Once upon a wilderness, you announced your presence by fire, a pillar that stood tall and presided over the tabernacle.

Then, at Pentecost, you arrived once more as flame, but instead of a pillar you bent low and planted your spirit into each of your children.

You made their hearts your dwelling place

and turned everyone into living, breathing, tabernacles.

With the same breath that animated dust,

you called forth burning, blossoming tons.

You came close and anointed the ones you loved, and by your love, your beloved became

luminous.

Let there be light, you said.

And there was light.

God, we are children of tongues of fire.

We are the lineage of an undying light. By your Holy Spirit we are

gathered and woven together. And as we are united, we are reminded of the story in which we reside.

With ochre strands from painted hills, we commemorate the moment you swept through and by Kindlin, made Kindred.

What you planted at Pentecost continues to grow, not just in me, but in all of us.

Your spirit is the fire we carry, that which is both rooted in our hands and descended down from heaven.

Your spirit is a flame that, like a lighthouse, guides through storms and welcomes home.

It rolls away the stone of the tomb of all we thought was lost and tells a new story of healing.

Your spirit casts out the counterfeit things and teaches us to discern the true weight of your whisper.

It is a fire that sparks vibrant prophecies which shine and reveal. Your spirit, God, is the bright blue that grows and

persevers the midst our grief and groaning, and it is the gift of Pentecost for the work of the kingdom in all and to all and through

all once upon an upper room you you tabernacle in the hearts of the ones you loved.

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