Pentecost

This Sunday is Pentecost, which comes 50 days after Passover, and is a time when Jewish believers gather in worship. Fifty days after Christ's resurrection, his followers were praying together in the temple when the Holy Spirit arrived as a violent wind, a fire that did not consume, and the gift of tongues. People from many nations were speaking together, and each of them could understand as if they were hearing their native language. In this moment, the church was formed. I wrote this poem to visualize what that first Pentecost might have been like.

Pentecost

They pray in silence
Hard floor of the temple punishing broken-down knees
Ready any moment to rise and leave
Weary of this endless waiting
For a sign.
Anything.
Speak, Lord.
For Christ’s sake
Give us just a shred to go on.

Strangers together
Having traveled through lean days
Meager bread, stale wine, not enough water
To withstand roads without shade
(Except for the shadows of a hundred crosses
Placed to intimidate,
Petty criminals cowering
Shoulders bowed
Weeping jagged through choked breath.
Jesus had been one of them
just 50 days ago.)
Journeying to this thin place, to find what?
The Lord a disappearing act,
risen, gone from their sight.
They are alone again, terrible company to each other,
Unable to speak a common language
Yet clinging to this promise:
an Advocate will come.
One who will speak a Word or two
of mercy
to the Lord
on our behalf.
Oh, that might be worth the trip.

The old man topples first,
Wind like cannon bursts from the doorway
Huddled bodies plant noses to floor, arms crossed overhead
Feet reaching for something that does not move
Ears covered to shield from piercing shriek of sound
Cloaks whipped around thighs, sandals snapped away,
believers stumbling blind, eyes covered.
God’s breath violent
Shuddering
Waking the dead, clearing the room.
Candles clatter, water jars burst.
Animals dive for shelter, spared from the blade and the altar.

Suddenly air stops. Quiet descends.

Fear freezes trembling faces, eyes wide open, insecure,
Then fire licks, small tastes of hair, beard, flesh.
Flame knocks down every pin, flashing bright.
One rolls to the floor, flapping out fire: “Get away!”
Another watches fiery tongues leap, blinking, unable to comprehend
The Spirit’s power.
Light comes and grows.

The boy hears it then. The voice of his father, long since buried.
The sound of familiar words, language of home, yet no one here could know those words.
Tongue-tied mouths loosen, lips begin a slow cascade of speech
That spills and flows, flooding over barriers that stood for generations.
To know and be known;
Each hearing in the language of each,
Words land as sacred melody opening tone-deaf ears.

To hear our stories, each of us understanding
that honest truth
will be told in many ways.
Together, we rise,
knowing
all people stand
in the presence of the Holy.