WHEN FAITH FEELS LIKE A FOREIGN LANGUAGE

When Faith Feels Like a Foreign Language

"For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known." - 1 Corinthians 13:12 (NASB)

I grew up bilingual in English and Christianity, fluent in both languages from childhood. But somewhere in my twenties, the faith language started feeling foreign on my tongue. Words that once came naturally—"blessed," "anointed," "surrendered"—suddenly felt like I was speaking with someone else's mouth.

Maybe you've experienced this spiritual language loss. The vocabulary that once expressed your deepest beliefs now sounds hollow or artificial. The phrases that once connected you to community now create distance. You find yourself spiritually tongue-tied, unable to articulate faith in words that feel honest.

This isn't spiritual failure—it's spiritual evolution. Languages change when we do. Sometimes we have to lose our childhood fluency to develop an adult voice. Sometimes we have to forget how to talk about God before we can learn to talk with God.

Frederick Buechner wrote, "Faith is a way of waiting—never quite knowing, never quite hearing or seeing, because in the darkness we are all but a little lost." What if the dimness Paul describes isn't temporary confusion but permanent condition? What if not having the right words is exactly right?

I spent months feeling spiritually mute, unable to pray in the language I'd been taught, unable to express faith in familiar formulas. I felt like an immigrant in my own spiritual country, struggling to communicate in what should have been my native tongue.

But slowly, haltingly, I began to develop a new spiritual vocabulary. Words like "mystery" and "wonder" and "presence" replaced "blessing" and "anointing" and "surrender." I learned to pray in questions instead of statements, in silence more than words, in honesty rather than correctness.

The new language isn't as polished as the old one. It's messier, more hesitant, full of pauses and uncertainties. But it's mine in a way the inherited language never was. It emerges from my actual experience rather than my expected experience.

If faith feels like a foreign language right now, don't panic. You haven't lost your spiritual citizenship—you're just developing a more authentic accent. The God who speaks all languages—including silence, including doubt, including confusion—is still listening, still understanding, still responding to whatever words or wordlessness you can offer.

Take your time learning to speak again. The conversation is patient enough to wait for your voice to find its way.