Based on Acts 2:1-21 for Pentecost
The pouring out of the Holy Spirit sounds like chaos to me. Tongues of fire, wind blowing things everywhere, people speaking in languages that are new to them—that is a lot. When a story includes people of different mother tongues all in one place, we know that it means a bunch of different cultures clashing too, right? Many opportunities for misunderstanding … and growth. Our words and the way we live in the world are closely tied together, which leads to idioms such as, “Now, you’re speaking my language.”
One of our cultural differences is how comfortable we are with unpredictability. Some family systems are used to drama, so if things are too quiet, someone has to stir the pot, but the cultural norm among westernized, Americans of European descent – white folks – is angled towards order, planning, making rules and trusting the system. We can recognize that, right? Exceptions to the rule are just that for us. When we are part of the dominant culture, we just assume that the way things are is the way things should be. We don’t have to think about it. It’s like, you can’t taste the air you breathe. Until a rushing wind knocks you off your feet.
In a Lutheran congregation I pastored in north Minneapolis, half to two thirds of our active members were immigrants from Liberia, in western Africa. The Republic of Liberia has a super-complicated history, but because that modern nation was founded by freed slaves from the Americas in the early 1800s, the official language is English. So technically, we were all speaking the same language in that congregation, River of Life. But we were talking past each other, on a lot of things. One of them was about money. We had completely different approaches to budgeting and pledging and planning. For a long time, I could not figure out what the disconnect was, until someone gave me a book that explained:
If you have lived in the midst of conflict – as most Liberians had during the 16 year civil war – saving for an unknown future seems foolish. Mix in a strong sense of extended family, and instead, any money you have goes to the member of your community who has an urgent need, because that’s the same network you’re going to lean on someday, when you have a financial need. In that view, there’s nothing immoral about moving available funds around to meet an immediate need. In fact, it would be immoral not to do so. Now, the point is not to oversimplify or pass judgment on this particular scenario, but to realize “there are different languages” for all parts of our lives. We can be “technically” speaking the same language, but not understanding each other, without the unsaid, background story. Some are family systems we grew up in, some are cultural norms, others are the love languages, the different ways in which we each best receive the message that we are loved. The only way to start speaking each others’ language is to try.
Several of the matriarchs among the Liberian folks at River of Life Lutheran Church had the same response whenever one would ask how they were doing. If I ask that of you, what’s your default response? “How are you?” Fine. Is that honest? Sometimes. Mother Laura and Mother Joanne and Mother Fametta would always respond to “How are you?” with: “I’m trying.” Now that hit me every time. Like, “it’s in process. Things could definitely be better, but I’m still going, so…” “I’m trying” seems closer to truthful than “fine” ever is. That translated well to my experience.
The universal language that everyone can understand is “I’m trying” to understand you. You matter enough to me—to God—to make an effort, even to look foolish myself to show you that you are loved. You are a beloved child of God. People need to hear that in their own language: whether it’s dropping off casseroles without being asked, or asking a person on the autism spectrum to explain that one thing they are passionately interested in, then listening to the entire thing. For most children, it’s playing, or getting down on their level and talking to them like they are a full person, because a lot of adults don’t. A lot of the time, speaking someone’s own language means listening to them with genuine interest. In one of our last confirmation classes, we watched a YouTube video about active listening: creating belonging by communicating that you are interested in what the other person has to say. And then we tried it for 4 minutes. And it was a challenge. It’s okay to admit that we are not automatically good at creating community, and that we need practice.
Greta gave permission for me to share this story with you: This past Tuesday our family participated in the “Smores with the Bishop” event at the Treehouse Villages at Oak Openings. They had a cancellation the day before for one of the families that was going to stay overnight in the treehouse village, so called and asked if we’d like to. Yes! After dinner and a hike and campfire and children running amok on their own, as she was heading to bed, our little one said to me, “I can feel the Holy Spirit here. It’s like, we just got here, but we belonged right away.” Isn’t that what anyone should feel when they go to church? Ideally. When we gather together in one place, there is the best opportunity for the Holy Spirit to be unleashed, but it takes some openness from all of us.
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It is significant that the Spirit gave Jesus’ followers the ability to speak in the others’ languages, the people who did not yet know the good news of Jesus. Not the other way around. The new hearers didn’t all miraculously understand Jesus’ disciples speaking in Aramaic. Nope. They didn’t all have to conform to ways of the established “inner circle” first. Jesus’ messengers spoke in the languages the outsiders knew, that were formative for them. And that was transformative. None of it is easy.
Debi Thomas wrote in a 2021 commentary on this text:
What I love about the first Pentecost story is that it required surrender and humility on both sides. Those who spoke had to brave languages beyond their comfort zones. They had to risk vulnerability in the face of difference, and do so with no guarantee of welcome. They had to trust that no matter how awkward, inadequate, or silly they felt, the words bubbling up inside of them — new words, strange words, scary words — were nevertheless essential words — words precisely ordained for the time and place they occupied.
Meanwhile, the crowd who listened had to take risks as well. They had to suspend disbelief, drop their cherished defenses, and opt for curiosity and wonder instead of fear and contempt. They had to widen their circles, and welcome strangers with accents into their midst.
Not all of them managed it—some sneered because they couldn’t bear to be bewildered, to have their neat categories of belonging and exclusion challenged. Instead, like their ancestors at Babel, who scattered at the first sign of difference, they retreated into denial: “Nothing new is happening here. This isn’t God. These are fools who’ve had too much to drink.”
But even in that atmosphere of suspicion and cynicism, some people spoke, and some people listened, and into those astonishing exchanges, God breathed fresh life.
The bottom line is, something happens when we speak each other’s languages. We experience the limits of our own words and perspectives. We learn curiosity. We discover that God’s “great deeds” are far too nuanced for a single tongue, a single fluency.
It takes openness, and the desire to learn. Teach us, O Holy Spirit.
You can watch this sermon on Community of Christ Lutheran’s Facebook live feed.
Lee Ann M. Pomrenke 