It's been a quiet weekend, like most of them. I don't mind at all; I rather like walking in my front door on Friday night and, except for feeding the outside cats or taking the garbage to the dumpster, not going anywhere or even needing to talk to anyone if I choose not to. Of course, talking to people is something I do choose to do, and I'm grateful to have several friends I can call whenever I need to. Much as I love the boys (and Phoebe), they're not always the world's greatest conversationalists —except maybe at 3:30 a.m. Often what we say is far less important than the fact that we are communicating, building stronger bonds between us, each providing thoughts and jokes and an underlying feeling of support, sharing and love. Sometimes to outsiders it might seem like we're talking normally but there are little catch phrases and words that mean something to us other than what they would normally be expected to mean.
Today was Pentecost, one of the "biggies" in the church when the Spirit finally gets a day of celebration. I read of churches where the account of the first Pentecost is read not only in a single language but in a number of them -- simultaneously. It's sort of a reenactment of what happened when the disciples and followers of Jesus met together 50 days after the resurrection. The Spirit popped down, did something and all of a sudden everybody was talking in languages they'd never spoken before. No Rosetta Stone for them; it was just "poof!" or whatever and they were speaking in foreign tongues, tongues that weren't just "spiritual" or "a private prayer language" but actual languages of people to whom they were to bring the message of Jesus.
I know people who speak in tongues, the ecstatic, unintelligible-to-others speech. It isn't a litmus test of who's a real Christian and who isn't, but rather a way of communicating with God personally and intimately, with no one else understanding what is being said. It's not something I've ever experienced myself; the closest I've ever been to it was during a Catholic mass in Portland years ago at an outdoor shrine. Frankly, the tongues I heard sounded like baby-babble to me, repeated syllables in a sort of monotone that made no sense although the speakers seemed to be totally engaged, swaying gently, eyes closed and totally oblivious to anyone or anything around them.
All my life I've heard the expression, "I'll get to it when the Spirit moves me." Somehow I don't think they're waiting for the Holy Spirit to come down and put a finger on their head, cause an eruption of flame and a sudden burning passion for speaking another language or going out to missionize. Sometimes they're just waiting for the Spirit to move them to do the dishes or go to work or take the kids to Sunday school or the movies. Most of the time the Spirit doesn't do that stuff; it's a way of putting the onus on an outside force in order to compel an inner stimulus that in turn instigates an outward action. Of course, then there are the ones who claim the Spirit tells them to do all kinds of things. I can't refute that; I'm not party to their conversations with God in any of God's persons so I have no way of knowing the veracity of their claim. Still, I look and see what action is produced. Sometimes I can see that yes, this does seem to produce something that helps -- an individual, an institution, a world. Other times, I'm not so sure who it helps other than the person themselves.
Thinking about the Spirit on a day where the church celebrates not just the Spirit but the actions of the Spirit, I'm wondering where the Spirit is in my life? I know how easy it is to say that when something serendipitous happens that "It's the Spirit working!" But then I wonder, "Is it really?" Or when I do something that has a positive impact, "Oh, the Spirit led me to this!" Was it really? Or is it just wishful thinking.
I probably know about a dozen phrases in about 8-10 languages, everything from "Thank you" to "Where is the loo?" I'd love to speak another language fluently, but I'm just not disciplined enough to work at it long enough and hard ehough to make it happen. I've never really wanted a "spiritual" or "private prayer language" to communicate with God. But I would like to know for a certainty that when I say I'm waiting for the "Spirit to move me," it's really the Spirit that does the moving.
Perhaps I'm just too cynical -- or maybe skeptical. I do know that just once I'd like to be in a crowd where suddenly the languages of the world wash around me and I can know that it's all for a good purpose, all about healing and helping the world.
I wonder, though, how long I can wait for the "Spirit to move me," and how I will know it really is the Spirit. If I'd been in that room with the early Christians I wonder -- would the Spirit have moved me?
Just some ramblings on the night of Pentecost.
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