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A Tongue of Fire for Me (A Pentecost Imagination)

The room is dim, quiet, and heavy with breathless anticipation. I am there—hidden among the disciples, tucked behind John, near the window that barely lets in the morning light. My heart beats fast, echoing like a drum in my chest. Fear? Maybe. Or perhaps, a holy kind of longing.

The air is still, but charged. Every face carries the wear of grief and confusion, yet strangely, an ember of hope. “He told us to wait,” Peter whispers, more to himself than anyone. And so, we wait.

And then… it happens.

A sound roars through the room—not of this world—a wind without warning. It’s not cold, not warm, just… alive. My hair lifts. My lungs gasp. The walls tremble, but no one runs. We are too stunned, too caught in the awe of it.

And then—flames. Not flames that consume, but flames that choose. One by one, they rest on each head, as if kissing us awake. I feel something stir above me, and then… it touches me too. Fire. But it doesn’t burn. It ignites. Something ancient yet utterly new uncoils inside me.

I am overwhelmed by Presence. Not like wind, not like fire—but something deeper. A knowing. A clarity. A strength I’ve never known fills my bones. Words bubble from within me—strange words, holy words, words I do not recognize, yet they feel more me than anything I’ve ever said. I speak, and I am not alone. All around me, voices rise. Languages I do not know, yet others somehow understand.

We spill out into the streets, and people gather. Confused. Curious. Moved. They hear us. They really hear us. Different tongues, but one message: the wonders of God.

In that moment, I understand. The Spirit has not come to make us extraordinary, but to make us His. Not to erase our fears, but to fill us with courage that outshines them. Not to separate us, but to draw us together—into one Body, one Breath.

This—this—is the beginning. Not just of mission, but of communion. Of Church.


I open my eyes. The room is gone. It is 2025. The Spirit still comes, not in spectacle, but in silence. In fire that doesn’t burn, but beckons. In the whisper that says, Go. Reconcile. Speak peace. Build community.

And so, I ask: What tongue of fire will rest on me today? And where will it send me?

This Pentecost, I do not just remember. I receive. And I go.

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