After a bright, warm, picnicking weekend, this Monday morning is a quiet one. Plum and I are settling down for a morning of reading – Mr. Men books for him, lectionary for me. In a little while, we’ll tackle the overgrown bushes outside the front door, hoping for enough dry weather to sweep up the trimmed leaves before it rains. But for now, a handful of stories.
The lection offers a choice of two first readings this morning: Acts 2:1-21 or Genesis 11:1-9. Pentecost or Babel. Where to start?
In some ways, the story of Babel is a very good story. I feel that, in a legendary kind of way, it tackles all sorts of questions. Why do we speak different languages? Why are there cities? Why do we live so far away? Not quite why the raven is black or how the tiger got his stripes, but in the same storytelling family perhaps. As are many stories at the beginning of Genesis. This is the book that likes to unpack beginnings.
In the story of Babel, the people want to make a name for themselves. They have experienced the come and go of seasons and generations, and they want to build something that will last. So they make plans for a city. They temper their bricks in the fire, then brick by brick, and according to plan, they push up towards the sky.
Then disaster strikes. The people are scattered and stop their work. They stop understanding each other. They turn away. Their towered city is in ruins.
It’s a strong story and recognisable. And I can’t find God in it.
Sure, there are thoughts ascribed to God, but they don’t ring true. I can’t find the Source of Life here. Is that a failure of my imagination? Or faith?
It feels like a good story gone wrong. It’s not leading me anywhere.
Then along comes Pentecost and it completes the Babel story. Where there were people scattered and dividing languages invented, there are now gathered crowds and all the languages of the world used to build bridges and spread hope. The fired clay of the Babel bricks gives way to a faith fired by the Spirit’s flames. Something lasting is created. Something that will outlive the cities. The hanging note finds resolution at last.
If I was working with a Sunday School this week, that would be my way of telling the story. Maybe I’d bring along my box of blocks and we’d build towers together. I would tell the story of Babel. We’d play some more, wondering about cities, towers and gravity. And then I’d tell the Pentecost story. Some stories work best in pairs. Then we’d get out the red paint and make things shiny and bright.
We learned to read stories like this on the road to Emmaus. It was on that road that, post-resurrection, Christ taught his friends how to read old stories in new light. He showed us that this is how you find the Christlight in all things.
And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself. Luke 24:27
This layering stories is Gospel storytelling, too. In their stories of Christ’s ministry, the Gospel writers echoed the past and connected it with the present. They reminded their readers of the prophets’ ancient promises and then they showed how those same promises are answered in Christ.
It is a way of paying attention, I think. Of really listening to the stories and listening, too, for the effect they have on our hearts. What tensions sits with me? When is healing needed? What Babels do we turn away from because they are bewildering? What Pentecosts surprise us? What new life-giving perspective makes us get the red paint off the shelf? How might we be unBabeled?
And who might we be then?
