I spend my days immersed in words. I write essays. I read books. I speak with family and friends. I write letters. I send email messages. I read the news. I read stories to my grandchildren. My career was fashioned out of words. Before I was ordained, I had to earn degrees that required reading and writing. I wrote an ordination paper and presented it to an ecclesiastical council. I answered questions about that paper and defended it in front of the assembly of clergy and laypersons. The congregations I served first met me through a professional profile document, which contained words about me, my theology, and my experience. Being called to serve involved interviews where questions were asked and answered using words. When I was presented to congregations, I preached sermons as a way of being introduced to them. Words have continually surrounded my life.

I love language. I enjoy learning new words and concepts. I have made a practice of learning the distinction between oral and written language and have worked hard at mastering both forms and employing the distinction to improve communication. When ministering to those in crisis, I have used words to convey my concern and support. Words also provide me with a means of recreation. I enjoy jokes, puns, and word puzzles.

I have trusted colleagues with whom I exchange documents for review and comment. I have a manuscript being read by a team of twelve trusted colleagues who have been making suggestions and helping me refine and revise the work. One group member and I have been exchanging written materials for years. We have edited each other’s professional writing. We have worked together on projects and co-authored papers. We have developed patterns and shortcuts to speed our communication. We send each other feedback and frequently suggest different words and ways to say things.

I have been accused of spending too much time in my head by those who distinguish between the head as the part of the body responsible for intellectual ideas and the heart as the part of the body that expresses emotions. While it is true that I do invest significant time in scholarly pursuits, I do so with passion. My thinking is not without emotion. And I use words to express my feelings. The distinction between heart and head is one that I can understand, but it is not a helpful distinction for me. I see emotion and intellect as inextricably intertwined. They are forever together. One does not dwell in one without also experiencing the other. We think about how we feel and are emotional about our ideas.

Each year, however, I come face-to-face with one of the beloved stories of our people that illustrates the limits of language. The story demonstrates the power of relationships to transcend language. The reading from the second chapter of the Acts of the Apostles for Pentecost tells the story of the gathering of the disciples that took place 50 days after the death and resurrection of Jesus. The story is relatively brief. The disciples were gathered together when suddenly they heard a sound like the rush of a violent wind. The experience was beyond the power of words to convey. The text reports that “divided tongues, as of fire,” came to rest on each person. Then they were able to speak other languages. The story lists the many people who speak different languages who were present. It does not report a common language, although it is likely that many present were multilingual. The earliest versions of the story appear in Greek, a regional language spoken by many who also spoke various dialects.

The text is challenging to read out loud because of the list of people with different native languages: “Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs.” Those present were “amazed and perplexed.”

The story is often cited by Pentecostal Christians as an example of “speaking in tongues,” or glossolalia. Individuals utter sounds that appear to be in a language that they don’t understand. Believers see this phenomenon as a sign of the presence of the Holy Spirit. Research suggests that it is a learned behavior. This practice, however, does not appear to be the same as that referred to in the Pentecost story. In that story, the words are both spoken and understood. They communicate a common meaning. That is different from a series of random sounds that mimic words.

Pentecost is the celebration of the power of communication and the acknowledgement that a powerful religious message can be communicated in ways that reach beyond language. When I claim to be immersed in words, those words are all in the same language. I will occasionally use a word from another language and attempt to define it in English. I have had enough experiences with those who are native speakers of other languages to understand that some ideas and concepts do not translate well. Sometimes a single word in Hebrew, for example, can prompt many words in translation into English. One word in one language can be translated into several words in another. Understanding requires reaching beyond language to the truth that language seeks to express.

I’ve studied the story of Pentecost many times. I’ve preached dozens of sermons about it. But I do not fully understand what happened on that day. It is clear from the words, both in Greek and English, that the writer struggled to express an experience that couldn’t be fully captured in words. In the end, the words convey part of the experience but are not the entire experience. The words, however, are what have remained. There are no first-person witnesses left. We come into contact with that experience through the power of words. We listen to the story. We speak of its meaning. We struggle to understand.

Coming to the same story every year is a delightful opportunity to imagine new ways to understand the old words. This process of layering meaning upon meaning over many years leads to a deep connection with those who gathered long ago. We share a common meaning that reaches beyond language and beyond time.