Not long after we were expelled from Eden, everyone in the world had one common language and speech. One tribe in particular gathered together and asked one another with words they could all understand, “Why is it that God reserves the best part of the world for himself – the upper part – and forces us to stay down here in the lower part? Let us work together and build for ourselves a city with a tower to reach the heavens so that we may be equal with God.” And together they made bricks and mortar and built a tower, a great high tower so as to be equal with God.
And God looked from the heavens and saw the budding tip of their minaret. He saw their efforts to succeed Him, that their common language had made them proud. He saw that they could do great things for themselves, yea, great but godless too. And He saw that once they could accomplish these things they would no longer try to know Him for they would believe that the earth was their own.
Therefore God confounded their language and separated them by tongue, tribe, and nation, so that they could no longer understand each other or hope to reach heaven before eternity was theirs. And it was called Babel in that place for there was much confusion. Jug jug jug, all my brothers and sisters. Jug jug, indeed. Tereu.
Many cultures share this story with the Jews, but as expected, everyone seems to have their own perspective. Central Americans, for instance, believe that Xelhua, one of the world’s seven giants tried to build a pyramid in order to reach heaven but the gods destroyed it and the builders could no longer speak to one another. Herodotus places the story not in Babel but in Marduk where there are known remnants of a once great ziggurat. The Qur’an lays the scene in the Egypt of Moses. But they are the same story, spoken through different tongues. Pride always goeth before a fall and no matter how great we try to be, we are leveled in favor of a greater glory. We build our tawdry towers and time and time again, we watch them tumble down while we are left alone, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, to remember that we are dust.
Then the Lord stoops down and makes us great.
Many years after the Tower of Babel the followers of Jesus stood awed, side by side in Jerusalem, watching a man who had risen from the dead ascend to Heaven on a cloud. Jesus’ disciples recalled His words and finally believed them, that they will “receive power when the Holy Spirit comes…and…be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” Yes, they prayed; let it be so. Help us to speak and teach us what to say. Come, Lord Jesus, come.
As they were praying, a great holy wind came and shook that place, and “tongues of fire” alighted upon each one of them. And those who knew Jesus were filled with His Spirit and were able to glorify Him in languages that they could not before. And all were amazed and perplexed for everyone there, from any tongue, tribe or nation, could understand the power of the Gospel in his own language. Hallelujah!
In this redemptive Pentecost, the punishment of Babel is reversed; the diversity of languages is now a palimpsest of re-written history, a gift for the good of proclamation. Finally, communication is re-opened. The Hebrews can tell the Gentiles of Jesus and His mighty deeds; the Romans and Greeks, the Pygmies and Eskimos, the French and Welsh, all are offered the same message in different tongues. Now we can do great things for each other, yea great, and Godly, too.
Thirty years ago, my father befriended an old Korean lady in Spain who would daily stand on her steps until he came by. They’d sit and chat with their eyes for hours. Once, I gained the everlasting love of a little Mexican girl named Marisa without speaking a lick of Spanish. This summer I sang hymns with Russians who belted out the same praises in their own tongue without batting an eye.
This is our blessing and our curse, the fall of the Tower of Babel, another demonstration of God’s wrath intertwined with His mercy. Here we are to this very day, we assorted, eclectic, and sundry citizens of earth, scattered and curious at the base of our tower. It is true that we have been exiled from the great high city we tried to build but more importantly, from one another. It is true that our New York skyscrapers are no match for Mount Chimborazo, that our submarines fold in the depths of the seas. And once again we’ve nothing to do but blink at the Milky Way and exclaim at our limits: “Wonderful!” “Vidunderlig!” “好極了” “Wunderbar!”
For wunderbar it is. We are born wearing fig leaves; we are swaddled in darkness. Yet we are offered understanding and light in abundance. We, with our gaping mouths, who tried to reach heaven by the work of our hands are promised that in the last days, the God who taketh our tower will replace our dumbness with a “spirit of unity…so that with one heart and one mouth” we will glorify Him. And the great holy city we longed for will be here.
