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As someone raised in the 1970s by Dutch immigrant parents living in small-town Ontario, I grew up at a time when smoking was encouraged, dancing was forbidden, and at the top of the list of things to fear were The Supernatural and Charismatic Church People.
Given the above, I guess it’s not that surprising that as a kid the Pentecost story freaked me out. To 10-year-old me, the whole scene sounded like something straight from an horror movie: a group of people are waiting together inside a room; suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind fills the space; flames of fire appear on each person’s head, and everyone begins speaking in tongues. When we prayed to receive the Holy Spirit, I crossed my fingers.
Recently, over Zoom coffee with colleagues, each of whom grew up in a different decade, I asked about their childhood memories of Pentecost. Their recollections included being afraid that tongues of fire would also land on their heads, having to glue bits of flame-coloured tissue to Pentecost crafts at their Christian school, hearing very serious sermons on the Holy Spirit, and experiencing a different kind of Pentecost horror—arriving at church and discovering that, unlike everyone else, their family had forgotten to dress in red for worship that day.
None of us remembered talking about (or celebrating!) the story of Pentecost at home.
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