Not the Hype, But the Fire
A Contemplative Wrestling with Pentecost
Pentecost Sunday has long stirred some ambivalence in me. It is often preached as the birthday of the Church, the moment of divine empowerment, a sudden eruption of ecstasy and boldness. In many traditions, it is tied to experiences of exuberant worship - hands raised, music swelling, ecstatic speech, emotional intensity. And yet, I find myself struggling to receive Pentecost in this way. My own encounters with highly charged spiritual atmospheres have often felt more like manipulation than transformation - places where the energy of the crowd, the swell of chords, and the pressure to perform masked the absence of something more enduring, more authentic. I came to faith in a mission project coming out of a more charismatic form of worship which definitely has its place. But for me I realised that I needed to go beyond this form of worship to lean into the sacramental and the contemplative.
Unfortunately, I have seen such expressions feed the ego, stir the false self, and create environments where the vulnerable were swept along or subtly shamed if they could not keep up or respond to the altar call. This did not enable my faith to grow - this is my experience and I know it is different for Christians of other traditions, although statistics do show that some leave these forms of expressions of Church if its all emotional worship yet lacking in depth and growth into Christian spirituality.
So what then is Pentecost for a contemplative Christian? How might one approach this day not through performance, but through prayer; not with spiritual hype, but with spiritual depth? The lectionary texts offer a way into this question if we are willing to read beneath the surface.
The story in Acts 2 is undeniably dramatic. The rush of wind, the tongues of flame, the speaking in many languages- this is no quiet Anglican or other worship event. And yet, it’s crucial to notice what this moment reveals: not spectacle for its own sake, but a movement of God that bridges divides, that brings people together across language and culture, that communicates the universal invitation of God’s Spirit. This isn’t the chaotic frenzy of a crowd whipped into ecstasy; it is the inbreaking of a divine communion that makes mutual understanding possible. The true miracle is not noise, but connection. The Spirit makes it possible for people to hear one another - not just words, but the heart of the Gospel, in their own native tongue.
A contemplative reading of Pentecost starts here - with listening, not just speaking. The Spirit is not an emotional force to be invoked by music and fervour as some form of Holy forcefield, but the quiet power of God who unites what has been scattered. The fire that descends at Pentecost is not for show; it is the same fire that purifies, that burns away illusion and pretense, that leaves the soul naked and ready for truth. The Spirit is not the force of mass enthusiasm but the breath that gives life and the quiet voice that cuts through noise. The real Pentecost doesn’t overwhelm us with sensation—it frees us from fear and anxiety.
Paul, in Romans 8, draws us into the deeper reality of this Spirit. “All who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.” And not only children, but heirs - those who are drawn into the very intimacy Jesus shares with the Father. The Spirit we receive is not one of slavery or fear, but of adoption. That single line, “we cry, ‘Abba, Father,’” speaks not of emotional ecstasy but of deep relational knowing. It is the Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we belong. Not because we feel it in a rush of music or a wave of enthusiasm, but because we have consented, in stillness and in trust, to being held and loved as we are.
This, too, is Pentecost: the quiet fire that burns at the centre of our being, awakening us to the truth that we are not orphans in this world. This is the contemplative gift - to see the Spirit not in the show, but in the slow conversion of the heart, in the growing capacity to live from the true self, to forgive, to listen, to remain present.
In the Gospel of John, Jesus promises the Holy Spirit as Advocate and Companion. He speaks not of seizure or ecstasy, but of guidance, truth, and peace. “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” The Spirit does not manipulate or coerce. The Spirit does not create dependency on emotional highs. The Spirit teaches and reminds and brings peace - not passive calm, but the peace of knowing you are never alone. For the contemplative Christian, this is the heart of Pentecost: the Spirit as the gentle teacher, the inward voice, the one who reminds us who we are when we are most prone to forget.
