What Pentecost Sounds Like in the ICU

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A friend recently asked me what I think about speaking in tongues.

That subject has divided churches, launched books, and sparked arguments for generations. Some believe tongues were given so people in different languages could hear the gospel. Others believe it is a private prayer language. Some insist it continues exactly as it did in the early church. Others do not.

I don’t bring anything new to the debate. Smarter and godlier people than I have wrestled with it for centuries.

But when my friend asked what I thought, I found myself returning to Paul’s concern in 1 Corinthians 14:

Does it edify the body?

If it is private, perhaps it should remain private. If it is public, is there interpretation so the church understands what is being said?

That seems to matter a great deal to the apostle Paul.

Years ago, I played piano for the worship team at a quasi-charismatic church. The musicians sat in a loft overlooking the sanctuary below. I genuinely wanted to serve well and play skillfully.

But after a while, I noticed something curious.

Whenever we played a certain kind of song, usually slower and swelling at just the right moment, someone in the congregation would suddenly have a “word from the Lord.” Soon afterward, another woman would provide the “interpretation.”

It was nearly always the same message.

“My children…”

Week after week, same pattern. Same cadence. Same emotional timing. Same two women.

Eventually, I leaned over to another keyboard player and whispered, “Well, we must have played that one pretty well. We got another word.”

That was not my finest spiritual moment.

Sarcasm is not generally listed among the gifts of the Spirit, although Elijah handled it masterfully on Mount Carmel.

At the time, I dismissed much of it outright. But years later, after enough hospital rooms and middle-of-the-night emergencies, I began noticing something else.

I have spent most of my adult life sitting beside suffering. My wife has endured nearly one hundred surgeries. We have lived for months at a time in hospitals. When people visit us, I can usually predict within a few minutes what they are going to say.

I know the ones who know their Bibles.

I know the ones armed with stock religious phrases.

“God won’t give you more than you can handle.”

Which, by the way, is not actually what Scripture teaches. God routinely allows more than we can handle. Suffering has a way of driving us past self-reliance and into deeper fellowship with Him.

I know the people who quickly deploy Romans 8:28 like theological duct tape, hoping to button up an uncomfortable conversation before grief leaks onto the carpet.

And yes, I know the ones who speak in tongues and claim to have a message from God.

The first visit is easy.

Anybody can make the first visit.

But by the tenth visit, people’s theology is laid bare.

Few make it that far.

The people who do rarely try to sound impressive.

They don’t perform or throw spiritual dust into the air, hoping everyone mistakes it for glory.

The ones who stay long enough usually grow quieter.

They sit in uncomfortable silence.

They cry easily.

And when they pray, they don’t speak in tongues, but they often stammer.

Long suffering has a way of shrinking prayer down to its truest language.

“Lord, have mercy.”

Perhaps that is part of what Paul meant when he wrote that, in our weakness, we often do not know how to pray as we ought.

Over the years, I have become less interested in dramatic displays and more anchored in the ordinary promises of God’s Word. Abraham believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness. The point is not finding the right incantation against suffering. The point is taking Him at His Word.

I saw this vividly after my wife’s second amputation.

Four years earlier, surgeons had removed one leg. Now the second had just been amputated. She was being wheeled from recovery into intensive care, still groggy from anesthesia, with fresh bandages and surgical drains covering what remained.

And there on the gurney, while being pushed down the hallway, she slowly lifted her hands and began singing:

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow…”

That is a prayer language you do not hear very often.

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(Peter Rosenberger is the host of Hope for the Caregiver, heard weekly on American Family Radio. He has spent nearly four decades caring for his wife, Gracie, through severe disabilities. He writes and speaks widely on faith, suffering, caregiving, and perseverance. Learn more at Hope for the Caregiver).

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