As the Sunday of Pentecost nears, please contemplate the message of this wonderful poem by my friend, Maren C. Tirabassi, posted on her blog, Gifts in Open Hands.
Pentecost Poem, 2021
Not this year,
the images that have nurtured me before
Don’t get me wrong! I’ve loved
the blowing wind,
but deadly storms of climate change
have taken the air out of that one.
Tongues of flame remind me too much
of cremation in India and Nepal.
Certainly even reading about
the crowded streets
sends me digging in my pocket
for a mask,
in these tentative,
emotionally so complicated
days of re-community.
This year it is the languages
that … speak to me, in me, through me
not even so much celebrating
the holy, beautiful syllabification
of global diversity,
or the most successful sermon ever
giving birth to a church,
as one hundred twenty people
being willing to speak
without being in control of their words.
We all have learned this –
how we said the right thing at the right time
buried in ordinary conversation,or a small public courage
of naming truth we didn’t know we knew.
This year my simple pentecost
is just lending my tongue to something
someone needs to hear,
because I am waiting in the right place,
and willing to open my mouth.
Read more of Maren’s writing at this link: