The Spirit challenges our humanity

The time the Hebrew nation spent in the Sinai wilderness can be seen as a pedagogical journey. It was not a labyrinth, because that vast, wondrous expanse—traversed through sand, sparse trees and mountains, stones—also mirrors the inner journey of a mind. It led toward two possible goals. In contrast, the Cretan labyrinth combined secrecy and hardship, a structure built either to escape from or to memorize cyclical or linear destinies. It served as a mythological tool to contain the Minotaur, thus symbolically limiting thought to constrained options.

But the journey through Sinai is of another nature. It is not built upon myths designed to entangle the human spirit. In many ways, we are still in Sinai—especially when it comes to our desires, expectations, beliefs, or faith. We may convince ourselves that we have come out of slavery and will continue to do so.

It is written: “Moses was a very humble man, more than any other man on earth (עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל-פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה)” (Numbers 12:3). This recalls the first human being, as the Lord says of Moses: “With him I speak mouth to mouth (פֶּה אֶל-פֶּה), clearly and not in riddles; he sees the form of the Lord” (v.8). Moses could not speak clearly. He was ani (עני)—”poor,” just as God appears “poor” when He relies on His people’s prayers (Psalm 104:2). Moses could not boast before God, nor before the people of Israel, Pharaoh, or anyone—because he had experienced a unique dialogue with the Most High. How can we expect anything from God if we believe ourselves strong, all-knowing? Today’s leaders often declare that they “know the Lord.” The best show is when professional leaders and clerics of all denominations act out a message like actors in a studio or on stage. But faith means something else: knowing that we know nothing.

The Eastern Orthodox Churches celebrate this week the Gift and Descent of the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit descended on the core group of disciples and the Mother of the Lord in the Upper Room—a once-in-history event. The Spirit’s descent on Shavuot (Jewish Pentecost) fulfilled the words of Jesus of Nazareth, who came not to abolish but to fulfill the Law given at Sinai. We can scarcely imagine our world without the presence of the Spirit. The Ruach (רוח)—the Holy Spirit—hovered over the deep at creation. This implies that, regardless of faith or religious stance, the Spirit—this divine breath—has always refreshed the Earth and all the galaxies.

Sixteen years ago, a dear parishioner died in Jerusalem. He was a computer genius—not Jewish, a Karelian Soviet citizen with a deep knowledge of Russian folklore and Finno-Ugric culture. A classic refusenik, he came to Israel thanks to a Jewish woman who had promised him the chance to live free. And yet, freedom is complex when one’s soul is steeped in Russian soil. After years in the Gulag, he accepted. He was a man of true Spirit. Once, speaking of computers, he said: “It’s not kind to overload a computer with too many programs. It hurts the machine. It cries. A computer is like a living being, but we—humans with spirit and intelligence—are selfish. The computer suffers, but we don’t see it because we are worse than tools.” Today, we see how deeply human life is shaped by artificial forces, virtual identities, and the desire to mold others into replicable, standardized minds—clones. After eighty years of supposed liberation from Nazi evil, societies are torn between attraction to and fear of new forms of slavery through anonymous tools that both enhance and destroy.

To live in the breath and movement of the Spirit is to believe that we can transcend the natural limitations of existence—so that every soul, every creature, every living being can thrive. How does this make sense?

Words matter. Good and evil are often intertwined in the idle, distracted soul. In Old English, gast meant “breath, spirit—good or bad—angel, demon,” and later came to mean simply “person, human being,” and even “soul” or “life” in biblical usage. The Indo-European root gheis- suggests emotions of awe, fear, or amazement. Sanskrit hedah means “wrath,” Avestan zaesha- means “terrible, frightful.” Slavic uzhas (ужас) means “horror.” So—who is a guest?

The Byzantine Compline prayer says: “Let us pray for those who love us and for those who do not love us, [even those who hate us].”

“Ghost” became the English word for a supernatural being. In Christian Old English, it translated the Latin spiritus, as preserved in “Holy Ghost.” Over time, it took on the sense of a disembodied spirit, perhaps haunting the living. Just as in Semitic languages, where dybbukim refers to wandering spirits caught between evil and yearning for redemption. In Hebrew and Aramaic, ruach/ruḥa (רוח/רוחא) is deeply tied to breath, movement, growth, and freedom.

Pentecost and the Descent of the Holy Spirit return us to the fundamentals of “seeds,” as described in earlier writings. In Hebrew, sichah (שיחה)—“conversation”—derives from the root siaḥ (שיח)—“plant, seed, growth.” It culminates in the fruitful harvest of beautiful and nourishing plants. The celebration of the Holy Spirit becomes possible when we mature—when we reach spiritual adulthood with the ability to sow, multiply, and conquer ourselves through goodness. A small miracle, but such are the Spirit’s gifts.

The feast marks the birth of the Church. In Jerusalem, the first community of believers—small and fragile—was like a seed, soon nourished by the mystery of the Eucharist. It took time to define this mystery. The Church’s birth needed the spirit of Kath’olic (toward fullness), Orthodox (upright, true faith), and the animating force of the Apostolic mission. But today, do we still carry that same message in the Spirit’s movement of unity and love?

The miracle of Pentecost is linguistic. From Sinai to the Pentecost after Jesus’ resurrection and ascension, the Living Word has been handed down and interpreted, generation after generation (See: Saying of the Fathers 1:1). Jewish tradition affirms that the Written Torah was given alongside the Oral Torah (the Talmud)—a view not shared by historical-critical scholarship, but one that underscores the sacredness of writing, memory, and faithfulness. Believers spend lifetimes studying the value of every word and letter.

Here lies the enduring puzzle that separates the Jewish community from Christianity and Eastern Orthodoxy, which claims to have preserved the original light of revelation. The Jews study the Talmud daily. Church believers invoke the Holy Spirit to understand and interpret the Gospel. In a profound sense, the Talmud serves as a kind of Paraclete—guiding interpretation through many levels of understanding, like an endless ocean of Divine Presence.

Under these conditions, the Church may begin to transcend the boundaries of otherness, while Jewish and Israeli scholars continue to pave the way for deeper recognition of the Spirit’s presence—the Spirit of Sanctity and of Truth, who is everywhere and fills all things. The Spirit transcends the bond between God and humanity.