Speaking in Tongues

When that which is perfect is come…

Just after high school, I matriculated at a fundamentalist Bible school popularly known as the “West Point of Christian Service.” (Our sister school, an accredited Christian college thirty miles to the west is known as “The Harvard of Christian Schools.”) From the first day in class, we were immersed in hymns, Bible, and theology. At the impressionable age of 18, I pretty much took notes, read the books, and accepted what I heard as a reliable roadmap to a meaningful, purposeful life.

There were late-night freshmen debates in the dorm. For example, the existence of free will and determining who is really saved and speculating if the planet is only ten thousand years old and if The Rapture might occur before or after The Tribulation - all of these weighty issues could keep us going into the wee hours. Generally, we were all confident of this: The End just might burst open the heavens on us at any moment. Be ready. Just look at the wars and rumors of war and the sometimes violent, often profanity-laced protests on our city streets. 

Thankfully, our chapel speakers assured us that we’d be snatched into Heaven just before the bloodbath. Whew.

In our school’s version of Bible interpretation, we were anti-charismatic. In those days, Christians were either pro or con on the issue of tongues (or, glossolalia in Greek). We were con. The “pros” didn’t last long at our school. Outside our walls, the two factions kept to themselves. Our teachers relied on a single phrase in Corinthians (“when that which is perfect is come…”). According to them, that one verse taught us that God didn’t need miracles or the supernatural once the last word of the Bible hit the page (or parchment) not long after Jesus ascended into the clouds back some two thousand years ago. While the Bible was written by humans (i.e., mostly men), sometimes their frail humanity crept in. But the Holy Spirit directed the whole process, giving us the sixty-six infallible, inerrant books we carry around today. (This was long before we had access to The Holy Bible in multiple translations on a mobile device.) 

Our professors explained, “Now that we have God’s Word right before us in writing, there is no need for God to speak directly to us.” Miracles are done. Over and out. This is a new Dispensation - The Church Age. Speaking in tongues (sometimes a foreign language) may have occurred before the Bible was completed, but anything after that would be fake or nonsense or worse - maybe even instigated by the Devil himself. (Whoa!)

It made us suspicious of anyone who professed to hear the voice of God in real time. We were especially dubious about any claim to angelic, unintelligible speech; or even Jesus sightings. If anyone reported that they’d heard from or seen the Virgin Mary or one of the Saints, well that illusion must have come from a Roman Catholic loyal to The Pope.

Then I went to graduate school and studied biblical Greek and Hebrew. I checked that passage in Corinthians and realized that it did not at all say what they told me. 

So my view of the Pentecostals softened. Maybe they were on to something. Whatever biblical ammunition I had to challenge the validity of their experience, well, it just evaporated right then and there.

I did my best to overcome any biases, implicit or complicit, of charismatics. Who am I to deny their claims? God speaks to them. They speak to God. All good.

But today, I’ve got a new problem with the Pentecostals. God has told many of them that Donald Trump is His Anointed - that he’s our REAL president. The pastors who affirm and promote that Message from God lead churches that are busting at the seams, standing room only. They build megachurches the size of shopping malls. They make enough money to wear designer sneakers on Sunday mornings. They fly around on corporate jets. They are Rock Stars, as big as their image up there on the jumbotron. They preach against vaccines and masks. They keep their doors open during pandemics and enjoy massive media followings. They complain about persecution. They call for book bannings and the takeover of local school boards. They train their flocks to be on the lookout for “Woke” and “CRT.” They warn their sheep that people like me are out to get them - to shut down their churches, their private schools, and their media presence. Many of them believe God  gave them the inside scoop: Biden is a pedophile, Barack Obama is a Muslim, and Michelle Obama is really a man. 

They are on a holy Mission from God. Direct orders.

It all makes me think maybe my Bible school teachers were right after all about that passage in Corinthians.

* * * * * * *

I got to thinking about speaking in tongues when I heard the actor Bradley Cooper interviewed by Terry Gross on Fresh Air. He described his intense preparation to play the role of Leonard Bernstein in the powerful new bio-pic: Maestro. We watched the film just a few days before. As I listened to his description of Berstein's performance directing Mahler's Resurrection Symphony, I was strangely and unexpectedly moved to tears. It surprised me. I was on my daily walk as my body experienced an unmistakable, emotional rush. Dopamine? 

Tears formed in my eyes. 

The scene in the movie required two separate takes. On day one, Bradley admits that as he prepared, he was overcome by fear. He trained for years. But the presence of multiple cameras, one hundred top-tier musicians, and the huge expectations attached to his central role all closed in on him. Crushed by the heavy weight of responsibility, he became self-obsessed to the point of distraction. The performance was wooden, over-acted, hollow, exaggerated - a flop. His considerable acting skills left him, gone with the wind.

They didn’t plan on a second take. But they had to. 

So, the next day, Cooper let it go. He set his ego aside. He was transformed. He let the music speak. He embodied the score. It was as though the strings and the kettle drums and the wind instruments joined him as one. He didn’t even notice the cameras. He didn’t think about making a movie. This was not a “performance.” Bradley Cooper became Leonard Bernstein. He didn’t direct the music, he was the music.

“I can’t describe in words what that moment meant to me,” Cooper said.

Terry Gross replied, “That scene made the film. It moved me deeply. Beyond words.”

And as I walked and listened in, I remembered the scene. 

I felt it, too.

Sometimes language falls short.

* * * * * * *

One of the early “exvangelical” podcasts that hit the charts was a quirky crew that called their production “The Liturgist.” Hillary, one of the hosts and a therapist, shared openly and regularly about her deconstruction from high-control religion. 

Frankly, it surprised me when on a random episode she shared her ongoing commitment to “speaking in tongues.” She’s a working professional with advanced degrees and certifications. She’s scrapped many of those former convictions around exclusive truth claims and the separatist tribalism she experienced in church. But this spiritual practice remained important to her.

“For me,” she explained, “it’s beautiful. On a soul level, I have feelings and longings that I just can’t put into words. I learned to speak in tongues as a young girl - from my Grandmother - it became my prayer language. Today, I’ve got a lot of questions about whatever or whomever God responds or hears me; but it gives me great comfort. It’s a powerful release. I know a lot of my friends and colleagues don’t understand - but that’s OK. I don’t talk about it often - but there you have it. I found a way to express my deepest emotion - without words.”

I thought about that. That old Bible school filter still existed in my head. But what she said made perfect sense.

* * * * * * *

To this day, the “spiritual gift” still hasn’t visited me. 

Or has it?

The claim to hear directly from God still gives me pause.

But that said, on my walk, there was a solid line connecting the proverbial dots. Bradley Cooper, as Leonard Bernstein, Maestro, lost in a resurrection symphony. A gift. Hillary McBride lost in a prayer language no one else would understand. A gift. Me on my walk, surrounded by lofty mountains and blue sky and the reflection on the water of billowy clouds and colorful blossoms and tall trees - lost in wonder, awe, and praise. A gift.

The music is me. Longings and hopes and cares and dreams find their release without words. Expressed not in language, but in something far more profound. 

Tears in my eyes.

There. I’ve done my best to explain it to you. 

Now you understand.

Words fall short.