Thought for Pentecost

Preparing for today’s Pentecost homily took me back to my curacy in Penwortham, to the days when the Wakes Walks were still a cherished part of community life. These weren’t just parades. They were acts of witness. Congregations from across the town walked together behind banners and brass bands, proclaiming the Christian faith at the heart of the community.

The tradition of church wakes reaches back to medieval times, feast days marking the dedication of churches. Over time, they became public celebrations of faith, especially in the towns and villages of North West England. They bore witness to the enduring presence of the Church in the everyday lives of people.

A Whit Walk in Royton, Oldham c.1987

There was something beautifully different about those mornings, the band tuning up, people in Sunday best, prayers offered under open skies. I remember feeling a kind of anticipation as a young curate, not knowing how ministry would unfold, yet sensing the Spirit’s presence. That sense of being caught up in something bigger, of being sent, not just gathered, speaks to what Pentecost is really about.

It’s often called the Church’s birthday, but more deeply, Pentecost is about receiving and being sent. The disciples are not left behind in fear. The Risen Christ breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” Then, with tongues of fire, the Spirit sends them out.

This breath of God runs throughout Scripture. In John 20, Jesus breathes on his disciples in a tender moment that echoes the creation of Adam in Genesis. It is resurrection breath, life breathed into human dust. In John 14, we hear those comforting words: “My Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” I return to those words often. They speak of God’s closeness, of a Spirit who dwells with us in our homes and our brokenness as well as celebrations. The Holy Spirit doesn’t lift us out of the world but helps us recognise God within it. Pentecost isn’t about escape, but presence.

In Acts 2, we hear of wind, fire, and languages, a dramatic moment of encounter. But the deeper miracle is that others understood: “We hear them each in our own language.” Pentecost doesn’t erase difference; it transforms it into communion. The Spirit makes understanding possible amid diversity.

I remember visiting the Church of the Pater Noster in the Holy Land, where the Lord’s Prayer is displayed in over 140 languages. Pilgrims whisper it in Swahili, Spanish, English… voices rising in prayer. And I thought: this is Pentecost still happening. Across continents and time zones, the Spirit unites the praying Church.

Working in a hospital, I see this daily among international teams. While some end their shifts, others are just beginning, in other parishes, other lives. The Church, the Body of Christ, never sleeps. As the hymn The Day Thou Gavest puts it:

“The voice of prayer is never silent, nor dies the strain of praise away.”

In Corinthians, Paul speaks of the one Spirit who gives many gifts. That’s not just a theological claim; it’s a pastoral one. Every parish is made of different people, some practical, some prayerful, some musical, some quietly generous. The Spirit doesn’t take away our differences but weaves them into one Body.

Pentecost is about transformation. John Keble once wrote of the Spirit as “the inward grace of every outward thing.” This deeply sacramental vision helps us see the Spirit in the water of baptism, the bread and wine of the Eucharist, the silence of prayer, and the small, faithful acts of love and service.

Gregory the Great said the Spirit is not given to the clever, but to the willing; not to the mighty, but to the prayerful. Today we might ask: what would it mean for the Spirit to make a home in us?

I think it would mean listening deeply, especially to those who differ from us. It would mean letting God be present not only in our churches but in kitchens, workplaces, social gatherings and streets. It would mean proclaiming the Gospel not just in religious words, but in the language of kindness, welcome, forgiveness, and hope.

We are not invited simply to look back, but to renewal. Like the apostles, we too may feel uncertain or locked away. But the Risen Lord still breathes upon us. He sends us, not alone, but with the Comforter, the Fire.

Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, and lighten with celestial fire…

These words are sung at ordinations and coronations, but they also belong to the quiet resolve of everyday Christian life: parents raising children, neighbours caring, the bereaved daring to hope again.

To pray those words is to ask that Pentecost not remain locked in the past, but come alive in us today. And as I reflect on those early years of my curacy, of brass bands and Wakes Walks, it is not with nostalgia, but with thanksgiving. For those experiences, like the ones that shaped each of us, are part of the tapestry of the Spirit’s work in our lives: the people who taught us to pray, the communities and churches that welcomed us, the moments of insight or grace that caught us unawares.

And so, on this feast of Pentecost, we remember with gratitude that all of us, in our own unique way, have been recipients of that same Holy Spirit, the Spirit who hovered over creation, who rested on the disciples like fire, who breathed peace into fear, is the same Spirit who comes to us today: quietly, powerfully, faithfully.

Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, and lighten with celestial fire… Amen.