Back in the day, my parents were hippie evangelicals concerned with Justice, Peace, and Community. They were all about Mercy, Equality and Grace. I learned the language of movements. My siblings and I wore "boycott grapes" buttons to school. I was in kindergarten; I have no idea what that was about. My sister and I attended a Spanish-speaking school in Rochester, NY; we were the only students for whom Spanish was not a primary language. My parents and their circle of friends mobilized protests, discussions, and debates. The adults I knew spoke openly in a way about politics and faith that seemed the marry the two in a rather lovely, if not delicate, romance. Being faithful, being a member of The Church meant seeking justice for those without a voice. Made sense to me at the time. (Still makes sense to me.)

During college, in an effort to take seriously this faith in which I was raised, I sought out a merry gang of evangelicals of a different sort. I learned a more complicated language. We were concerned with Salvation, Sanctification, Free Will,* Discipleship. The ideas we discussed over midnight pizza and flat soda, the earnest ways we sought to share our faith with others seeped into my justice centered, others-focused faith.

Those words entered my personal lexicon of faith. The two could exist seamlessly: on the one hand, faith was about seeking justice for others and belonging to community. On the other hand, I needed to take care of my business. I could be righteous and perfected before the Lord and fight the fight of the people at the same time. Not that I was actually protesting anything, but whatever. You get the point. One kind of language and another kind of language regarding the same thing—Jesus—blended rather nicely.

Then, after moving from Pennsylvania, where we do not greet our cashiers and tell our waitresses about our grandchildren, to Oklahoma, where the inverse is most definitely true, I learned a language that still sounds false coming out of my face. I’m sure it’s not a regional thing, entirely, but there’s something about a southern drawl and Jesus that just doesn’t seem to fit….me.

One of the first people I met was a Bible study teacher who scared the life out of me. When I walked in on the first day, freshly scrubbed, newly married, bright-eyed and incredibly nervous, she lifted her hands to the heavens and nearly screamed. “Thank you, Jesus!” She brought her tiny hands to her tiny face, nearly overcome with emotion, and shook her head, tears literally, filling her eyes. She did something I will never forget, as if the shouting praise weren’t unforgettable. She hugged me.

I thought about turning on my heels and getting the heck out of there, and fast. But she of the tiny hands propelled me into a room, found me a seat, introduced me to the others. There was no getting out now.

Turns out, I really enjoyed this Bible study, and I came to love this woman fiercely. I still do, in fact, 16 years later. She is one of the most steadfast rocks in the foundation of my faith. Do not mess with her and her shrieking ways; she means it. She is genuinely moved for people who know or who want to know Jesus. I love this about her. It is part of who she is.

It’s not, however, part of who I am. Not that I didn’t try. Stranger in a stranger land and all, I thought, “well, I guess I better try to play the part.” But this kind of deeply personal and intimate talk surrounding the relationship between believer and God makes my tongue seem to expand into a thick, malfunctioning muscle. I just can’t bring myself to use terms like: "came to Jesus," or "my testimony." Sentences that start with, "The Lord has been so good to ..." sound hollow in my mouth.

Hear me. I have no problem with these words or with people who use these words. What I'm saying is when I said them, it felt like I was trying to adopt Chinese as my first language and mangling it all to bits. Instead of asking for rice and carrots, I was asking for to please flush with the elephants.

It’s not disbelief or even doubt; I just don’t feel comfortable with that particular kind of language. I tried. It sounded forced. For a long time, I figured I just needed practice. If I kept using the words, they would become like other words; just a part of how I speak. Didn’t happen. I never grew comfortable with talking about coming to Jesus or describing the ways the Lord had done marvelous things for me. I have a story, and he has done wonders. I just cast about for another way to describe it.

I stopped trying.

I stopped trying because because I’d rather speak confidently about my faith, with authority behind my words. I would rather appear to believe what I’m saying rather than looking like I hope no one can hear me.  I am more comfortable, publicly, with the lexicon of where I’ve been than the lexicon of where I am now.

I have come to believe that who we are informs how we relate to and interact with God, which is manifested in the terms we use to speak about it. I have come to believe that there is not right or wrong language of faith. In fact, It seems to me that there are as many lexicons of faith as there are faithful people. Instead of struggling to use a voice that is not mine, to reflect a faith I could not claim, (like my Bible study teacher’s) I use the one I have.

*I am not engaging in a debate about predestination.