“ When the day of Pentecost arrived, the believers were gathered together, and a sound like a rushing wind filled the house.” — Acts 2:1

Today is Pentecost—the day the Church remembers when the Holy Spirit descended in fire and wind. When fear turned to speech, and silence became power.

But I didn't wake up with tongues of fire on my head. I woke up with questions—heavy ones.

Yesterday I watched a movie called Straw. Since then, something's been sitting in my chest—quiet but pressing. Not just about the film, but about the world. About being human.

I've been thinking about chaos. About pain. About the sheer amount of suffering humans endure—wars, loneliness, illness, betrayal, poverty, heartbreak, loss. About how sometimes it feels like God is just staring. Not speaking. Not moving. Just... there. Silent.

What's the point of it all?

Sometimes when you look at the world—not filtered through faith, but raw—raw-the silence feels louder than the Spirit.

We pray. We fast. We try. And still, sometimes all we get is more chaos. More waiting. More crosses.

The Apostles weren't praising—they were hiding. Afraid. Confused. Jesus had risen, yes, but then He left again. All they had was a promise: "Wait for the Spirit." Ten days of waiting. Ten days of silence. Ten days of nothing.

And then... wind. Fire. Tongues. Power.

Maybe chaos isn't a sign of absence, but of preparation.

It's the stage He descends into. The Crucible.

The Spirit didn't wait for order. He came into the middle of fear and misunderstanding. He came not as a dove that day, but as fire, resting on ordinary men who had been broken, scattered, and unsure.

He turned their silence into speech. Their fear into witness. Their wounds into authority.

We were made to worship. When we don't worship God, we don't stop worshipping—we just shift our focus.

We kneel before ideology, identity, ego, and image. We light incense to our rage instead of our repentance. We chant slogans instead of psalms. We gather not to be filled, but to feel something, anything.

We are desperate for meaning. Desperate for a voice. And still, often... God seems silent.

But maybe that silence is the kind that comes before fire.

Not all fire destroys. Some fire cleanses.

The Spirit's fire didn't consume them—it refined them. Like the burning bush with Moses: flame, but not ashes. Like gold in a furnace.

What if all this confusion, all this unrest, isn't proof that God has abandoned us, but proof that we're being prepared?

Pentecost isn't the end of pain. It's the beginning of the mission.

Come, Holy Spirit.

Not because we have it figured out. Not because we're good. But because we're tired. Because we're afraid. Because we're broken and unsure.

Come—not as decoration, but as disruption. Not as comfort, but as clarity. Not as theory, but as flame.

If chaos is a crucible, then refine us in it. Speak again. Burn away what must go. And make us bold—not loud, not perfect—just bold.

Thanks for reading.