The Church at Pentecost

A Pentecost Meditation
in Free Verse (No Charge for Reading)

In the freedom of the Spirit
(or the spirit of Freedom),
My mind wanders along the pews of the sanctuary,
Weaving through the words of the Scriptures
And the sermon.
Who has not felt the Holy Spirit moving,
Seen the flutter of her passing?

Sometimes the Holy Spirit is like chimes in the wind,
Sometimes like the tiny rustle of leaves in a breeze
So slight the skin cannot perceive it.
Sometimes he is a vast hurricane, or a roaring tornado.
Who can withstand that roaring?

Sometimes the Spirit moves in a rhythm like the rush of heart’s blood,
Or like a clear bell’s ringing through still air,
Or like the laughter of children in the distance.

Sometimes like the echoing crash of thunder in mountains.

The Spirit weaves a pattern of light through and around our lives,
Bright here, softer there, shimmering and shining,
Sunlight through leaves, tiny candle, blazing fire.

The Spirit burns where she will, quenches where he chooses,
A gentle fall of rain in silent woods,
The quiet lap of wavelets on the lakeshore,
The wet fragrance of lilacs or new-cut grass,
The crash of breakers against a rocky coast.

We listen for the Spirit’s voice,
(pray, “Come, Holy Spirit, come!”)
And the Spirit blows through the church,
Blessing and destroying, breaking down and building up,
Transforming everything.
Who has not felt the Holy Spirit moving,
Seen the power of her passing?


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