Pentecost, 2017

So, if the essence of Pentecost
is this —

(having set aside the red balloons,
and birthday cake for the church)

the ability to speak a language
that means nothing to me
but shares the good news someone needs,

(and why else is the lay reader
trying to remember how to pronounce
Cappadocia and Phrygia?)

I should be willing once in my life
to download a tongue of fire,
this duolingo of the heart

and speak — sketch pad,
or vtime, encaustic, fantasy football,
scrapbook, sierra club, or
“welcome to walmart,”
gardening, hip chat, manga,
foxnews, lacrosse, rallycross,
palmpainting, paintballing,
friend-of-Bill, fan-of-Kardashian,
de-clutter, tiny house,
or live-rough.

Of course, it will be tentative,
embarrassing,
and I will make so many mistakes
(which is not something
I like to do), waiting to hear
Acts 2:10b (and how insider is that?)

“in our own languages
we hear them
speaking about God’s deeds of power.”

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