In my own personal experience, it was the false self that craves validation through spiritual performance, the true self is drawn ever deeper into silence, into freedom, into the long arc of transformation. Pentecost is not about chasing a feeling but surrendering to the One who already dwells within. It is about receiving the courage to live truthfully in a world that prizes illusion. It is about participating in the divine life not through noise but through deep relationship, of communion.
For those of us who have known Pentecost through distorted or manipulative expressions, this contemplative approach offers a kind of healing. We don’t need to manufacture fire. We are not spiritual failures if we don’t speak in tongues or lose ourselves in song. The Spirit comes to those in the upper room, yes - but the same Spirit comes to the one who waits in solitude, who breathes through grief, who holds still long enough to hear the whisper beneath the wind.
This Pentecost, I am not asking for an ecstatic outpouring. I am asking for the quiet courage to listen, to be re-membered, to be re-grounded. I am praying for the Spirit who calls us children, who bears witness within us that we belong to the God of all love, who reminds us that transformation is not a show, but a path walked in trust and truth.
Not the hype, but the fire. Not the spectacle, but the communion. Not the performance, but the peace. This is Pentecost for the contemplative on their continuing pilgrimage to and with God.
Contemplative Prayer Practice: Breathing with the Spirit
This practice helps you become aware of the Holy Spirit as breath, fire, and silent companion—the One who dwells within, brings peace, and prays in you with sighs too deep for words (Romans 8:26).
Prepare Your Space
Sit in a quiet place where you will not be disturbed. Let your body settle into a comfortable posture—feet grounded, spine tall but not tense, hands resting open in your lap. You may light a candle if it helps you mark this as sacred time.Begin with the Breath
Close your eyes. Take several slow, deep breaths. Inhale gently through your nose, exhale slowly through your mouth. Begin to notice the rhythm of your breathing. Don’t control it—just be present to it.As you inhale, silently pray:
Come, Holy Spirit.
As you exhale, silently pray:
Fill me with your peace.
Continue this breath prayer for several minutes, allowing it to draw your awareness inward.
Imagine the Flame Within
Now, imagine a small, quiet flame burning in your heart—the flame of God's presence. It is not consuming or dramatic, but steady and luminous. This is the Spirit of God within you. Rest your attention on this inner flame. With each breath, let it grow slightly in warmth and clarity—not through effort, but through surrender.Simply sit in silence for 5–10 minutes (or longer), resting in this inner presence. If thoughts arise, gently return to the image of the flame and the prayerful rhythm of your breath.
Listen for the Spirit
After your time of silence, ask the Spirit inwardly:
What are you saying to me today?
What are you awakening in me?
Don’t strain to hear answers. Simply allow space. If a word, feeling, or insight arises gently, receive it without judgment. If nothing comes, rest in trust—the Spirit is at work even in stillness.
Close with a Simple Prayer
End your time with this prayer:
Holy Spirit, flame of quiet love,
dwell in me this day.
Burn away fear, stir up courage,
and awaken in me the peace of Christ.
May I live this day in step with you. Amen.
This practice is not meant to “achieve” something—it’s an act of consent to the Spirit already given. Over time, it deepens your inner life, quiets the false self, and strengthens your ability to live with clarity, courage, and communion. A true Pentecost begins here.
Photo by Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash
This is the Pentecost I never heard preached—the one that doesn’t shout, but burns.
Thank you for naming what so many of us carry: the ache left by hype mistaken for holiness. The quiet shame of not “feeling it” loud enough. Your words reframe Pentecost not as spectacle, but as slow resurrection.
I recently wrote a Prayer for Victory Over the Scourge of Christian Nationalism, and it echoes what you describe here: the Spirit not as frenzy, but as fire that exposes falsehood and calls us back to communion. Not domination, but transformation.
May more of us seek not the noise, but the flame beneath it.
Not the upper room’s drama—but the breath that still whispers in ours.
Virgin Monk Boy
Once again, you have named contemplation for me in a new way. I am coming to the realization that we each are unique manifestations of God. As an introvert, I have always felt like an outsider. It is only in my contemplative walk that I have learned to seek my true self instead of trying to be like others.