May I show you my new clamshell? It just arrived. My old one was thinning out. You know how worn they can get. Sheer as the wall of a cheap motel. Mine was so chipped I could see right through it. And noise? It couldn’t block the sound of a baby’s whimper.

So I bought this new model. Special-ordered. Tailor-made. Top-of-the-line. I can stand up in it. Sit down in it. Sleep in the thing if I want to. Go ahead, take a look inside. See the flip-down ledge on the left? Cup holder! Check out the headphones. As if the shell’s insulation wasn’t enough, I can turn up the music and tune out the world. All I do is step in, grab the handle on the interior of the upper shell, and pull it closed.

Better than body armor, thick as an army tank. Think of it as a bunker for the soul. In here the world has no hunger or orphans. And poverty? This shell comes factory coated with a sadness screen. Racism? Injustice? They bounce off my shell like rain off a turtle’s back.

Let me tell you how good this baby is. I went to the convenience store this morning for coffee and a paper. I was standing in the checkout line, minding my own business, when I noticed the fellow in front of me was paying with food stamps. He wore a baseball cap, baggy khakis, and flip-flops and had three kids at his knees. Close enough to detect his thick accent, I pegged him as an immigrant. I can typically stir up a good smirk and pigeonhole these people as fast as you can say, “Burden on society.” But this family started getting to me. The little girls were strawberry sweet, with their skin the color of milk chocolate and their almond-shaped eyes. One of them smiled in my direction. Before I knew it, I smiled back.

About that time the cashier shook her head and returned the food stamps. Apparently their value wasn’t enough to cover the purchase. The father gave her a confused look. That’s when it hit me. I can help him out. Little did I know, a cloud of kindness vapor had been released into the store. My body began to react. A lump formed in my throat. Moisture puddled in the corners of my eyes. I began to experience a sensation in my chest: gelatinous cardiacinus, better known as soft heart.

Then came the involuntary reflexes. My left hand lifted to signal my willingness. The other dug in my pocket for money. That’s when I snapped to my senses and realized what was happening. I was under a compassion attack. I immediately lifted the lid of my shell and climbed in. I noticed other shoppers had already taken cover. I barely escaped. What would we have done without our clamshells?

Don’t know what I’d do without mine. When news reports describe Afghan refugees, into the shell I go. When a homeless person appears with a cardboard sign, I just close the lid. When missionaries describe multitudes of lost, lonely souls, I climb in. Why, just last week someone told me about regions of the world that have no clean water. Without my clamshell to protect me, who knows what I would have done. I might have written a check!

This is quite a shield. You probably have your own. Most of us have learned to insulate ourselves against the hurt of the hurting. Haven’t we? Mustn’t we? After all, what can we do about the famine in Sudan, the plight of the unemployed, or a pandemic of malaria?

Clamshells. We come by them honestly. We don’t intend to retreat from the world or stick our heads in a hole. We want to help. But the problems are immense (Did you say one billion are poor?), complex (When is helping actually hurting?), and intense (I have enough problems of my own.).

That’s true. We do have our own issues. Our sputtering marriages, fading ambitions, dwindling bank accounts, and stubborn hearts. How can we change the world when we can’t even change our bad habits? We don’t have what it takes to solve these problems. Best to climb in and shut the shell, right?

You would have had a hard time selling that strategy to the Jerusalem church. Not after God unshelled them on the Day of Pentecost.

Pentecost was the busiest day of the year in Jerusalem—one of three feast days that all Jewish men, at some point in their lifetimes, were required to appear in the city. They traveled from Europe, Asia, and Africa. It’s difficult to know the population of ancient cities, but some suggest that during this season Jerusalem swelled from a hundred thousand to a million inhabitants.¹ Her narrow streets ran thick with people of all shades of skin, from Ethiopian ebony to Roman olive. A dozen dialects bounced off the stone walls, and the temple treasury overflowed with every coin and currency.

Then there were the locals. The butcher and his meat. The wool comber and his loom. The shoemaker, hammering sandals. The tailor, plying his needle. White-robed priests and unsightly beggars. Every element of humanity crammed within the three hundred acres of the City of David.²

And somewhere in their midst, Jesus’ followers were gathered in prayer. “When the Day of Pentecost had fully come, they were all with one accord in one place” (Acts 2:1). This is the earliest appearance of the church. Consider where God placed his people. Not isolated in a desert or quarantined in a bunker. Not separated from society, but smack-dab in the center of it, in the heart of one of the largest cities at its busiest time. And then, once he had them where he needed them . . .

Suddenly there came a sound from heaven, as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled the whole house where they were sitting. Then there appeared to them divided tongues, as of fire, and one sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. (vv. 2–4)

The Holy Spirit came upon them suddenly—not predictably or expectedly or customarily but suddenly. Welcome to the world of Acts and the “sudden” Spirit of God, sovereign and free, never subordinate to timing or technique. He creates his own agenda, determines his own calendar, and keeps his own hours.

Fire and wind now. House shaking later. Visiting the Samaritans after water baptism. Falling on the Gentiles before water baptism. And here, roaring like a tornado through Jerusalem. “[The sound] filled the whole house” (v. 2) and spilled into the streets. The whistling, rushing, blowing sound of a wind.

The Spirit came, first as wind, then appeared as individual tongues of fire, “and one sat upon each of them” (v. 3). This wasn’t one torch over the entire room but individual flames hovering above each person.

