Some years ago, I arrived at church early on Pentecost Sunday, to set everything up for the singers and accompanist. We were doing several of the readings in different languages—Greek, French, Spanish, etc.—and I noticed one reader actually wringing his hands with concern. I asked, “Peter, is something the matter?” He replied worriedly, “I’m reading this in demotic Greek, which is what I speak, but what if the pastor wants it in classical Greek?” I said, “Well, the pastor and you and I will be the only people who know the difference. You just read in demotic Greek and everything will be fine.” And it was.

  “Demotic” basically means “the language of the people.” Look also at the First Reading for the Vigil of Pentecost—the story of the tower of Babel, and how once all the people spoke one language, but human pride affected the intelligibility of language.

Even today, one can lose one’s life over incomprehensible language. A mentally ill person who is unable to comprehend police orders—“put down that knife”—may well wind up dead. An immigrant may be hustled off for detention simply because she does not speak enough English to call for effective assistance. Even those who speak the same language may be so deafened by ideology that they literally cannot understand anyone else’s point of view.

But music communicates in a way that words cannot. Few except scholars really understand Latin anymore, but the Taizé ostinato “Veni Sancte Spiritus” speaks volumes, even when the verse words are not sung. Try taking a very familiar Pentecost hymn, such as “Come, Holy Ghost” and hum it quietly, perhaps at Preparation of Gifts. Why hum it? Because people know the tune, it’s already in their bones, and they don’t need the words all the time. Humming lets them participate without reading words, listening for the flame of the Spirit in their unspoken prayer.