Glossolalia is Not the Thing at the Back of a Book

by Dominic Laing

When I was seventeen in the summer of 2003, I and four-hundred other teenagers attended a multi-day Christian camp in Santa Cruz, California. This camp, like many other Christian camps, offered ropes courses, swimming and daily invitations to accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior thereby escaping the fires of eternal damnation. 

There was also ice cream, I think.

One afternoon in particular, the herd of us sat as still and silent as sheep as Pat Schatzline, a six-foot-two Alabamian pastor—not to mention the camp’s keynote speaker—stood before us and spoke with great passion about the glory and majesty and power of God. 

Schatzline had a cinderblock of an upper body with wide shoulders and arms like eagle’s wings. If Heaven had a football team, Pastor Pat would coach its defensive line. His southern-soaked, eardrum-rattling preaching style combined the cadence and accent of Foghorn Leghorn with the unremitting heat and intensity of a five-alarm fire.

"Today is the word,” Pastor Pat said. “Today is the word for all those who're thinking, When are you going to show up, God? Where are you? I don't feel you, but I want you! Today is the word for you!”

One minute, Pastor Pat joked in a near-screech of a voice. He scrambled from side to side and threw his arms around at random like one of those inflatable tube men at a used-car lot. Then, in the span of a sentence, sometimes a word, he planted his feet, stopped waving his arms and dropped his voice into a lower, sharper register. It was as if the inflatable-tube man had, in a blink, transformed into a sword. 

 "Today," he said. "Today. Say it with me."

Today.

Pastor Pat stood under the far hoop of the basketball court and pointed out at the group. “Today,” he said, “at the count of three...everyone here is going to speak in tongues.” 

I looked to my right and left. Everyone? I thought.

Speaking in tongues, or glossolalia, was listed in the Bible as a spiritual gift, alongside prophecy and teaching, amongst others. According to my Sunday school teachers and church pastors, speaking in tongues was a personal prayer language for communicating with God. It was a gift I hungered for because it inferred intimacy between God and the speaker. If you spoke in tongues, I believed it meant God loved you and wanted a way to speak only with you.

Yet glossolalia was also, confusingly, a very public profession of faith that often occurred unannounced in the middle of services at the church I and my family attended. In its most disruptive and bewildering iterations, speaking in tongues sounded like a forty-car pile-up of consonants and vowels—a Pollack-esque, multisyllabic diarrhea that sounded strange, scary.

"Today is the word, boys and girls," Pastor Pat said. "If you don’t have the gift now, it's okay. You’re going to get it from the giver. You're going to meet my God.”

"My God." I remember that. Pastor Pat referred to God in the possessive, as if the Almighty was his number one bud, as if Abba Father was not only going to endow us with the ability to speak in tongues, but was also going to give us free tote bags and an Amazon gift card.

Pastor Pat's God sounded less like a lamb and more like a tsunami. But Pat was the adult-in-charge, and at the time, I didn’t think I had a choice or voice in the matter. After all, Pastor Pat was touting God as the main course of this whole spiritual feast, and how could I not want God? I had to want God, because I was a Christian, and that's what Christians wanted: God.

And maybe that Amazon gift card. But mostly God.

***

I attended Bethel Church of San Jose, an Assemblies of God church situated a half-mile down the street from Sarah Winchester’s Mystery House. The church had a main sanctuary which seated upwards of two-thousand people. This sanctuary was where my parents got married and where I, as a six-week-old infant, was brought onstage, prayed over and dedicated to God. Bethel was my mystery house, the world in which my world came to be. 

On this particular Sunday, I was ten-years old. Like most others, the service began with an orchestral opening song. As the music played, I watched the old timers wrap up their conversations with each other and find their seats in the sanctuary. My family was already seated in our customary spot: stage left, two-thirds of the way up the section of pews. My father Barrie sat to my left, while Andie, my younger sister, and Will, my older brother, sat to my right. 

More adults seated themselves around my family and I smelled the indwelling of various spirits, holy and otherwise, in the sanctuary: hairspray, perfume and cologne. Aqua-Net, Armani and Chanel. To me, church often smelled like the ground floor of Macy's and vice versa. 

