Pentecost by Jim Whalen
When Pentecost day came round, the apostles had all
met in one room, when suddenly they heard what sounded like a powerful wind
from heaven, the noise of which filled the entire house in which they were
sitting; and something appeared to them that seemed like tongues of fire; these
separated and came to rest on the head of each of them. They were all filled
with the Holy Spirit, and began to speak foreign languages as the Spirit gave
them the gift of speech.
Acts
of the Apostles 2:1 - 4
The
Gospels quite unequivocally call for personal transformation in light of the
life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Those who are baptised are incorporated
into the church community which sets out to witness that very same Gospel.
On
this day, 13 May, 1917 three young children, Lucia dos Santos and her cousins
Francisco and Jacinta Marto received a vision of Our Lady of the Rosary. She
reappeared each month until October of that year. These young peasant children
so convinced their families, friends, the clergy and finally the papacy itself
of their genuineness that a basilica now sits where they received their vision.
Over 1 million of the world’s faithful came to the 50th anniversary
of the visions to a celebration of the Eucharist presided over by Pope Paul VI.
You have to remember that they were children. These children helped change of
lives of so many, that it would be difficult to number them. Fatima is visited
by millions each year. These people are transformed by of an act of faith.
The
crowd that swarmed in the streets outside the disciples’ upper room were quite
unlikely to have known what was about to hit them. In the room above them the
disciples heard what sounded like a strong wind, and above their heads what
appeared to be tongues of fire. Filled with the Spirit, they left their haven
and began to preach the Good News and were able to be understood by people who
spoke a multitude of languages. The first Pentecost. These people were
transformed by an act of faith.
As
a principal and teacher I daily walked the schools' corridors and grounds. There
I met children who had been fractured and broken by life, others for whom each
day was a window to new experiences, there were others for whom school was a
respite from tension and anxiety and there are others for whom it was a
difficult, harrowing place. They sat side-by-side, played together, laughed at
each other’s jokes, shared lunches. Our classrooms and grounds are places where
the church lives and breathes. This is where we pray and celebrate the life of
Jesus. Bit by bit, lives are made anew, refreshed and transformed through the
myriad of tiny acts of faith, by teachers, aids, cleaners, parents, children.
Each day is Pentecost.
Although it is the Feast of the Ascension, today
would normally be the Feast of Our Lady of (the Rosary of) Fatima – a true sign that our young
can change the world we live in for the better. Sunday is Pentecost Sunday,
birthday of the church – a sign that true transformation is not only possible,
but achievable. Come Holy Spirit.
Peter
Douglas
Postscript: Jacinta and Francisco were victims of
the great 1918 flu epidemic, Francisco dying in April 1919 aged 11 and Jacinta
who died in February 1920 aged 9. They are the youngest saints who did not die
as martyrs, while Jacinta is the youngest ever saint. They were canonised by
Pope Francis at Fatima on 13 May 2017, on the one hundredth anniversary of the
first apparition. Lucia, at left, died in 2005 having lived as a Sister of St Dorothy and later as a Discalced Carmelite nun.
Veni Creator
Come, Holy
Spirit,
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow
covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.
I am only a man: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church
lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore call one man, anywhere on earth,
not me — after all I have some decency —
and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you.
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow
covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.
I am only a man: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church
lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore call one man, anywhere on earth,
not me — after all I have some decency —
and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you.
Czeslaw Milosz (1911
— 2004)
Pentecost
Better a jungle in the head
than rootless concrete.
Better to stand bewildered
by the fireflies' crooked street;
winter lamps do not show
where the sidewalk is lost,
nor can these tongues of snow
speak for the Holy Ghost;
the self-increasing silence
of words dropped from a roof
points along iron railings,
direction, in not proof.
But best is this night surf
with slow scriptures of sand,
that sends, not quite a seraph,
but a late cormorant,
whose fading cry propels
through phosphorescent shoal
what, in my childhood gospels,
used to be called the Soul.
than rootless concrete.
Better to stand bewildered
by the fireflies' crooked street;
winter lamps do not show
where the sidewalk is lost,
nor can these tongues of snow
speak for the Holy Ghost;
the self-increasing silence
of words dropped from a roof
points along iron railings,
direction, in not proof.
But best is this night surf
with slow scriptures of sand,
that sends, not quite a seraph,
but a late cormorant,
whose fading cry propels
through phosphorescent shoal
what, in my childhood gospels,
used to be called the Soul.
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