On Fire
After the rush of wind and the tongues of fire swept through the room where the Apostles and the rest of the faithful were… after the Spirit of God poured itself into the lives of the 120 people gathered in that place… the Bible tells us that…and I quote: “they began to speak in other tongues, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem, and at this sound, the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native tongue of each… in our own languages, we hear them speaking of God’s deeds of power.”
Most of you know that I took a trip to Guatemala several years ago. I went there to learn the Spanish language. I did not know a single word… nothing…except, perhaps, the famous phrase “Hasta la vista, Baby” from Terminator 2… which wouldn’t get me very far. I flew on Continental Airlines, because it is occasionally possible to get a roundtrip ticket to Guatemala City for under $400. I had to change planes in Houston, but no one informed me that, at the gate for my flight to Guatemala City in Houston, the only language I would hear spoken was Spanish. They did not speak any English. For me, it was a bewildering experience to still be in my own country and hear all the announcements for my flight being made in a language that I did not understand.
I was scared. I felt very alone, lonely and isolated. And I asked myself many, many times in the airport in Houston why a 50-year-old woman would do such a crazy thing as fly to a country she didn’t know… where everyone spoke a language she didn’t know… in order to learn a language she would rarely, if ever, use. I did not know the answers to those questions, but having “mastered” Hebrew in January and Greek in May…which I would also rarely, if ever, use… I figured why not a third language? But I was beginning to rethink that decision as I stood at the gate in Houston. Fortunately, other people around me did not have the same problem with the language as I did and they were very, very helpful.
I have never regretted my decision to learn Spanish. While I still rarely use the language, I did learn enough of it in the few weeks that I was in Guatemala to be able to read it and to understand enough that I can get the gist of most conversations.
I wonder what it must have been like for Jews to come to the cosmopolitan city of Jerusalem for the high holy festivals of the year. How many of the rural folks who made that trip actually understood Latin or Greek… the official languages of business in the city? And how well did they speak those languages? How much did they understand of what was going on around them? How bewildering it must have been for those who only spoke Aramaic and a smattering of Hebrew to walk the streets of Jerusalem and try to participate in the life of the city! No wonder they stayed close to those they came with… to those who were fluent in the language of the law and commerce. What percentage of those who traveled to Jerusalem to worship in the Temple, as the law prescribed would have felt totally lost if they had been left on their own in that city? How many would have felt alone, lonely and isolated in the midst of thousands of people?
Two years ago, I had the privilege of returning to Guatemala for a visit and a “refresher” course in Spanish. This time, I had no difficulty understanding what was being said at the gate in Houston. I was able to greet my host family in Guatemala in their own language. And I never felt frightened or lonely on that trip. It was a different experience when I knew the language.
The Bible tells us that there were Jews from at least fifteen different countries who were in Jerusalem for the Feast of Pentecost. With the dispersion of the Jews during the years of the exile and the ability to travel that came with the conquests of Greece and Rome, Jews had settled all over the known map and adopted their new countries. They spoke many languages, but they still returned to Jerusalem for the high holy days. It must have been difficult for them to travel so far from home. Many of them, particularly the women, knew no other language than their own mother tongue and, perhaps, enough Hebrew to celebrate the Feast.
When I was in seminary, a young man came to the seminary from Romania. Under the International Ecumenical Scholarship Program of the World Council of Churches, this young man had won a scholarship to study at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary for one year. He was preparing to be a priest in the Romanian Orthodox Church. He moved into the dormitory where I was living on campus and, within twenty-four hours, knocked on my door. He was very frustrated with the way in which people in Texas lived their lives without taking time to explain to a total stranger what they were doing… and why they were doing it. As someone who moved back to the United States as an adult…and then later moved to Texas… a whole different cultural experience… I could understand his confusion and his frustration. I did my best to explain the parts I understood… picking my way through his limited English vocabulary…for I knew no Romanian… and teaching him new words as we went along. We became good friends.
Adrian attended Central Presbyterian Church with me each Sunday. He missed his more formal, and more liturgical, Sunday services in the Romanian Orthodox Church… but if there is one thing that Austin still does not have, it is a Romanian Orthodox Church. One day, when I was driving around close to the seminary, I discovered an Eastern Orthodox Church. I knew that the Romanian Orthodox Church had its roots in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. After several weeks, I convinced Adrian to come with me to a service of worship. From the moment we walked in the door, I knew I had done the right thing. His eyes were glued to the beautiful icons that were elaborately painted on the screen in front of the altar. When one of the priests came in, swinging a censor and filling the sanctuary with the smell of incense, I could feel Adrian breathe deeply and relax. He could not understand the words, but the ritual was very familiar and very comforting. Then, in the middle of the service, a second priest stood up and began to give the homily for the day. He had not spoken more than a few words when Adrian turned to me… his face glowing like the sun… his eyes filled with wonder…and said, “He is speaking my language! He is speaking Romanian! It is my language! I can understand him!” In the middle of Austin, Texas, this stranger from Romania found one person who spoke his own language and it was like music to his ears.
