This is God’s promised gift — that God comes alongside us, wherever we are, whatever language we speak, and says, “Listen. I am here. I am with you. When you are in church, at school, at work, on the streets, I am beside you. When you are repenting your sins, lying in weakness, standing in strength, dancing in joy, I am beside you. When you are comforting, dreaming, proclaiming, I am beside you. When you go into all the world, to the ends of the earth, to share and live and sing the Gospel message, I am beside you.”

So friends, lean in close and listen… to the small, still voice — to that sound of Pentecost.