The Day of Pentecost
An old friend and I no longer speak. We’ve both offered apologies—sincere and repeated—but the peace we hoped for hasn’t landed. Despite the effort, something between us remains unresolved. It’s like we’re speaking different languages.
That experience isn’t new. It’s as old as Eden. The fractures began there and deepened in Babel, when humanity, in a bid for unity on its own terms, tried to build its way to heaven and wound up scattered, tongues confused. From that day on, misunderstanding has been our native language.
Then Pentecost arrives like a sudden wind. Babel isn’t erased but redeemed. The Holy Spirit falls, and people from every nation hear the good news in their own tongues. Not in one language, but many. Not in sameness, but in Spirit-given understanding. The rift begins to mend. What we couldn’t build or fix, God does.
I think about that whenever I watch Whit Stillman’s Metropolitan. Tom, a thoughtful West Side socialist, tries to connect with Audrey, an Upper East Side socialite. But they speak in different codes. Despite her interest, she chooses someone else—someone fluent in her world. It’s not until the end, when Tom makes a desperate dash across the city, that something shifts. Maybe he finds the words. Maybe she hears past them. Whatever happens, it feels like grace.
There’s a similar kind of discernment in recovery. In Alcoholics Anonymous, the ninth step is to make amends with those you’ve harmed—“except when to do so would injure them or others.” It's not a blanket rule but an invitation to listen carefully. Will this conversation bring healing, or harm? Will speaking bridge a gap or deepen the wound? Even in this, grace makes space.
Maybe you’re holding a silence too. A rift with a parent. A misunderstanding with a friend. A word left unsaid. Pentecost doesn’t guarantee that every division will resolve overnight. But it does promise this: the Spirit has already begun the work. God is healing what Babel broke. God is speaking again, and making us able to hear.
That takes the pressure off. The point isn’t whether I make the right call, or say exactly the right thing. The point is that even our feeble words, when carried by the Spirit, can become bridges. Even patient silence can be part of grace.
So yes, I may reach out—or I may wait. Either way, I hope I’ll resist the urge to force peace on my terms. The Spirit is already moving—already translating—already undoing Babel. One word, one silence, one act of mercy at a time.
Think of these midweek reflections as a preview of what’s coming on Sunday—not the sermon itself, but a glimpse of where we’re headed. I’ll share the full sermon here after it’s preached.
"Maybe you’re holding a silence too. A rift with a parent." Not with a parent, but my only child. As long as she thinks I'm wrong, apologies mean nothing. Any prayers remain unanswered....