Pastor Jon Lugo, Bethel's long-standing music pastor, led worship that day. Behind him stood the hundred-person choir, as well as the worship trio, three members of the choir who stood on a small platform between Lugo and the choir and sang backup to Lugo’s lead vocal. If Pastor Lugo was Smokey Robinson, the worship trio were his miracles.

Nancy, my mother, was often part of the worship trio, as she was on this day. During the first song I stood on my tip toes and leaned to my left, close to my father, so I could catch her eye and get her to nod in my direction. When we locked eyes, individual muscles in my arms hummed with delight. I didn’t think about waving to her though. Not for a second. After all, I was in church. 

My parents raised me to believe that manners and politeness were of the utmost priority. People who waved their bodies around like branches on Palm Sunday were considered sloppy and unkempt. Such behavior was unbecoming of a believer and subject to criticism during our family’s post-Sunday lunch. Consequently, while other people used worship as a time to liberate their bodies, I saw it as a time to restrict mine. 

The third song that morning began slow and quiet, then crescendoed into a single surging wave of sound: the choir, the orchestra, the congregation—everyone worshiped God with all their being. People around me extended their hands outward and raised them to the ceiling, yet I remained steadfast and pressed my hands deep into my sides. 

Stay still. Keep your body quiet. Don't humiliate yourself like these other people. Don’t make God regret loving you in the first place.

As obedient as I was, I still envied the ones who lifted their heads and raised their hands with abandon. They danced and swayed like no one was watching. I too wanted to be unhindered like them. Yet I was convinced that not only were my parents watching, but the most important being in the universe was watching—His eye not only on the sparrow, but also on everything and everyone else in creation. I refused to allow myself to worship freely.

What if I don't do it right? What if I make a mistake? 

As the third, now bombastic song came to a close, the sanctuary air was warm and thick. Emotions rode high and pushed against the sound panels in the ceiling. People sunned themselves in the Spirit. Pastor Lugo stood from his keyboard and stepped toward the pulpit to pray the prayer that would end the praise and worship time.

The distance from his keyboard to the pulpit was no more than thirty feet. But it was this gap of silence—the crossing between the end of the third song and the closing prayer—that provided the perfect opportunity for Bobbi Gary to shine.   

Bobbi Gary, more than anyone I witnessed, spoke in tongues. She was somewhere in her late 50s or early 60s at the time, but she carried herself with the energy of someone decades younger. She cast an imposing figure, not only standing close to six-feet tall, but also wielding broad, linebacker shoulders. The skirts of her violet and crimson dress spread out across the burnt orange carpet of the sanctuary floor. Bobbi's long maroon curls draped her shoulders and cascaded more than halfway down her back. It reminded me of a lion's mane.

Bobbi also wore glasses and deep eye shadow, the combo of which made it difficult for me to see the whites of her eyes. Nevertheless, looking directly at Bobbi Gary felt tantamount to staring into the sun. Bobbi intrigued me, but I didn't get too close, because I feared that she, being the nearest thing to a church superhero, might sense my sin from far off and attempt to cast out the demons that caused my disobedience.

The moment she began to speak that Sunday, I turned and saw her, two sections to my left and down three rows. I had a clear view of her, as if the congregation RedSea-parted for me. Her voice burst forth like a geyser, a blaze of furious syllables, slicing through the presence of God and freezing Lugo mid-step. 

Bobbi’s tongues couldn't have lasted longer than two minutes, but at the moment, I don't know if I would've recalled things like seconds and minutes. The whole experience felt like I'd tumbled into a space independent of time itself.

I gazed at the faces of those around me—many with eyes closed, some tear-stained, some smiling and nodding along to Bobbi's rhythm, some with heads bowed and the rest of their frame utterly motionless. Meanwhile, Bobbi's head craned upward, hands at her side with the palms facing out, her whole body oriented skyward and emitting a power equivalent to a floodlight. Commissioner Gordon could've used her to signal Batman if he wanted. But Bobbi was signaling a different hero. 

