Listening in Tongues in Venice

Tomorrow is the Feast of Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit infused the Apostles and, by Luke's description, lit up their heads with "tongues" of fire. Above is one Eastern Orthodox artist's idea what this might have looked like. Just before the flames, there was a sound of a strong wind. Strange weather, all in all.

I love this story. I get to read it tomorrow when St. Andrew's Episcopal Church meets for the first time in person on church grounds (still staying outside) since the Covid thing drove us from the premises and onto Zoom. We'll still be masked in the parking lot, but we're allowed to sing with our masks on, which is a new privilege since last Fall's outdoor service at two parishioners' house. 

In past years, I've had the fun of reading it in Italian at St. Paul's in Concord. While St. Andrew's doesn't do the multiple languages thing, I'm still looking forward to it. You see, something like it actually happened to me once.

Not the flames. I haven't seen anyone's head catch on fire. It's the next part, where the Apostles start speaking so that people from all over the known world can understand them, that I relate to. 

 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.

For Pentecost Sunday in 2010, I was at the little church of San Nicolo' dei Mendicoli in Venice. I liked it from the moment I walked in. Instead of a unified decorating scheme, there was a lovely riot of colors and styles from every historical period. Whenever the people of this ancient fishing neighborhood had a good year, they had added to the decor in the manner of their time, so that you could find a 13th century mosaic next to a 16th century side altar around a font from who knows when. I read that for a while this ancient place of worship was so badly sunken into the lagoon that a priest once rowed a boat down the center aisle to get to the altar. It was rescued and restored but not, thankfully, renovated, even down to the 15th c. Beggars' Porch (pictured below) which earned the parish its nickname. It also vies with San Giacomo di Rialto for the title of oldest church in Venice and has a very old clock tower and all sorts of other things to interest visitors of the tourist persuasion.

But what impressed me when I arrived was, first, that it was the only Venetian church I'd been to so far (and I had averaged 3 masses a weekend during that visit) with a substantial population of families with children, and the kids were the welcoming committee, handing out bulletins and song books and starting the passing of the peace. They were also most of the choir, which was accompanied by a single guitar. They were all so clearly filled with joy. I haven't seen such happy acolytes since St. Barnabas' (Glen Ellyn, Illinois).

When  the familiar reading from Acts 2 came up, it was no wonder that, even with only 2 weeks of Italian lessons, I could follow along easily. I know the story. What surprised me was that, once the sermon started, I found I was still following. Now, I couldn't quote to you exactly what the Italian priest was saying, but I remember getting the gist. It was about how the Holy Spirit bridges human divisions and brings people together in improbable ways. I met him after the mass, and he was really nice. 

It was funny, because I had chosen this place more or less out of a hat for its size and neighborhood, before even visiting, as a place for my character Silvio to have a spiritual revelation. It turned out to be exactly the right sort of place for that to happen.

In other news, my columbine is in bloom. It is a Pentecost flower because it looks like doves in a circle.