Adrian did not move a muscle for the rest of the service and, when the time came for communion, he went forward to receive it with the rest. In the church’s Fellowship Hall after the service, he found many, many people who could speak Romanian and it was literally hours before we returned to the seminary campus. They were all strangers, but they spoke his language… his mother tongue… and, after many weeks of living without it, he could not get enough of the sound of it.
Outside the building where the Apostles and the other faithful were staying were crowds of people who were in Jerusalem for the Feast of Pentecost. They came from many different countries and, suddenly, in the midst of the cacophony of sound surrounding them, they heard the sound of someone speaking in their own language and they stopped to listen. If you have ever returned to the United States from a visit to another country, you know the feeling… what it feels like to hear your own language being spoken by someone who speaks it fluently… beautifully… and without errors… someone who speak it like a native. The effort … the concentration… that it takes to constantly translate every word… every phrase…every idiom… is gone. You feel light… and free… and whole again. And, when you hear your own language after an absence of it… it does not matter what the subject is, you will stop to listen.
And what these people heard was the story of God’s grace and God’s powerful work in the world. By the power of the Holy Spirit, they were stopped in their tracks… stopped by the sound of someone speaking in their language. And then they heard stories of God’s deeds of power. They head Peter tell them how all of what they were witnessing was a fulfillment of their own scriptures… the prophecies of the Prophet Joel. And then they heard how everyone who called on the name of the Lord would be saved.
When I hear the story of Pentecost, there are always three things that capture my attention. First, there is the miracle of the Apostles’ ability to speak every language under the sun. Then, there is the ability of everyone to understand the preaching of Peter, regardless of the particular language Peter was using at the time. But third… and more important than the other two… there is the report that, regardless of the language or the person speaking, everyone who was present heard was the same story… the story of God’s saving grace. (Pause) “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams…then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”
Why did the Jews gather for the Feast of Pentecost in Jerusalem? Yes, it is a Christian festival day… but long before that, it was a Jewish feast day. The Jews gathered to celebrate the first fruits of the harvest… exactly fifty (50) days after Passover… fifty (50) days after the first seeds were sown. Isn’t it fitting then that we should celebrate Pentecost to celebrate the first “harvest” of the Christian Church? Peter and the other Apostles preached to the crowd on Pentecost and three thousand (3,000) people were baptized. From the sowing of the seed with twelve (12) disciples gathered in the Upper Room… from those who witnessed the resurrection… came the saving of three thousand (3,000) souls on Pentecost… and two billion (2,000,000,000) Christians throughout the world today.
What was it that the crowd heard that day in Jerusalem? They heard a story of hope… each one in his or her own language. One heritage of Presbyterian mission throughout the world today is the existence of thousands of schools built by Presbyterian missionaries. Why are we known as the denomination that builds schools in every country in the world? Because we believe that the power of the gospel lives in the power of the Holy Spirit to speak to those who can read and hear the word of God in their own language. And so, we often begin our work in other countries by teaching the people to read their own language.
Does that mean that there is nothing for us to do here in Stephenville? You have heard me ask these questions often enough now that you know the answers. Does that mean that there is nothing for us to do here in Stephenville? No. First of all, our Mission Committee gives funds every year to support the work of the Presbyterian Church in the United States and around the world. You can get involved by contributing to that effort … and/or… by serving on our Mission Committee. That Committee meets on the first Sunday of every month, right after our worship service and everyone is invited to attend.
Secondly, the demographic data that we have received about Stephenville, Texas… as you may have noticed in our last newsletter… reveals that almost one-third of the people who live in Stephenville have no active involvement with any church. What do you think that means? Do you think they know the story of God’s saving grace? Do you think they have heard it in their own language? When was the last time that you shared the story with someone else? Someone who feels alone, lonely and isolated even though they might be surrounded by all kinds of people. Do you speak their language? Then, tell the story. Tell it in your own language, as Peter did, and let the Holy Spirit work a miracle through you. Amen.