Bobbi finished, and the silence that surrounded us resembled the inner-ear ringing after an explosion. I and the rest of the congregation waited for the dust to settle. Collectively, we took a breath and waited. Another breath. We waited, still. 

According to Scripture, whenever someone in the congregation spoke in tongues, an interpretation was required. The challenge here was twofold: first, how does one interpret an unknown, heavenly language? Second, how was someone going to follow up the fireworks of an opening act like Bobbi Gary? 

Then, a voice emerged.

"My children…"

My head turned in the direction of the voice and I saw Jim Yergen, seated midway back in the section between Bobbi and myself. Jim was nowhere near as imposing as Bobbi Gary. He was tall, rail thin and wore a uniform of a long-sleeved, plaid, collared shirt, paired with tan khakis. If Bobbi Gary was Christ's cherished chandelier in the center of the room, Jim was the eggshell paint on its walls. He was the kind of guy I could cut in front of in line and he'd compliment me on my shoes.

When I saw Jim Yergen moseying down the hallways or sanctuary aisles, he never seemed hurried or stressed. I don't remember ever seeing the man run or express anything other than total serenity. It was as if he had his own cloud of serene Shekinah glory that followed him wherever he went, like Pigpen's cloud of dirt from Peanuts.

What set Jim apart from the larger flock was not his ability to speak in tongues. Rather, it was that he possessed the gift of interpretation. When he did, he almost always began with the words "my children," as if it was the Almighty's personal term of endearment for Bethel. 

That Sunday, Jim pressed his right hand flat against his chest, as if signaling to us where God was speaking from. He eased back and forth from heel to toe, a gentle sway not unlike a palm tree. He raised his left arm high in the air,reaching for God I assumed. Maybe Jim hoped God would pluck him from the congregation and pull him to heaven right then and there, just like when Elijah rode to heaven on a chariot of fire.

"My children,” Jim—or perhaps God via Jim—said, “I am with you. I have neither left nor forsaken you. My love, my children, is present here." He paused to inhale. He was the only one breathing. "My children, I am coming back for you. I am coming back to redeem my beloved."

When Jim finished, Pastor Lugo resumed walking. He arrived at the pulpit, bowed his head, prayed and gave thanks to God for the words spoken by Bobbi and Jim. Then, after having given thanks, he raised his head and looked out to the congregation. 

"And all God's people said…"

Amen.

***

As I learned it, there was no single route to speaking in tongues. I heard stories where it happened during a coliseum revival and in a prayer closet. It happened in the middle of a Sunday church service and in the middle of a recess yard on a mission trip to Ecuador. One thing everyone agreed on, though, was that it took prayer. Lots and lots and lots of prayer. 

God, it seemed, needed to see you sweat.

I prayed and prayed and tried and tried, but as I entered high school, my tongue remained unanointed. I watched as other church congregants, without warning, were arrested by an unseen force and spoke as if controlled by a puppeteer. I don't remember their words—if you could call what they said "words"—but I do remember the sight of their bodies gripped and overcome by an invisible, powerful God.

As a child, I read the story of Jonah being swallowed by a whale, and I thought, "Lucky." Sure, Jonah's in the belly of a fish—but at least he knows God's thinking about him. Jonah can rest assured God has him in His sights. And that's what I wanted; to feel seen and chosen. I wanted God's love to single me out and engulf me. 

To swallow me whole.

One day, a few hours before midweek youth group, Noah Woodley and I sat in a hallway connected to the gym, our backs against the wall. Noah, fifteen years old like myself at the time, was a wiry, pale-skinned kid. He had big teeth, a loud laugh and a sharp mind. We became friends at the end of junior high, establishing our friendship on the rock of sarcasm. We joked with each other about how when some people worshipped on Sunday, they looked less like they were praising Jesus and more like they were guiding a plane to its respective gate. We talked about people we’d seen over the years, but I paused when the conversation turned to the tag team of Bobbi Gary speaking in tongues and Jim Yergen interpreting. 

“I know how to fake it," Noah said.

“Fake what?” I asked.

