“Pentecost” by Linda Schmidt, Textile Artist, Quilter,Designer Despite having to drive across town, I decided to attend St. Thomas the Apostle for Pentecost Sunday. It had been home to me for almost two years while I was living with my father. Over sixty years before, St. Thomas had been my parents’ parish. I was baptized there. For the past year I have been going to various churches, trying to attend closer to my little flat. I have found some good places, but today, I wanted to “go home” for the feast.
Like any real “home,” the folks there take you in, no matter how long you have been away. One of my favorite ushers hugged me back with a smile when I could not resist giving him a warm greeting despite arriving a bit late. When I walked up the aisle to find a seat, a woman offered me a place in her pew.
“Mary, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, yes. And you are…” I was embarrassed by the lack of recall. She didn’t mind. Once I heard her name, I knew it well: her family and my family go way back. I settled in and looked around, happy to see so many familiar faces.
I came hoping for an infusion of spirit. A week ago I confessed to my spiritual director that I was low on energy. I wanted to move ahead, discern direction, etc. etc, but I just didn’t have much spiritual oomph.
The Spirit obliged. The liturgical celebration was joyful from the readings, to the baptism, to the music. African drums, piano, organ, electric guitar, rainsticks, and voices showered down on us from the choir loft and as usual, got us moving.
I loved the reading from John, the low-key arrival of the Spirit. No high winds and fire, just the sweet breath of Jesus, breathed on everyone in the room. He breathed out, they breathed in. So did I.
Then a baptism: A tiny girl baby felt water poured over her head and didn’t make a sound. Her small fingers spread wide when she felt anointing oil dripping through her hair; her white-socked feet dangled against her mother’s dress while her proud father looked on. Still quiet, she received a new garment that looked like a tiny chasuble. “Maybe someday, those of our gender will be able to wear that priestly garb,” I thought. The Easter candle was lowered so her godfather could catch its flame on her very own candle. The church erupted in applause to welcome her into the family.
Mass continued. Reminding us of the plethora of languages spoken in Acts’ dramatic retelling of the first Pentecost, the Prayer of the Faithful was read in French, Spanish, Italian, Ugandan, Russian, a few I didn’t recognize, and finally Latin.
Eucharist, the taste of bread, the warmth of wine, feeding the Spirit within.
One thing I love about St. Thomas is it’s spontaneity. Everyone smiled and some of us turned around just to see the music makers when a song began with loud drums and base. The music. The words. They fed my Spirit too:
“Spirit of the Living God, Fall fresh on me…Melt me, mold me, Fill me, use me. Spirit of the Living God, Fall fresh on me.”
And She did.
“Malo! Malo!” Togan for “Thank you!”
“Obrigado!” “Gracias!” “Kam sa ham ni da!” ” Si Yu ‘us, ma a’ se!” “Maraming salamat!””Merci beaucoup!” “Lanu u!” “Spaseebuh!” “Grazie!…..”
Perhaps my favorite, called out with enthusiasm and joy by the woman cantor: “Xie! Xie!”
I didn’t have to leave early or even immediately after Mass as I often do to make work on time. I stayed chatted with friends, drank in hugs and smiles and joy.
“I think I will be coming here on Sundays,” I told Denis.
Thank you Saint Thomas, for sharing the Spirit so well.
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