I’ve never spoken in tongues in church, truth is, I’ve never understood it. No pun intended. What I mean is I’ve never understood the compulsion, never felt the pull. Of course I know how to imitate the sounds I’ve heard others make, but there hasn’t been a single moment where I saw the need to do such. I cast no judgement on those who have, but cards on the table, I’ve always been a bit skeptical of those who do. Skeptical in the way you are when someone tells you they never argue with their spouse. I’m not calling you a liar, I just can’t comprehend it from my perspective. One old timer told me in 56 years of marriage he and his wife had never had a fight, though they did disagree very loudly from time to time. But I digress.
I’ve never spoken in tongues in church…until recently. Before proceeding, perhaps I should take a minute to define church as I’m using it here. Colloquially we may use “church” to speak of a building where people gather to worship, the worship service itself or the people who attend that assembly, but at its heart church is about a community. When you speak about your church you’re speaking about your people, the folks you consider family. Even the Bible uses words like church and family interchangeably, so I guess I can too.
My tongue speaking experience was prompted by an encounter with someone. I’ve known he existed for a long time now and during that time I’ve seen pictures of him, talked to him, and even felt him move. It may sound like I’m talking about God, but I’m actually talking about my grandson. Recently, our little family has expanded quite quickly. Within the last two years I’ve gained two daughter-in-loves, and though they may not be my blood, they are my family. Just over a month ago one of those girls brought another little human being into our family, and about three weeks ago I got to meet him face to face for the first time.
None of this occurred in a building with a steeple or stained glass, no pews or collection plates in sight, but I’ve never understood church more clearly or worshipped more completely than in those first moments holding my first grandchild. For ten minutes I wept and I worshipped and I prayed and somewhere in that flood of salt water and tangle of emotions, my words sounded more like tongues than talking. You can parse out the thee’s and the thou’s of tongue speaking or doctrines if you’d like, I’m just telling you that when your heart begins to empty itself through your eyes and your mouth simultaneously, words can get so jumbled in your jaw that things like pronunciation, enunciation, vocabulary and syntax don’t matter that much. Maybe they matter an awful lot in a courtroom, but not as much in church, besides, our churches could benefit from fewer judges anyway. What matters in a church is our actions. I wasn’t there to testify and this wasn’t a conversation, it was worship with words and weeping. “Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace” according to the Buddha — a wise man I resemble in frame if not in faith, though I can amen this quote — and Italian filmmaker Frederico Fellini said, “A different language is a different vision of life.
Looking around that room, holding that little boy, praying the most convoluted but genuine prayer I’ve ever offered, I felt peace and I had a different vision for my life. Here is my church, my life is my steeple, I opened the doors of my heart and God filled with the love of my people.
