Pentecost From Ending to Beginning

Beginnings Start with Endings

I love to travel. I count myself incredibly fortunate to have had amazing opportunities over the years to journey to beautiful places, meet extraordinary people, and immerse myself in new experiences. I often say that I absolutely love going places, but I dislike leaving. Of course, I realize these actions happen at the same time.  One cannot go anywhere without also leaving someplace behind.  Still, there is grief in packing the suitcase to leave. It is hard to leave behind a specific rhythm, a familiar space, and people who mean so much. It is an unfortunate reality that all journeys to someplace new require leaving some other place behind.  Every journey starts with leaving.  

Our lives are a series of these thresholds, the spaces between the "no longer this" and the "not yet that." One season ends just on the threshold of another season beginning.  The mixed feelings that come with seeing transition on the horizon can be unsteadying.  If you find yourself standing on one of those thresholds today, you are in familiar company.

Fifty Days: The Space Between

Looking at the story of Pentecost in Acts 2, we find our intrepid disciples standing on just this sort of threshold. They are on the very verge of going. Pentecost is about to mark a thrilling start to an epic journey as the good news of Jesus is about to be carried from the streets of Jerusalem to the very ends of the earth.

But before we join the story with a celebratory, triumphant vibe, let’s linger with the disciples for a moment in the quiet. Let's sit with them as they find themselves navigating the heavy space of leaving one chapter behind before starting another. First let’s consider what it meant to wait and wonder, “Now what?”

Think of what they had just been through. These men and women had experienced the agonizing grief of Good Friday, the stunning joy of the resurrection, and then, just days prior, the bittersweet farewell of the ascension, where Jesus returned to the Father. Now here they are, a small, vulnerable group hiding out in an upper room. The physical presence of their teacher, leader, and friend was gone. The old way of following Jesus—walking dusty roads, sharing meals, watching him heal people in real-time—had officially ended. Now they wait.

The word Pentecost itself means "fiftieth." It was a Jewish holiday celebrated exactly fifty days after Passover.  It was intended to be a joyous celebration to offer thanksgiving for the first fruits of the wheat harvest and a commemoration of God giving the law to Moses on Mount Sinai. It is a holiday deeply rooted in remembrance and provision. In Acts 2, this traditional festival became the backdrop for something entirely new. God took a day meant for celebrating the harvest and used it to bring in the first fruits of a different kind of harvest, a new global community.

Wind, Fire, and the Shift of the Temple

When the day of Pentecost finally arrived, it did not enter with a whisper; it arrived with a holy roar. Acts 2 describes a sound like the rush of a violent, mighty wind filling the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue of fire rested on each individual person. These symbols of wind and fire would have been awe-inspiring reminders of God’s history with His people. Wind recalls the breath of God hovering over the waters at creation, breathing life into humanity. Fire recalls the burning bush that spoke to Moses, and the pillar of fire that guided the Israelites through the dark wilderness.  These would have been the familiar symbols of the presence of God.

But the real message and miracle of these symbols is where they chose to land.

For generations, the tangible, holy presence of God was believed to dwell inside a fixed, geographic location: the Holy of Holies within the stone walls of the Jerusalem Temple. Only the High Priest could enter, and only once a year. At Pentecost, a monumental shift occurred. The fire of God’s presence did not fall upon the temple building. Instead, the fire divided and rested upon the followers of Jesus themselves.

God was showing that His presence was moving out of a building made of stone and into the hearts of His followers. The followers of Jesus became the living temple. The place where God dwelled and spoke was no longer a destination you had to travel to; it was a reality traveling inside of you. God was reassuring this anxious, waiting group that they were not abandoned. The chapter of Jesus with them had ended so that the chapter of Jesus in them through the presence of the Holy Spirit could begin.  Through the presence of the Holy Spirit in their hearts, the disciples were free to go into all the world without leaving the temple behind.

