Pentecost Acts 2:1-21 (written 2005) The flames still strike, though the walls we hide behind for fear of fear and fire are more opaque, the cracks papered over with copies of The Times, The Age, The Advertiser, and Sunday Mail. It’s hard to speak an unknown tongue in such a spate of foreign news. The flames still burn, the words still form, though our upper rooms are more distant from the pilgrims in the street, and we who try to wait and pray are seldom together, huddled in corners, clutching our separate books of rules and forms more dear to us than any unbridled tongue the Spirit speaks. We light our small safe candles in lieu of risky flame, and mute ecstatic experience into private devotion. The wind still blows, but to fill the entire house it must batter doors, tear down shutters, rip the headphones from our ears, and television sets from the walls to let us see and hear. We still wait for resurrection while the Risen One walks unheeded through our walls, and raises wounded hands, and waits to breathe on us, to stir the flame and speak through us the words that can be heard.