“Speaking in tongues.” 

My mind went blank. Fake it? Up until that moment, the thought never occurred to me to fake it. Either you had the gift, I thought, or you didn’t. What could possess a person to fake it? Wouldn't that break so many rules? What would happen if someone called you on it? How would all that faking make God feel? 

"You fake it?" I asked.

"Sure,” Noah said, shrugging his shoulders and laughing a big stab of a laugh that verged on a cackle. “All the time."

I stood from where I was seated and stepped back from Noah. I refused to believe what I was hearing. On multiple occasions, I saw Noah close his eyes, raise his hands and bask in the presence of God at weekly youth services. I’d heard him speak in tongues. Or at least, I believed I’d heard him.

On one hand, Noah’s forging of the gift seemed like blasphemy, not to mention it was lazy. On the other hand, if the handling of the gift was so serious and the punishment for transgression so certain and severe, why hadn’t Noah been disciplined? In the Bible, people were struck dead for lesser offenses, yet even though this scrawny heretic had taken matters into his own hands—or tongue, to be specific—he was getting away with it without facing any consequences.

Noah was a liar, and I wanted to judge him for all his apparent sins—and yet, despite all that, I envied him. He was so unashamed of his counterfeit tongue, while I was so ashamed of my ungifted one. And that afternoon, I wondered which one was preferable. 

When I opened my mouth to speak, the words that emerged were not condemnation, but rather a question. 

“How do you do it?” I said.

At the time, I believed the people who spoke in tongues were on God’s approved list. And I wanted to be on that list. But if I couldn’t gain access to that list via the prescribed route of prayer and petition, then perhaps I could at least make people think I was on the list.

At least I could make myself think I was on the list.

I stepped forward and sat back down to meet Noah face-to-face. 

"Repeat after me,” he said. “Shonda bought a Honda."

"Shonda bought a Honda."

"But she shoulda bought a Kia."

"But she shoulda bought a Kia."

Noah smiled. "That's it."

"Wait," I said. "What's it?"

"Shonda bought a Honda, but she shoulda bought a Kia." He laughed. "It’s simple. Say it a few times to get comfortable." 

"Shonda bought a Honda, but she shoulda bought a Kia. Shonda bought a Honda, but she shoulda bought a Kia."

Noah nodded. “Speed it up. Say it as fast as you can, over and over again." 

SHONdaboughtahondaBUTSHEshoulDAboughtaKIA. ShondaBOUghtaHONdabutsheSHOUldaboughtakia.

SHondaboughTAhondabuTSHeshouldaBOUghtAKIa.

***

Two years after Noah’s treasonous tutorial, I sat in that Santa Cruz gym and awaited Pastor Pat's Great Glossolalia Countdown. I wanted to run but something held me captive. I didn't know if it was God or peer pressure or outright dread, but I stayed on the bleacher seat like I was glued to it, like I'd be struck deader than Ananias and Sapphira if I dared move a muscle.

“Today is the word,” Pastor Pat said, “for all of you who tell me, Pastor Pat, people tell me God doesn't exist! I don’t know what life is about! ‘Today’ is the word for you.”

We were on the wrong coast for any hint of humidity, but as Pastor Pat continued, a sweltering, suffocating pressure boiled up in the gym. I scrambled to remember Noah's cheat phrase, but as I prepared the words in my head, I felt God’s convicting stare laser in on me. I was, to my horror, very much seen and very much singled out. 

With each passing second, I grew more intimately and achingly aware of my deceit. Sweat pasted my shirt to my body, my head filled with a thick weight and I could no longer feel the bottoms of my feet on the gym bleachers.

“Today. Is. The Word,” Pat said, pounding out each syllable like he was swinging a hammer. “Today is the word for all of you doubters who are thinking, Pastor Pat, none of this can be real. Pastor Pat, speaking in tongues is crazy!”

Crazy. At this, my breath jammed in my throat and my body temperature plummeted. My arms curled across my chest and the muscles in my upper body stiffened. I curled in on myself, convicted and convinced that Pat had clawed out a hunk of my stomach with that single word.

