London-Heathrow Airport is a huge and noisy place. It is a cacophony of different languages, a collage of diverse clothing styles and religious garb, a palette of colorful fabrics draped around people who are unafraid to use color boldly. The profusion of color, sound and tastes in this huge airport, washed over me on Friday, when I arrived to begin the long journey home. I walked the perimeter of the terminal many times, achieving nearly four miles before I even boarded the first of the two flights home. I had three hours, so thought to get some exercise before spending all that time cramped into a narrow seat with the other people, packed like sardines in a tin.
Everything I saw at this hub of world travel, seemed fitting and right, the diversity of it all, actually quite wonderful, and reminding me why I prefer English gardens, which are similarly a wild consortium of foliage and flower, a place where you can know that faeries are hiding under the coral bells because they would feel too buttoned up in a formal French garden.
I can imagine that on the day The Advocate Jesus had promised arrived in Jerusalem, filling the apostles with the fire to talk to diverse people in languages they had not previously known, it might have been a bit like London Heathrow Airport. The author of Acts tells us that there were devout followers of the Hebrew God from every nation on the entire Earth. They probably dressed in a variety of ways according to their cultural norms, some walking to pass each other on the left and some on the right, crashing into each other and various beasts accompanying them. And the noise of all of their native tongues, in addition to crying babies and braying donkeys must have been overwhelming!
When the Holy Spirit blew through town with that rush of what sounded like violent wind, I wonder—was it like actual wind, kicking up the dust in everyone’s faces and roaring in their ears? And after, when that moment of clarity occurred, and everyone could understand the apostles speaking about God’s deeds of power, what was that like?
I wonder if that Pentecost was something like the U.N., where you only hear one translator’s voice speaking into your ear through the headset, translating some diplomat’s speech into a language you can understand in near real time. AND, I can also imagine hearing all of the voices at once, like a gorgeous choral arrangement that is nothing comprehensible when only one of the parts is sung, but comes to life in full color only when all of the parts are sung together.
If we close our eyes and put ourselves in Jerusalem in conditions the 21st century American may never be able to relate to, maybe we can get a glimpse of the spiritual awakening that happened on that day we celebrate as Pentecost. On that day, the crowds heard the harmony of diversity in God’s message for, perhaps, the first time.
There is a big difference between the noise of people simultaneously offering independent and competing monologue to defend their own points of view and the swell of harmony when diverse people are spoken to in the inclusive language of God’s love, proclaiming the good news that all are included and welcomed with open arms into the Kindom of Heaven. That is a language that should speak to all of God’s created beings.
At the end of Jesus time on Earth, the followers of his Way, were all about him, in spite of his message that they should be about their own reconciliation with God. Even his own followers often didn’t get it. That’s why we have the story of Phillip demanding of Jesus, “Lord show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” Jesus must have been so exasperated. “Guys, don’t you get it that the words I speak to you are the Father in me talking? Man!”
In the last days of something, it gets noisy. There is often a clash between new voices that emerge, and more familiar voices saying “let’s just keep things as they are.” There will always be people who dismiss the message of God’s love and dismiss the ministry of Jesus by saying we’re all a bunch of crackpots, or in the case of those who sneered on Pentecost, accuse the miracle of being the result of drunkenness. The harbingers of change are nearly always rejected when they prophecy by those who have a vested interest in keeping things as they are. They complain and lament and even sabotage the new thing coming to birth, seeding dissent and doubt and rancorous debate— They are tone deaf to the harmony of God’s expansive message that all are loved and all are wanted.
The apostle Paul understood this well, and perhaps this is what drove his energetic mission to the gentiles. I think that he got it that people would never understand the magnitude of God’s mercy and love, unless they were exposed to the breadth of humanity to whom it was offered.
It’s a unique system, friends. Unless all are welcome, none truly are. It’s never been an affinity club or social organization for people whose interests mirror yours. Unless we speak the language of God’s deeds of powerful love with the voice of the Holy Spirit, who demands that we include everyone, no one will really hear the words.
The gift of Pentecost is the reminder that the reason we have a voice is to communicate—to reach other people in words they can understand with their hearts. Our skills and tools for communication are not just there so we can get our own needs met, but so that we can nurture one another, helping reconcile all people to God. If you don’t hear the language of love reaching your hearts in church, then we’re not doing it right. It’s not about any church institution or doctrine, it’s about communication as hospitality. We welcome people into the kindom of God by reaching out to them in their own tongues, trusting that The Holy Spirit will help us.