At Pentecost, when the Christian Church remembers the day on
which the disciples “were filled with
the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them
ability” (Acts 2:4), I think of the mockingbird.
I have heard mockingbirds all my life, chortling in the
morning dawn, in the heat of mid- day, and late into the night. The mockingbird
song greets me everywhere, and what a song it is. Most of you have heard it,
even if you cannot identify it. The mockingbird is the source of that incessant
chattering, more chattering than the most obnoxious human gossip you know.
In fact, however, the mockingbird loves to imitate other
songs. He sings what he hears. Some say that mature mockingbirds know over five
hundred songs. He is not mocking those songs; he is just imitating them. He is
miming; mimus polygottus is his
biological name. The Spanish language has the bird named right: “centzontle,”
they call it, “the bird of four hundred songs.”
I talked with a shop owner once who said that a mockingbird outside
his store had learned to imitate the sound of the UPS truck backing up. Then, the
bird learned to imitate all the various rings on people’s cell phones. Surely
in the American south, there is no bird heard more incessantly and frequently.
It is the state bird of Florida, Arkansas, Tennessee, Texas, and Mississippi. Just
like the Parthians, Medes, Elamites, Cretans, and Arabs, on the Feast of
Pentecost.
What a pity that the mockingbird is named for mocking, for I
believe the melody that winds its way through song after song is a song of
praise. I believe the mockingbird is essentially a joyful bird (except maybe for
that obnoxious crooner at night, looking for a mate). So, on Pentecost Sunday
in the Church, I want to re-name the mockingbird, the Pentecost Bird.
The mockingbird is the Pentecost Bird. Not because of its
colors (it wears no flaming wings of fire), but because of its song, its one
song that is really a collection of songs. Listen to it wag this way, and then
that. The mockingbird’s songs are the collected songs of the entire earth. They
are babbling songs from Babel. Those collected songs are the voices, the
languages, of everyone.
Imagine that you could hear, in one moment, all the incredible
sounds occurring right now, on earth. It would sound much like the opening
seconds of that tremendous movie, The
Matrix. Even if you have not watched the entire movie, listen to those
first seconds of The Matrix, when the
sounds occurring all over the earth are heard at once. The cacophony is
overwhelming, but also exhilarating. It is the glorious collected babble of
ancient Babel.
Much of what happens in the church sounds like cacophony.
Listen to all the voices that the church collects. Sobs wail out along with
laughter. Praise and glory sing right alongside complaint and anxiety. Inquiry
and wonder provide harmony to dogma and creed.
Ah! The church! It is
the sound of the mockingbird at nine o’clock in the morning. To the outside
ear, perhaps the untrained ear, the song sounds like a drunken chorus; the
singers must be filled with new wine. Even if it were nine o’clock in the
evening, the song would sound like some sort of intricate jazz number, with
melodies and improvisations ricocheting all around us.
The miracle of Pentecost occurs when these sounds do not
sound chaotic, but lovely. It is as if the rushing wind of a new morning has
brought another listening chamber to us, perhaps another sanctuary, where all
these voices and songs do not clatter and clash with one another; rather they
dance together in a new reality. The miracle of Pentecost is the reversal of
Babel. The miracle of Pentecost is the miracle that holds the church together;
no matter what the language, we hear the power and grace of God.
We hear in the book of Acts that the folks on the outside sneered
at the disciples. But the Greek word is not “sneered.” The King James Version of
the bible gets the translation right; the outsiders were “mocking” the
Christians. “They are drunk with new wine!” they mocked.
Oh, would that the church was drunk with new wine, chattering
wildly about the praises of God. Not mocking. Mocking occurs when one does not
trust the Spirit. To mock means to not believe the power of God’s Spirit. We
are meant to be not the mockers, but the singers. We are meant to be not mockingbirds,
but Pentecost Birds, singing wildly and jauntily.
Pentecost people are meant to imitate the songs of people
praising God, no matter what language they may be speaking. For, ultimately, our
baptism is about imitation; we are meant to be imitators of Christ. Will we
imitate the songs of praise and glory? Or
will we just imitate the clanging anxiety of a truck backing up? When we ring
someone up on our cell phone, do we have something blessed to say?
On the Day of Pentecost, I want to sing good songs, songs
that come from every language and voice and tradition of the world, but which
say one thing: God is praised. God is blessed in all of creation. That is what
the mockingbird sings every day. That is what Pentecost Birds sing every day.
Let us join them.
