Speaking in Tongues.

I remember the first time I heard someone speak in tongues. I was visiting a Pentecostal church in Jerusalem and had been warned it would be unlike other services with which I was familiar, but it was still surprising when people around me began. The woman next to me was the first, and a man quickly came over claiming to have the “gift to interpret.” It was all new to me, and I am still not sure what to make of the experience, but I remember it each year on Pentecost.

This is the day we celebrate the birthday of the Church and give thanks for the gift of the Holy Spirit dwelling among us, causing the early disciples to speak in tongues and other languages. There was a mighty wind and fire surrounding them as well, and two thousand years later we recall the moment and celebrate the institution we call “Church.”

I know there are still many churches that are “spirit filled,” as they say, where speaking in tongues is a common experience, but I wonder if I have missed such manifestations of the Spirit by simply looking there for evidence. Recently, I have come to see many other places where people speak in tongues.

There’s a Pope now sitting in the seat of St. Peter who few can figure out. When elected, he moved his seat down off the stage to be on the same level of his brother cardinals as they came to great him. He rode the bus back from the election, rather than ride in the reserved limousine. He lives in an apartment, not a palace, and drives a beat-up car. To a Church that had grown complacent and focused too often on itself, he speaks a radical message of change. He speaks of the poor, outcasts, and others who might well enter the kingdom of heaven before the religious leaders. He might as well be speaking in tongues. I think he is.

I remember the first time I went to an AA meeting. The 12 steps and traditions were read, as well as a meditation, then people spoke about letting go and letting God, about taking one day at a time, about surrendering, and holding on to things by giving them away. None of it made any sense to me at all. They might as well have been speaking in tongues. I now know they were.

I remember sitting around with classmates from a long-ago time and talking about our lives since graduation. It seemed like everyone had made much of his or her life. The room was filled with investment brokers, entrepreneurs, doctors, and one politician. When I shared my work with drug addicts, many of whom were homeless and recently freed from prison, people politely nodded and fidgeted in their seats eager to move on to someone else. My work, particularly when seen through the eyes of those who “knew me when,” made little sense. I might as well have been speaking in tongues. Perhaps I was.

Happy Pentecost.