When I was 15 I spent a particularly agonising week on an exchange in Germany. I wandered about totally at sea most of the time, desperately hoping that no-one would ask me a question that required any answer other than a Ja or a Nein. On one occasion in a shop I thought I'd pluck up the courage to use my limited GCSE German – we'd done quite a lot on shops I recall. I found a friendly looking German (that's not an oxymoron I assure you) and had a crack at a “Wo bist der brot, bitte” He smiled at me sympathetically and replied in flawless English– “the bread is down there on the left”

I may be the son of two German teachers, but a gift for languages doesn't appear to be in the genes, or at least it skips a generation, and this must have been apparent.

I have always assumed, therefore, that, on that first Pentecost morning, Jerusalem was essentially full of English exchange students, slightly lost tourists wandering around pointing vigorously at things and speaking slowly and loudly. WHICH. WAY. TO. THE. TEMPLE. MY. GOOD. MAN? And trying out their best 'Shalom' before anxiously asking if anyone present speaks Elamite.

The city was indeed bustling with pilgrims, from we are told, every nation under heaven. From Libya and Eqypt where its very hot, to Phrygia where its very cold. (Ok suit yourselves).

But they would not have been lost and confused. These people are largely Jewish expats part of the Diaspora – the scattered – whose families had emigrated throughout the Empire generations before. They were returning on pilgrimage for the Festival of Weeks – the harvest festival of its day.

As a result, unlike the monoglot English (or even the bilingual Welsh) most of these people would, whether they were particularly educated or not, have had a grasp of at least 4 languages and had 3 languages in common – Greek for trade, a little Latin if they had contact with the Roman state or army, and Hebrew or Aramaic for use in the synagogue. They would each of course have had a native tongue and maybe know something of the language of neighbouring regions as well.

As much as this boggles my mind, it is no different from many parts of North Africa where you might expect to find an everyday knowledge of English, French and Arabic mixed with a variety of local tribal languages and dialects.

Now over the last couple of weeks I've been into various local primary schools talking about Pentecost and we have been having great fun with the kids getting them to read simple phrases in various exotic languages and then setting various groups of them off using the different phrases all at once to recreate the sound of pentecost. They've been reflecting on what it feels like to be somewhere where you don't know what is being said and then to hear the message in a way you do understand.

And while I still feel that there is something of this in the Pentecost story, I fear I've been misleading the local kids to a certain extent.

These people gathered in Jerusalem for the festival would have understood perfectly well a sermon in Greek or Aramaic. So why this strange phenomena of each hearing in their native languages?

Well firstly I think it's political – its about not using the sacred language to communicate the sacred message. This was not new – the Septuagint – the Greek translation of what we call the Old Testament – was widely used at this time. But still the Word of God speaking in Median, Parthian and whatever they speak in Pamphilia, (pamphlet probably) was a radical change from the tradition of the prophets preaching in Hebrew – it shows an embrace towards the other cultures that perhaps marks the start of the spread of Christianity outside and eventually away from Judaism.

So maybe we should ask for us is this political?

There are all sorts of politics around the ideas of immigration and language. Must we all speak one tongue? Must you have an English test to live in this country? Would the fact that the Holy Spirit provided simultaneous translation in so many languages, even though everyone spoke Greek, have anything to say to that?

Of course I've just assumed we are talking about English, but in this country English is 'Greek' the language of the empire and not the native tongue – while Welsh is the 'Hebrew', the indigenous language of heaven. I'll not say more on that, I want to escape with my life today, except to say that any answer we give must be linked to the next point, which is perhaps lies at the heart of the matter.

Language is not just of course about making oneself understood. I could make myself roughly understood in Germany, but I couldn't make myself belong. I couldn't enter fully into what was happening. I remember having this brought home most strongly in a conversation with a lady at the Cathedral a few years ago. We were discussing the use, or misuse, of Welsh in services which had caused quite a lot of upset on all sides and I was wondering in my imperial way why if everyone spoke English we needed to bother with something that was to my mind at the time only a nationalist issue. She very gently explained that she might speak English, but she lives in Welsh. I think in Welsh, she said. I pray in Welsh. I dream in Welsh.

We were, ironically enough, in the Translators Chapel in the Cathedral at the time, which houses one of the original copies of the William Morgan's translation of the Bible into Welsh. She explained why having the sacred words in your native language was so important – it meant that her thoughts could be sacred thoughts. Her dreams could be sacred dreams. It meant that she could belong with God, not simple reside there.

Perhaps this was part of the amazement of the Pentecost crowds. It was not that they could understand. It was that they could belong. That their sons and daughters could prophecy, naturally, from the heart without translation. Their visions could be sacred visions. Their dreams, sacred dreams.

Roughly speaking, it is what someone means when they say “you are speaking my kind of language”. Not I understand, but I can connect, feel at ease with, be one with.

Maybe the image of being one is perhaps strangely present in the midst of this cacophony our lectionary makes the connection as Christians long have, with the story from Genesis of the Tower of Babel. The Bible does not explicitly make this connection itself, so we are speculating here.

But babel is a funny story. In one form or another it is very ancient and can be found all all over the world. In many versions it has become much watered down as a story about noisy neighbours. In these versions the gods come down for a little light smiting because the people are being noisy and disturbing their kip with their impudent tower building. Its like an ancient letter of complain to the council about the family in number 24 playing their music loud late at night.

But the biblical story is must darker, and has more teeth. It seems to be about our own fear of human potential. Of what we are capable of, if we work together. Of the power that a people united might wield. Pentecost can be seen as the undoing – at least in part, of Babel.

It does not result in the world in union, with everyone holding hands and sharing in cultural dances and folk song in traditional costume, it doesn't even result in a World Cup for another 1900 years. It has not fully put aside the fears of babel. But perhaps here too is a more optimistic, life affirming embrace of humanity. In contrast to Babel, God does not draw near to confuse and scatter, but to enlighten and unite. And He does so in a way that plays upon, honours and even encourages the ethnic melting pot that was Jerusalem at Pentecost.

The upshot of all this perhaps is that we have a gift we should not take for granted. However halting we may find our words of prayer to be, however inadequate language can seem sometimes to express what we want to say, it is still true that God speaks our language. In fact the bible goes further, suggesting that the Spirit speaks not only to us in scripture but for us and through us to God when our words do fail.

Babel may not have been undone for us, but there is hope that at our hearts we can learn to speak one language – and that what ever dialect we may use, God is one who speaks our language.

This is fortunate for me, because “Wie komme ich am besten zum barnhoff” only gets you so far. It fact it gets you to a railway station in Germany. And nice though that would be, I can think of places I'd rather go to be honest.

Yn enw Tad, a Mab, ac Ysbryd Glan.

Amen.