Glossolalia.

Here is my deepest embarrassment as a girl raised Pentecostal: I have never spoken in tongues. It’s not for a lack of trying. I have listened to infinite how-to sermons on the topic, and at the end of each, I have traipsed down to the altar and done exactly as I was told, which varied wildly from preacher to preacher. One instructed us to interminably repeat one word – he suggested “hallelujah” – so that when the foreign words came, God wouldn’t have to surmount whatever complicated prayer we were praying. Another admonished us to stand with hands raised; God must see us praising – in exactly this manner, apparently – in order to be convinced of our desire. Another gave a three-step formula that even God can’t resist:  1) Confess your sins, 2) Surrender to God’s will, and 3) Ask sincerely for his Spirit to fill you. One of the aforementioned preachers vowed he would not leave the building until all seekers had spoken in tongues, but he lost interest with me after what felt like hours of coaching. He asked me if my heart was right, if I had any lingering sin. When I realized I was confessing sins I hadn’t even committed, I assured the man I’d done everything on my end that I could. He left that night with at least one devotee who hadn’t spoken in tongues.

God never did bless me with the gift, even though I wholeheartedly cast every preacher-advised spell on him I could. The unwillingness of my tongue to break free caused me stress and frustration for nine infuriating years. Six years ago, when I graduated with a B.A. in French and English, it intensified. I had never longed for the gift more: I’d spent the last few years of my life studying language, and I desperately yearned for the ability to use God’s own words to praise him. I had learned how to speak another people's language; why could I not do this with my Lord? How many times did I pray, “God, please let me speak in tongues”? Each time it didn’t happen, I was crestfallen anew.

If you don’t understand why this is a cause for embarrassment (rather than mere disappointment), let me explain. In many Pentecostal churches, such as the one I attended for eight of those nine years of frustration, my lack of speaking in tongues meant that I had not been filled with the Spirit. Therefore, I was not a full-fledged Christian because I didn’t have the power boost that his Spirit gives you. Essentially, the “other half” of my salvation was hanging in the balance. Speaking in tongues was not a choice. And I craved it besides.

I learned in a college class for my minor that this Pentecostal doctrinal stipulation on salvation comes from the Acts account of the Day of Pentecost (2:1-13, NLT): On the day of Pentecost all the believers were meeting in one place. Suddenly, there was a sound from heaven like the roaring of a mighty windstorm…Then, what looked like flames appeared and settled on each of them. And everyone present was filled with the Holy Spirit and began speaking in other languages*, as the Holy Spirit gave them this ability…When [others] heard the loud noise, [they] came running, and they were bewildered…“How can this be? These people are all from Galilee, and yet we hear them speaking in our own native languages…about the wonderful things God has done!” So the thought line is this: when the Holy Spirit fills followers of Jesus, speaking other languages ensues. Note that the church has relaxed the prerequisites of the “mighty windstorm” and the “flames,” but the speaking of other languages is still a requirement.

One May afternoon a few years ago, I was reading the Bible and happened upon 1 Corinthians 12, part of which declares: All of you together are Christ’s body, and each of you is a part of it…First there are apostles, second are prophets, third are teachers, then those who do miracles, those who have the gift of healing, those who can help others, those who have the gift of leadership, those who speak in unknown languages. Are we all apostles? Are we all prophets? Are we all teachers? Do we all have the power to do miracles? Do we all have the gift of healing? Do we all have the ability to speak in unknown languages? Do we all have the ability to interpret unknown languages? Of course not! (vv. 27-30, NLT). My head reeled, and I read it several times more: “Do we all have the ability to speak in unknown languages?…Of course not!” Oh, wow, I thought. I put the Bible down and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. Wow, my brain kept saying. I can’t explain the overwhelming grace I felt. And you are a teacher, my Lord whispered to my heart. And I am so pleased. It was too much for words, something inexplicable and glorious and freeing and joyous.

Later, when my heart realigned with my brain, I did some thinking. No doubt, God did a beautiful thing on the Day of Pentecost; what modern-day church wouldn’t want it? People verbally exploded in praise, such that sticking to their own languages couldn’t describe the bubbling of the Holy Spirit inside them. That’s holy and God-given and divinely lovely. However, to require a reenactment of such from every believer – and from the God they serve – is constricting and unholy. God will not be forced into doctrine because it so pleases the church overseer. God works as God desires because only he has complete wisdom. Furthermore, as God is anything but one-dimensional – look at the rainbow of his actions and words and emotions throughout the Bible – so should our reflection of him be. In the church he raises up apostles, prophets, healers, teachers, etc., and each of these roles reveals a little more about the God we serve. If we were all unknown-language-speakers, where would our interpreters and leaders and miracle-workers be? The wisdom of God is manifold and diversified by definition.

