Today, this great feast day of the church, is a day when we hear a multitude of voices. Among other things, here at St. John’s it is the last Sunday – at least for a while – that we will be hearing the collective voices of our choir, as they take a much-deserved break over the summer. And indeed, this is the last day we will be hearing one stalwart bass voice, that of Stratton, who with Robin will be leaving us for a season as they begin new endeavors.
It is a day when we will also be hearing two new voices, as two persons are baptized into the body of Christ. And while we may hear some squeals and tears as the water is poured over them, that is not what I am talking about. More fundamentally, we will hear two new voices who are being called to sing and to tell the story of the Good News of Jesus Christ as they grow and live out their lives of faith.
And then of course, on this day of Pentecost, we hear a multitude of voices from long ago: the disciples of Jesus, the men and women who knew him and who loved him. For the story we are told today is this:
All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each, speaking about God’s deeds of power.
A multitude of voices, in different languages, yet all singing one song – speaking and singing about God’s deeds of power, and specifically of all that God had done in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Several weeks ago, I heard on the radio the story of one man’s response to the tragic bombings of the Boston Marathon. Stephen Randall is a songwriter who lives in Wellesley. He had been inspired by words that President Obama spoke at the memorial service at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross several days after the bombings: “You will stand. You will walk. You will run again.” He composed a song with those words in the refrain. He recorded it. But he did more than that. He put it on a website, where people can record their own voices joining the chorus.* His hope is that the chorus will grow louder and stronger and more varied as each voice is added. Indeed, as an example he played his teenage daughter’s voice, whose wonderful jazz riffs riffs moved in and around the melody in a hypnotic and inviting way. Imagine what that could sound like. More and more voices. All joining in one song.
Well, we don’t need to imagine what that will sound like. For that very process is what happens here in our life together – voice after voice being added to the story and song of God’s mighty deeds.
I said earlier that through baptism and the gift of the Holy Spirit, two new voices will be added to the chorus this morning – the chorus that proclaims God’s love for us and Jesus Christ’s call to us. They join our voices, we who sit here today, yes. But they join so many more.
Did you ever notice the words here on the marble baptismal font?
From the Children of St. John’s Easter 1845
Imagine that. Five years after this church had been founded, Sunday school students were singing their song and offering their gifts to give this baptismal font. Their voices are heard today as we come to the font. But if you look, and listen, more closely at the font, you will see and hear more. The children gave the marble bowl. But the wooden stand that holds it came later. For at its base are these words:
Presented by the Members of the Young Men’s Bible Class; St. John’s Sunday School, Charlestown District June 25th 1876
Almost forty years later, young men were adding their voices to the song. But that is not all. Sixty-five years later, these words were inscribed on the wooden cover of the font:
In grateful memory of Mrs. Florence Mae and Thomas Carlisle Russell from the Church School Pupils and Friends: Advent 1932.
Teachers? Beloved matriarch and patriarch of the church? I am not sure. Perhaps one of you knows who they were. But their song was honored and remembered. And finally, undated, these words on the silver bowl that rests inside the marble font:
In Loving Memory of Laetitia Fiske.
I do not know who Laetitia Fiske was. And truth be told, there will come a day when none of our names will be known or really remembered by the persons who worship in this place. But our voices will still be part of the song.
You and I are part of a great chorus, whether we know how to carry a note or not. Even if you have said “no” to Douglas Witte time as time again when he has asked you to join the choir, you are part of the choir. And you know your part – you do – I am absolutely sure of that, even as I know mine.
I know that, because I know that you, and I, have a master teacher. For how is it that we learn? We learn when someone seeks us out, teaches us, communicates to us in a way that indicates she knows exactly who we are and what we need to inspire us. We learn from someone who speaks to us in our native language. Someone who knows the particularities of our unique lives, someone who knows the pains and the failures which we have never revealed to another, someone who knows the secret dreams we harbor and the desires of the heart, be they for good and ill.
For how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? 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, in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.
How is it that we hear, each of us in our own native language? Young and old, male and female, gay and straight, single person and parent of many, cradle Episcopalian and fervent new convert, doctrinal believer and doubting seeker, townie, and toonie, residents of Charlestown, Somerville, Cambridge and Boston, visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes: in our own languages, we hear the voice of God coming to each of us.
We hear this Holy Spirit, because she knows us. She knows the particulars of our lives that make each one of us unique. And she knows the universal yearnings and fears of every human heart that bind us together as one.
Last Saturday night I attended the candlelight vigil for Steven Jones, who died of gunshot wounds here in Charlestown a little over a week ago. And as I listened to his mother describe her grief, I knew it was a grief that was unique – something I could never fathom as one who has never reared a child. But then the next day, I walked with thousands through Dorchester on the Mother’s Day Walk for Peace – and saw group after group of persons with t-shirts identifying this young person and that young person – all victims of gun violence – and realized that this was a grief was both unique and universal.
The Holy Spirit speaks to us in our native language – the language that is unique to each of us, and the language that is universal to the human spirit. For the Holy Spirit knows the language of our lives: the language of our hurts and the language of our hopes, the language of our losses and that of our loves, the language of all that impoverishes us and of all that empowers us.
That is what the men and women who loved Jesus discovered in the days after his death. God knew their grief. And God gave them grace. God gave them the power of the Holy Spirit to sing a new song, and to invite others to join in. On this day we hear a multitude of voices. May the voice that sings and speaks through all of them be the One who woos us, wakens us, and leads us into life today, and always.
Amen.
A Sermon for St. John’s Episcopal Church
Charlestown, Massachusetts
Preached on the Day of Pentecost
By the Rev. Thomas N. Mousin
May 19, 2013
* https://soundcloud.com/stephenrandall-1/we-will-run-again