And then the most unexpected thing happened.

[They] began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.

And there were dwelling in Jerusalem Jews, devout men, from every nation under heaven. And when this sound occurred, the multitude came together, and were confused, because everyone heard them speak in his own language. Then they were all amazed and marveled, saying to one another, “Look, are not all these who speak Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each in our own language in which we were born? Parthians and Medes and Elamites, those dwelling in Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya adjoining Cyrene, visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—we hear them speaking in our own tongues the wonderful works of God.” So they were all amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, “Whatever could this mean?” (vv. 4–12)

Envision such a phenomenon. Imagine a cosmopolitan center such as New York City. Fifth Avenue is packed with businesspeople, laborers, and travelers from all over the world. Early one morning as the mobs throb their way to work, the sound of a wind shakes the boulevard. The roar is so stout and robust that people stop dead in their tracks as if expecting to see a train blaze down the avenue. Taxi and bus drivers brake. Silence falls on the city only to be interrupted by the voices of a group gathered in Central Park. One hundred and twenty people speak, each one standing beneath a different flame, each one proclaiming God’s goodness in a different language. Witnesses hear their native tongues. José, from Spain, hears about God’s mercy in Spanish. Mako, from Japan, hears a message in Japanese. The group from the Philippines discerns Tagalog. They hear different languages but one message: the wonders of God.

Oh to have heard this moment in Jerusalem. Andrew describing God’s grace in Egyptian. Thomas explaining God’s love to the Romans. Bartholomew quoting the Twenty-third Psalm to Cretans. John relating the resurrection story to the Cappadocians.

Some in the crowd were cynical, accusing the disciples of early-morning inebriation. But others were amazed and asked, “Whatever could this mean?” (v. 12).

Good question. Crowded city. Prayerful followers. Rushing wind and falling fire. Fifteen nations represented in one assembly. Disciples speaking like trained translators of the United Nations. Whatever could this mean?

At least this much: God loves the nations. He loves Iraqis. Somalians. Israelis. New Zealanders. Hondurans. He has a white-hot passion to harvest his children from every jungle, neighborhood, village, and slum. “All the earth shall be filled with the glory of the LORD” (Num. 14:21 ESV). During the days of Joshua, God brought his people into Canaan “so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of the LORD is mighty” (Josh. 4:24 ESV). David commanded us to “sing to the LORD, all the earth! . . . Declare his glory among the nations, his marvelous works among all the peoples!” (Ps. 96:1–3 ESV). God spoke to us through Isaiah: “I will make you as a light for the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth” (Isa. 49:6 ESV). His vision for the end of history includes “people for God from every tribe, language, people, and nation” (Rev. 5:9 NCV).

God longs to proclaim his greatness in all 6,909 languages that exist in the world today.³ He loves subcultures: the gypsies of Turkey, the hippies of California, the cowboys and rednecks of West Texas. He has a heart for bikers and hikers, tree huggers and academics. Single moms. Gray-flanneled executives. He loves all people groups and equips us to be his voice. He commissions common Galileans, Nebraskans, Brazilians, and Koreans to speak the languages of the peoples of the world. He teaches us the vocabulary of distant lands, the dialect of the discouraged neighbor, the vernacular of the lonely heart, and the idiom of the young student. God outfits his followers to cross cultures and touch hearts.

Pentecost makes this promise: if you are in Christ, God’s Spirit will speak through you.

Let God unshell you. And when he does, “make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that” (Gal. 6:4 MSG). Don’t miss the opportunity to discover your language.

With whom do you feel most fluent? Teenagers? Drug addicts? The elderly? You may be tongue-tied around children but eloquent with executives. This is how God designed you. “God has given us different gifts for doing certain things well” (Rom. 12:6 NLT).

For whom do you feel most compassion? God doesn’t burden us equally.⁴ “The LORD looks from heaven; He sees all the sons of men . . . He fashions their hearts individually” (Ps. 33:13, 15). When does your heart break and pulse race? When you spot the homeless? When you travel to the inner city? Or when you see the victims of sex trade in Cambodia? This was the tragedy that broke the hearts of three American women.

Ernstena is a pastor’s wife. Clara is a businesswoman. Jo Anne had just started a small relief organization. They traveled to Cambodia to encourage Jim-Lo, a missionary friend. He led them to a section of his city where the modern sex trade runs rampant. An estimated fifteen thousand girls were on sale. At the time more than a hundred thousand young women in Cambodia had been sold into forced prostitution. Jo Anne, Clara, Ernstena, and Jim-Lo looked into the faces of teen girls, even preteens, and could see a devastating story in each. They began to snap pictures until the sellers threatened to take the camera away. The Christians had no idea what to do but pray.

The seedy avenue became their Upper Room. Lord, what do you want us to do? It’s so overwhelming. They wept.

God heard their prayer and gave them their tools. Upon returning to the United States, Jo Anne wrote an article about the experience, which prompted a reader to send a great deal of money. With this gift the women formed an anti-trafficking ministry of World Hope International and provided housing for the young girls who were rescued or escaped from the brothels and sales stations. In just three years, four hundred children, ranging in age from two to fifteen, were rescued.

When the U.S. State Department sponsored an event called “The Salute to the 21st Century Abolitionists,” they honored World Hope. They even asked one of the women to offer a prayer. The prayer that began on a Cambodian street continued in front of some of the most influential government officials in the world.⁵

Amazing what happens when we get out of our shells.