When I first spoke in tongues as a teenager, it wasn't the
stilted, syllabic sounds that I sometimes heard around me in Pentecostal
circles. It was something different—something that sounded deeply ancient, like
a Native American chant rising up from the core of my being. It had a rhythm, a
pulse, a vibrational quality that seemed to come from somewhere beyond me, yet
intimately within me at the same time. Once it started, it was hard to stop,
and even then, I knew that this was something authentic. It wasn’t something I
was forcing or manufacturing. It was a natural flow, a spontaneous surrender to
something greater than myself. In those moments, I was not performing; I was
participating in a sacred conversation that existed beyond rational thought.
Over time, I came to realize that this experience aligns
closely with what many today describe as Light Language. Light Language is not
about speaking an earthly tongue to be understood by others; it is about
transmitting frequencies, emotions, spiritual intentions—using sound as a
bridge between the spirit and the Source. It is not meant for translation in
the conventional sense but rather for resonance. It vibrates with the soul,
bypassing the intellect and reaching the deepest parts of us where true healing,
transformation, and communion occur. When I learned about Light Language later,
it felt less like discovering something new and more like putting a name to
what I had already known in my spirit for a long time.
As I have reflected on the Scriptures I once studied so
deeply, I see new layers of meaning emerge, especially in Romans 8. In Romans
8:14–17, Paul writes about being led by the Spirit of God, and I now understand
that he is speaking about something very close to what we might call intuition.
This Spirit-led life is not about rigid obedience to external laws or fearful
submission to religious authorities; it is about trusting the inner witness,
the sacred voice within. It is about allowing the Spirit to guide, move, and
shape us from within, so that we live not in fear, but in the freedom and
intimacy of divine sonship. Crying out “Abba, Father” is not a doctrinal
statement; it is the spontaneous response of the soul that knows it is loved,
that senses it belongs, and that moves in the world from that place of
belovedness.
Romans 8:26–28, too, speaks powerfully to my experience with
tongues. When Paul says that the Spirit helps us in our weakness, interceding
for us with groanings too deep for words, I know exactly what he means. This is
not about carefully crafted prayers or eloquent petitions. This is about the
Spirit praying through us when we do not know how to pray, when words fail,
when the needs of our soul are too deep, too raw, too complex to articulate. In
those moments, speaking in tongues—or Light Language—becomes the Spirit’s
language in us. It is not gibberish; it is the most authentic form of prayer,
unfiltered by the mind’s limitations. It is pure, resonant communion between
the Spirit within us and the Divine Heart of all things.
Seeing this also transforms the way I now understand Romans
8:28. "And we know that all things work together for good for those who
love God, who are called according to His purpose" is no longer just a
comforting slogan to me. It is the natural result of the Spirit’s intercession
within us. When the Spirit is praying through us, even when we do not know how
to form the words ourselves, even when we are only able to groan or sing or
speak in spiritual utterances beyond our understanding, something sacred is
happening. The Spirit aligns our deepest longings with God’s deeper purposes.
The unseen conversations of the Spirit within us are weaving even our
confusion, our longing, our unspeakable desires into good. Romans 8:28 becomes
not merely a reassurance that "things will turn out," but a testimony
to the hidden workings of divine prayer and energy within us, guiding our lives
even when we are most vulnerable and wordless.
This understanding has also led me to distinguish between
the tongues at Pentecost in Acts 2 and the tongues Paul discusses in his
letters. What happened at Pentecost was a miraculous sign where the disciples
spoke in actual human languages they had not learned, proclaiming the works of
God to people of many nations. It was an external event, a divine message
delivered across linguistic barriers, a sign that the Spirit was being poured
out on all flesh. But what Paul talks about—especially in 1 Corinthians 12–14
and Romans 8—is something much more internal and mystical. It is about speaking
mysteries in the spirit, about praying in a language not understood by others
without interpretation, about personal edification and Spirit-led intercession.
The Pentecostal tradition often conflated these two
manifestations, treating all speaking in tongues as if it were the same event
repeated over and over. But I see now that there are different kinds of
tongues, different purposes, different movements of the Spirit. The tongues of
Acts 2 were for proclamation to others; the tongues of 1 Corinthians and Romans
are for prayer, worship, and intimate connection with God. In recognizing this
distinction, I have found great freedom. I no longer feel the need to explain
or justify my experience according to someone else’s doctrinal system. I know
that when I speak in tongues today, I am stepping into the flow of Spirit that
Paul describes—a Spirit who knows my needs better than I do, who intercedes
within me, who resonates through me in sounds that carry more meaning than any
words I could ever form.
Speaking in tongues for me now is not about proving
anything. It is about aligning my spirit with the deeper currents of divine
life. It is about letting go of the need to understand everything and
surrendering to the mystery. It is about trusting that there are places within
me—and beyond me—that can only be touched by vibration, resonance, and sound,
not by words or reason. It is about allowing the Spirit to sing through me, to
pray through me, to flow through me in ways my mind may never fully grasp but my
spirit recognizes immediately.
In this, I find a profound sense of belonging—not to a
denomination, not to a set of doctrines, but to the Living Spirit who breathes
through all things. I find freedom in trusting my intuition, in following the
Spirit’s quiet leadings, in speaking and singing in the language of the soul
without shame or fear. My journey with tongues has not ended with
deconstruction; it has been reborn into something purer, freer, and more real.
It is not tied to performance or proof. It is the language of my spirit speaking
to the Source of all love, and that is more than enough.
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