What
are you saying?
How
is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?
Acts 2.8
The
work of the Holy Spirit is to make clear.
At Pentecost, people were able to hear the disciples’ preaching,
whatever their first language was.
They knew what was being said – and they also knew that they needed to
respond to the message.
This was true communication.
In
British Sign Language there is a strong semantic link between the signs for
‘clear’, ‘clean’ and ‘holy’.
The Spirit who comes at Pentecost with the holiness of God not only calls
people to repentance, to cleansing, but also creates a clear link to God, a
channel of communication.
When the Holy Spirit comes, he comes to make the reconciliation
guaranteed by the cross a reality in the lives of those who respond.
So
if the Holy Spirit comes to clarify, why is it that people are so often
confused?
Why is ministry offered in the name of God the Holy Spirit so often
shrouded in theological jargon and precisely honed formulae?
I
caricature.
But I also struggle with this in my own ministry (in a parish until very
recently) and in the wider context of God’s mission in this generation.
What is the appropriate language for our work?
How do we express what some will tell me is a mystery, the very essence
of holiness, beyond our understanding?
Those
who have taught children in R.E. lessons, in collective worship or in church
activities, will recognise the challenge.
Comfortable as we may be with the theology of Paul, the intricacies of
Leviticus or even the true meaning of Jesus’ parables, we have to find a way
that communicates these things to young people in a way that they will
understand and, if they are to learn, will help them to remember.
And sometimes the process of talking to children brings us to that
uncomfortable point, which we seem to reach less often in our preaching to
adults, when we have to say to ourselves “is that really what I believe?”
So
perhaps our words are sometimes a cover, shielding us from the reality of our
faith.
That is why the study of Theology has traditionally got a bad name –
too many people (apparently) lost faith when they realised that the Emperor had
no clothes.
Academia killed the rising star.
Maybe.
But when we remember that our faith is not dependent on our
understanding, that we cannot possibly hold the whole of God in our minds, then
we are free to trust him for the bits of the picture that we can’t yet see.
My experience at theological college was that the more I learnt, the more
I had to be willing to let go of my prejudices and accept the challenge to seek
God where I had never looked for him before.
It is a truism to say that the more you know, the more you know you need
to know.
But like many a cliché, it’s also true!
Vulnerability
frightens us.
But it’s the essence of the incarnation and the crucifixion.
And perhaps God never made himself so vulnerable as at Pentecost when he
entrusted his mission to a group of Galilean misfits!
Or maybe he took an even greater risk when he entrusted his mission to
me?
When we make ourselves vulnerable, by stepping out from the shelter of
our doctrinal vocabulary to talk to real people about a real God who is at work
in the real world, we may be terrified.
But we may also find that it is at that moment that the Holy Spirit is
most able to communicate through us.
You
are doubly vulnerable when speaking in a language that is not your own.
Just speaking out is hard – the first level of vulnerability – but
doing so across linguistic and cultural boundaries sometimes feels impossible.
Yet since Jesus’ disciples first balanced on the Jerusalem rooftops and
demonstrated the reality of God in their lives, that is what Christians have
been required to do.
I
have had to learn to communicate in British Sign Language, the first or
preferred language of many profoundly Deaf people.
Not only am I using a language that is not my own, it’s a visual
language operating in a different way to the spoken word.
People have to look at you when you are communicating (or you won’t be)
– and that feels very embarrassing at first.
It would have been convenient if I had had a Pentecostal experience and
been able to sign without attending any classes, but I don’t deny the work of
the Holy Spirit in taking me in my vulnerability and using even that to further
God’s mission.
Positive and trusting relationships can be built up when you can say,
‘please help me learn your language’.
And
so when we go into our communities with a passion to preach the gospel, there
are things we will have to learn before we can communicate.
We will have to be humble and open – an excellent position from which
to receive the Spirit.
Help me to learn your language.
Because then I have something wonderful to communicate with you – the
real work of a real God in real people’s lives.
I
am a storyteller.
In my Diocesan role I want to tell these stories of faith.
The work of the Holy Spirit is dynamic, creative, literally inspiring.
What better tales can there be than those of God?
When we can clearly say what God means to us then people will really hear
the message that we long to convey.
Our language should not obscure God’s work – but beautifully and
powerfully amplify it.
(Revd.
Peter
Mackriell is the Chaplain to the Deaf People
and Diocesan Communications Officer, St. Asaph.)