Did he mean me? How’d Pastor Pat know I used the word, ‘crazy?’ Did God tell him? Did God whisper it into Pastor Pat’s ear because he loved Pastor Pat more than me? Didn’t God also know how much I loved him? How much I wanted to be loved by him?

Pat’s eyes burned with what I assumed was the Spirit of God. He pointed out to us again. "Today is the word for you. And you. And you. And you."

Please God, I prayed, please tell Pastor Pat how sorry I was for thinking that speaking in tongues was crazy. God, I’m so sorry for not believing with my whole heart. God, I’m so sorry and so frightened and panicked and petrified and sorry.

I attempted once more to recall Noah’s instructions, but his words tasted like tin in my mouth. I ceased to sense my heart, my lungs, my breath and my blood. It was as if I, too weak to withstand the presence of God, was imploding.

"When I get to three," said Pastor Pat, "just start talking. Don't pay attention to what's happening. Pick a syllable, make a noise and trust that He’s going to give the gift to you.”

Pick a syllable. Like revving a linguistic engine. Just a little gibberish to grease the skids, and then the gift would manifest, ex nihilo, like the creation of the world itself. 

But what if nothing happened? What if my tongue did nothing but sputter nonsense? Would people know I didn’t have the gift? Would everyone not only be gifted with tongues, but also discernment as to who the sinners and imposters were? Would the people who didn’t speak in tongues be thrown out of the gym?

Pastor Pat raised his right hand and banished all doubt in the room. All speaking ceased.

"On the count of three," Pastor Pat said.

There was nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide. No one was making it out of here alive. If Pastor Pat had his way, everyone was going to die and be born again.

Pastor Pat's best friend in the universe was almost here. He was at the door—knocking, knocking, huffing and puffing—and ready to blow the fucking house down. 

God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. 

“One…”

Please, please let me speak in tongues. 

“Two…”

Please, God—please I love you so much and I’m so sorry—

“...three.”

***

I didn’t speak in tongues that day—at least, I don’t think so. When I replay the memory, Pat arrives at “three” and the sound cuts out, as if the film crew my mind hired to document the moment stopped recording audio at that exact instant. I can see my lips move, and I can feel my head press hard against the denim of my knees, but I can’t hear anything. Maybe I genuinely don’t remember, and maybe that’s my mind telling me to let this sleeping dog lay. Or lie. 

Or recline. Let’s go with that. Let’s let this sleeping dog recline.

I didn’t learn how to speak in tongues at any point in the rest of that camp. I didn’t speak in tongues at the next Sunday service at Bethel Church. Nothing happened six months later at the 2004 Winter camp I attended where—you guessed it—Pat Schatzline was once again the main speaker, where once again he threw down the glossolalia gauntlet, and where once again, my tongue whiffed on the holy moment.

At that time and for years afterward, I thought I had to look and sound a particular way to earn God’s love, whipping myself up into such a Holy Ghost fervor that God would have no choice but to gleefully grant me the gift of speaking in tongues.

At that time and for years afterward, I thought it was okay to hate myself. Honestly, I thought it was normal and a sign of health. Didn’t everyone despise themselves, I thought? Wasn’t self-loathing the fastest way to self-help?

At that time and for years afterward, I kept that 17-year-old version of myself locked in the gym. I was embarrassed of him, and I wanted to keep as much distance between the adult ‘me’ and the ‘me’ at that moment. Like a bizarro version of Gabriel guarding the way back into Eden, I stood sentry at the entrance to the gymnasium and kept the doors shut on that memory. 

Long after the lights went out and everyone went home, and long after people like Pat, Bobbi, Jim and Noah left my life, I kept watch over those gymnasium doors.

Because, I thought, that young boy needs to stay right where he is. He needs to know what he’s done wrong, and he’s not going to be allowed to leave until he apologizes and figures out how to do it right. 

By ‘it,’ however, I didn’t mean speak in tongues. I meant ‘be worthy.’

Until that boy figures out how to show himself worthy of love, I thought, and until he figures out how to do it again and again and never fail, he’s going to stay on that bleacher seat.