I have been filled with the Spirit for years. I never dared believe it until I read the 1 Corinthians passage because my experience did not include the linguistic manifestation; nonetheless, I know it’s true because I do things that reach people. And the reason for that is the Holy Spirit’s stirring in me. My victories with students, for example, come from the pouring out of the Holy Spirit’s wisdom in me. Pieces I have written that have blessed someone are from the Holy Spirit’s words in me. He uses me, and I am filled.

In my experience, conservative Pentecostals do not agree. A well-read Pentecostal layman a few years my senior is insistent that I am missing a “higher power” in my walk with the Lord because I don’t speak in tongues. He explained to me a few years ago that two things have held me back; namely, that I didn’t want it enough, and after so many missed opportunities, I have now closed my heart to the possibility. My response is two scriptures: 1 Corinthians 14:33, God is not a God of disorder but of peace, and 1 Corinthians 12:11, It is the one and only Spirit who distributes all of these gifts. He alone decides which gift each person should have. The first verse speaks to my years of disorder, confusion, and anger over not speaking in tongues, contrasted with my now perfect peace over not having that particular gift (at least, not now), but being blessed with others instead. The second verse dovetails with this, explaining that the Spirit gives the gifts as he deems necessary. He’s the only one doling them out, and he has not seen reason as of yet to allow me to speak in tongues. In the same way that he doesn’t give everyone the gift of healing (nor does the church doctrine require everyone to have it…), he’s not giving everyone the gift of unknown languages. Should he see fit one day for me to speak in tongues for a moment or for the rest of my life, I will be open and willing. In the meantime, I will simply learn to trust his judgment.

*Although this is somewhat of a side point, I think it’s important to note that the languages spoken on the Day of Pentecost were earthly languages. The gift of these languages brought others to the scene where God’s power could be displayed.

Mothers Day.

Chances are you think your mother is the greatest of her kind. Me too: mine is beautiful, wise, compassionate, and seriously smart. My mom has spent hours and hours of the last two years on the phone with me while I cried or complained or unloaded fear and hurt. She never turns down a hug or says she’s too busy to listen. She works to make sure everyone in the family has what he or she needs. As I write this, tears of gratitude spring to my eyes, for I am blessed with such an amazing mother. I love that a twenty-four-hour period is set aside for my family to give her an extra dose of special treatment. Mothers Day is a sweet time.

Mothers Day church services are a different story. To those of us who aren’t mothers, it can feel a little like not being tapped into a sorority. The beginning of the church service I was in last Sunday was like this. One of the pastors asked the mothers to stand as he thanked them on behalf of all of us. “Ladies, you make significant sacrifices through the years, and we rarely recognize it. You have answered the highest calling a woman can have: raising children. We want to bless you and thank you for your service to us.” He said other things—he spoke for five or ten minutes—but that’s the gist. My issue with this is not that it’s necessarily untrue: my own mother does some serious sacrificing, and she deserves appreciation for that and so much more. So do all mothers. Across the world, women spend their days cleaning up spills that no one else sees, mending tears in clothes, administering medicine, crying as they rock their children to sleep for hours on end when the little one just won’t cooperate. Mothers are strong, so strong.

But I do not believe that raising children is a woman’s “highest calling.” If that’s true, a sizeable demographic will never reach its female potential. In this subset, some have chosen not to have children for very valid reasons, and some have chosen against wifehood, as well. Some want desperately to have children, but for a reason that mystifies the doctors, it isn’t happening. Some have had surgeries rendering them infertile. Some have hormonal abnormalities, chronic illnesses, or other medical factors that bar them from motherhood. Some have watched in horror as their dreams of motherhood ended abruptly in the bathroom. For some, this holiday is a reminder of the loss of life or the inability to give it, not its celebration.

However, there is much more to the concept of “mothering” than giving birth. Some women who have not and will never bear children have left an indelible mother’s mark on the little ones in their lives. Aunts, stepmothers, grandmothers, nurses, teachers, big sisters, babysitters, family friends—these women and others like them have the same capacity for “significant sacrifice” and “service” to children* as the women whose biological offspring are involved. Mothering, I would argue, is the art of cherishing and guiding children, an art that does not require a functional reproductive system. Mothers encourage. They spend time with children. They cause smiles and laughter. They provide for children’s needs and wants. They teach. They love. Women with unused wombs are just as capable of these functions and eager to fill them as their childbearing counterparts. Many of these mothering-women have played important roles in my life, as I hope to in the lives of others.

So maybe the entrance qualifications for the Mothers-Day sorority can be modified. Rather than honoring only biological or legally adoptive mothers, perhaps we can include all mothering-women who nurture and care for the world’s younger people. While only one woman births us, many, many women along the way help us become who we are. One such woman in my life was A.M., a family friend who spent a lot of time with me during my childhood. She took me out to dinner (and as a good Southern girl, I almost always picked Cracker Barrel), she took me mini-golfing, she invited me to spend weekends with her in her apartment. Many evenings she made us hot dogs and we talked and laughed while eating in her kitchen. A.M. reached out to me: she loved me, cared for me, and looked me in the eye when we talked. I knew I was important to her. And there is no greater gift a mothering-woman can bestow than the message “You’re significant. You’re special. There’s something wonderful inside you that I love to watch and be a part of.”