Language Hospitality

As the Holy Spirit filled the room, the disciples began to speak in other languages, and the focus of the story quickly shifts beyond the walls around the disciples to the bustling, multicultural streets of Jerusalem. People from every nation were gathered in the city. Hearing the commotion, a crowd gathered, and they were utterly amazed.

Why? Because each person heard the disciples speaking in their own native language. This was an intentional act of profound divine hospitality.  "‘We hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!’ Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, ‘What does this mean?’" (Acts 2:11-12 )

Look closely at the nature of this miracle. The story could have been written differently. The miracle could have been that the Holy Spirit gave everyone a single, universal language to speak—a reversal of the Tower of Babel where everyone conformed to one tongue. But instead, the miracle was that these Galilean disciples spoke, and each listener heard the words of God in their own unique, local dialects.

By speaking to the crowd in their own languages, God was recognizing their cultures, their heritages, and their identities. He did not demand that the traveler assimilate or learn a dominant language to hear the good news. Instead, God welcomed each one by speaking the language they dreamed in, the language their mothers used to sing them to sleep. This was God declaring that everyone belonged in this new movement.  Pentecost is the birthday of the church. So, from its very beginning the church was fundamentally multilingual and multicultural. It was born out of an extravagant expression of hospitality. 

Practicing Philoxenia Today

This leaves the modern church with a beautiful, challenging calling. If the church was born in a fiery expression of language hospitality, then our communities today can use that same power to continue to be places that welcome people from diverse backgrounds, cultures, and languages.

In the New Testament, the Greek word often translated as hospitality is philoxenia. It is a beautiful compound word: philos, meaning love, and xenos, meaning stranger or foreigner. It is the absolute opposite of xenophobia (the fear of the stranger). Philoxenia is the active love of the stranger.  Practicing hospitality is a posture of the heart. It is an intentional choice to step out of our own comfort zones to listen deeply to those whose stories, expressions, and backgrounds differ from our own.  It means expressing initial welcome and sustained belonging for our diverse neighbors.  If our neighbors speak other languages, we can make room for them by making room for their languages. 

True hospitality is reciprocal. A real sense of belonging comes from the willingness to share and swap the roles of host and guest. The example set for us at Pentecost is not to simply invite the "stranger" to our table and expect them to adapt to our ways and speak our language. Instead, we willingly alter our tables, our rhythms, and our comfort levels so that strangers become neighbors and everyone has the opportunity to feel a genuine sense of ownership and belonging. When we practice this, we continue the very work that the Holy Spirit began on that dynamic morning in Jerusalem.

Looking at the birth of the church in this way may be an encouraging reminder to keep up the good work you are already a part of.  For others, this might open a threshold moment to consider setting out toward something new.  I hope we can take some time to pause and listen to how the Spirit is guiding us. May we all be gently reminded to look closely at the beginning of the church in wonder. This is how it started—with an invitation for you in your own language.

The God of the Journey

As we reflect on Pentecost, we are ultimately reminded of the nature of our God. It is entirely natural to feel a sense of anxiety when we face transitions in our journey. Whether you are leaving a school, a career, a community, or a season of life behind, the act of leaving a season behind is hard.

It is in these fragile moments that we can lean into the truth of who God is. God is the Alpha and the Omega—the Beginning and the End. He is not just waiting for us at the final destination, nor is He trapped in the memories of our past. He is the continuing presence through all our departures and our arrivals. While we may find ourselves on thresholds of waiting, we do not wait alone. While we may find ourselves at beginnings and endings with mixed emotions, He is our constant.

For God, Pentecost was not a sudden backup plan or a frantic disruption. It was the beautiful, seamless continuation of what He had already begun from the foundation of the world. He invites us to walk with Him through our endings and into our new beginnings. With the Holy Spirit dwelling in our hearts, we can take heart and breathe deeply. Remember as you pack your bags for the next chapter of your journey, the unchanging God goes with you.