Pentecost

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.