For A.M. and all the other members of the mothering corps out there, whether you are biological moms or moms of the heart: thank you most sincerely for the love and guidance you so freely give, and a very happy Mothers Day to you.

*Although I use the word “children” throughout, certainly some women mother us when we are already old enough to have children and perhaps grandchildren of our own.

Dry Bones.

“…So now I’m just going to let them tell their own stories.” Yay, testimony time, I would think sarcastically. My unfavorite time of youth-led Sunday nights. It was at this point that the new converts in our Jesus fraternity would tell of the harrows of life before Christ and of their miraculous changes, theologically, mentally, and, in the really good ones, physically. Now, please don’t misunderstand my cynicism here: I fully believe in the complete transformation from nonbeliever in any state of disrepair to son or daughter of God; if I didn’t, there would be little point in me trying to have a meaningful relationship with the Savior. My eye rolling is born of my partially self-imposed feelings of inadequacy as a member of the fraternity. It seemed to me that since I had not done drugs, drunk alcohol, participated in sexual promiscuity – or any other cardinal sin as defined by the church – that my story was, in fact, not a story at all.

There is a churchy witticism used to describe people like me: those of us who have been to church every Wednesday night and twice every Sunday since we were fetuses (or is it “feti”?) are said to have “cut our teeth on the church pews.” I am just such a person. My conversion experience took place at a small, country Church of God during a children’s crusade when a clown prayed for me. I was a visitor of my beloved babysitter, who sat right next to me as the minister asked if anyone wanted to ask Jesus to live in his or her heart. My facially painted, pig-tailed little self was ready. Immediately following the sinner’s prayer, I commenced a life of boring persistence on the straight and narrow. I wasn’t, of course, sinless – my sister especially would find that laughable – but I never committed a sin dramatic enough for one of these happily-ever-after confessions in front of the congregation. As any youth grouper can tell you, Barbie-mansion-coveter-turned-Christian is not so awe-inspiring as druggie-turned-Christian. Unless, I suppose, you coveted the Barbie mansion enough to steal it, leading to a life of thievery. But then, you’d be thief-turned-Christian, and that’s back to being a great story.

But all the “great stories” kept me wondering, What are we really saying about God here? In throwing into the limelight all the tales of sin and woe, were we truthfully representing God? It seemed as though we were just running PSAs like, “This is your brain on sin. This is your brain on Jesus.” The fact is, while 360-degree metamorphoses are possible and laudable and inspiring and miraculous, the story of Jesus is a lot bigger than that. Jesus is a brother, a friend, a comforter, the lifter of our heads. When all we do is present Him as the One who helps us kick the habit, we’re reducing Him to an AA leader. What about the less dramatic stories, such as a long-term Christian finding new life in Him? What about someone realizing what grace really means? What about someone forgiving her husband? What about someone discovering how deep the love of Jesus goes? What about just plain old talking about the remarkableness of Christ Jesus our Lord, apart from what He’s done?

Anyway, one afternoon I remember telling a fellow youth grouper’s mom about my frustration with testimony time. She played her role perfectly and gave me the party line for born-and-bred youth groupers: “You know, Amie, your testimony is that God kept you from all of that.” Gee, thanks. That’ll make a great anticlimactic yarn for the next Sunday night testimony extravaganza.

Years after I stopped going to the transformation festivals, but still long before I knew that youth group had done anything to me other than make me mad, I found myself as a nineteen-year-old college student at a Christian university in my hometown. A music-only worship service was my engagement for the evening, and during one song I lifted my hands in surrender to and adoration of God. He spoke to me more clearly than I ever would’ve dreamed possible and, consequently, scared the mess out of me. He gave me a glimpse of what he intended for me to become and, just as quickly, an understanding of all the sludge we’d have to take care of before I could get there.

To be truthful, my story still would not excite those looking for juicy chronicles of heathen conversion; despite all of my wishes to the contrary, I never got into the gossip-worthy sins that produced hanky-waves and “Yes, Lord”s from the church. However, God miraculously exchanged my selfish, angry heart for a joyful, Christ-seeking one. He breathed life into my dry bones in a spiritual reenactment of Ezekiel’s vision. And not only that, he walked with me through heartbreaking, challenging times to a place of peace and refreshment before telling me to saddle up again, we were headed back out for war. Perhaps my testimony is in having watched the spotlight shine time and again on these dramatic transformations – and experiencing the pleasure that these people brought our youth pastor – knowing that I would never be able to do the same, knowing that my story was not shocking enough. Yet, by the grace of God, I still grew up to seek a relationship with my Savior. Personally, I think that deserves a hanky-wave any day.