Alone.

***

I’m not saying speaking in tongues is a weapon, but I am saying it was weaponized in my story. I’m also not saying that speaking in tongues does nothing to enhance one’s relationship with God, but I am saying it has not been part of my relationship with God. 

If I’m honest, I’m more comfortable looking back at the story of me not speaking in tongues as a one-and-done event, relegated to a far-off horizon of my memory. I want to say I don’t think like that anymore. But the truth is that from time to time, I still struggle with believing and I’m loved and enough as I am. Sometimes, I still find myself thinking the way I did when I was seventeen and believing I need to “wow” my way into love.

If nothing else, I wish I had believed then what I now, twenty years on, believe to be true—that which I believe to have been true about me from the beginning: that God loves me and was with me from the start; that my belovedness and belonging doesn’t hinge on the nimbleness of my tongue; that communion with God looks different for each person; that to try and force a gift down someone’s throat—or to try and force someone’s throat into your definition of a ‘gift’—is to distort the communion and love and presence of God.

I never heard God in the fire. Nor did I hear him in the earthquake. Nor did I hear him in the wind. For myself, the voice of God was and has been gentler and more tender than I anticipated. In my story, there was no gripping or crushing or consumption or swallowing whole. Instead, there was simple, strident affection.

There was a whisper.

***

Somewhere in this favored land, there’s a young man in a gymnasium. The lights are off, and the gymnasium is empty except for him. The young man’s head is bowed, his eyes are closed and he’s praying as if his life depends on it; because he believes his life does, in fact, depend on it. His entire body trembles—from the top of his head to the soles of his feet—not because of any potential presence of the supernatural, but because he’s scared and he doesn’t want to be alone. 

In my imagination, I enter the gym. I see him on the left, about two-thirds of the way up the bleachers. I walk along the edge of the basketball court toward him, and as I approach, I hear what at first sounds like tongues. However, as I listen more closely, I discern it’s the soundtrack to a panic attack, a terrified scream wrenched down to a hush.

Oh God Oh God Oh God he says. I want to speak in tongues, please oh please let me speak in tongues. I love you and I’m so sorry—I’m here and I’m trying so hard and I want to speak in tongues like all the other people you love—please God let me speak in tongues so I know you love me—Jesus loves me this I know—because you let me speak in tongues—please Father I want to be good I want to be yours I want to speak in tongues to speak to you—I want your ears your lips your hands your love I want I want I need I need to be loved.

Slowly, tenderly, I ascend the steps of the bleacher rows. As I near, I take off my shoes, for this is holy ground. I sit next to the young man. For a few moments, I don’t move or speak, just so he can get used to my presence. Eventually, I move close, then closer. 

Oh God Oh God Oh God he says. I want to speak in tongues, please oh please let me speak in tongues.

Piece by piece, I gather him back to me. I place one hand on his back, my palm intersected by his arched spine. 

I love you and I’m so sorry.

My other hand settles on his chest, which shudders as it rises and falls. 

Please God let me speak...let me speak in tongues so I...so I know...you love me...

Our breathing rhythms fall into perfect alignment. In. Out. In. Out. 

Jesus loves me this I know...Jesus...Jesus...

My head leans against his, and I feel the wetness of his cheek as warm, slow tears rise to the surface.

Jesus...Jesus...

After a few more breathing cycles—in, out, in, out—I whisper.

He loves you. He loves you. He loves you. Back then and right now and always. You’re seen. You’re known. And you’re loved. You can get up now. You don’t have to stay here. You’re free to go. He loves you. You’re loved. I love you.

Dominic Laing believes good storytelling enables people to know and become known. He's a writer because when he writes, he feels communion...and also because his sixth-grade English teacher read one of his short stories and told him to keep at it. So, here's to you, Glenda.

Dominic loves stained-glass windows, gluten-free waffles and gardening. His work is published in Ekstasis, Hinterlands, Madcap Review, and Ellipsis Zine. Dominic's officiated three weddings and broken one finger. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife Jenae and their daughter Sonora.