Even Their Poets Are Preachers

This week, I witnessed a part of the local culture I had never seen before. A poetry battle.

About twelve of us were sitting around a campfire on a mountainside that overlooked the distant lights of Caravan City. It was coming toward the end of the evening. We had grilled and eaten skewered pieces of chicken, munched on sunflower seeds, and drunk our chai and Nescafé. Already, some of the men, thinking of work in the morning, were asking if it would be time to go soon.

A request by one of the men present to swap riddles and jokes had ultimately foundered upon the rocks of attempted translation from one language to another, something this particular group of guys keeps trying, even though the results are usually rather anticlimactic. Nothing like dropping what you think is a strong punchline only to be met with blank or confused looks, silence, or worse, a few polite chuckles.

I did make one successful joke in the course of the evening, when the men had started up a hearty rendition of a favorite childhood song here, which goes something like,

I’m a pig; you’re a pig; hey, all of us are pigs!

I told them to hold on and start over because I wanted to record the song for the sake of ‘the future generations.’ This caused a surprising outburst of laughter among all the men.

“For the sake of future generations! That’s a good one! Hahahaha!’

Alas, my funniest joke of the evening wasn’t even one I was really attempting to make. But when the proverbial blind squirrel finds a nut, he is proud of himself nevertheless.

Shortly after this, one man, a young journalist, told us he’d like to read us a poem he’d written.

He pulled it up on his phone as the rest of the circle of men quieted down and leaned in. Unlike much of Western culture, our Central Asian locals are still very awake to the beauty and power of poetry, especially the men. But what I was about to witness highlighted this for me in a whole new way.

Still seated, our cookout poet sat up as straight as he could in his camping chair and puffed out his chest. With one hand holding his phone out so he could read it and the other hand partially lifted in front of him, he began dropping rhythmic lines about his people’s history and long struggle for freedom. His raised hand moved up and down to emphasize the rhyming end of each line, a gesture that was followed by growing affirmations from the circle of men, a sort of ‘amening’ of each statement made.

The intensity, emotion, and volume of the poem and the affirmations grew as the poem progressed, finishing with a climactic final rhyme and chorus of applause. Even though I had only gotten half of the meaning of the poem, it was easy to feel the powerful effect of this kind of poetic oratory.

But it wasn’t over. Another man on the other side of the circle cleared his throat and shifted in his camping chair,

“Friends,” he announced, “I have an answer to that!”

What proceeded from those present was the sort of noises men in all cultures make when a challenger is announced, plus more applause.

Apparently, the first poem had not only been patriotic, but also colored with loyalty to one of the two dominant political parties/families of our region. This other man was loyal to the other party/family and was about to drop some partisan lines of his own.

His poem progressed much the way the first one had. Similar authoritative body language. Similar expressions of approval after particularly good rhythms and rhymes, and a climactic crash of louder verse and applause at the end.

The two of them went back and forth like this four or five times. Like a rap battle, the volume of the crowd’s response to each poem seemed to be the gauge of which one was winning. In the end, to me, it looked like a draw.

The atmosphere of our little campfire was now more alive than it had been all evening, and the rest of us now had the opportunity to share any favorite lines of verse that we had either written or memorized. I was thankful that one of the local believers bravely shared some lines of Christian poetry he’d recently written, since many of those present were not believers. I shared the one verse of local poetry I’ve ever memorized, one I’d once learned back in Poet City from a taxi driver.

A wish for the days of homemade naan
In a thousand homes, a pilgrim only one
Now for all, "pilgrimmy pilgrim" is claimed
But pilgrims they're not, nor their bread e'en homemade

Once again, the applause I received for this very small segment of a poem against Islamic pharasaism was very warm, and probably much more than my lackluster delivery deserved.

As we drove home, I asked one of the local believers with us about the poetry exchange we had witnessed that night. I told him that was the first time I’d seen it.

“Oh yes,” he said, “We have that in our culture, though we don’t do it as much anymore. Poetry battles. We also have proverb battles. And song battles too.”

I had once seen some YouTube videos of some local song battles, but I found it curious that, after almost a decade living in this culture, I had never seen a poetry battle like this before. I asked the other foreigner who was with us that night, and he hadn’t either. It seemed to be yet another gap in our knowledge of the local culture.

Over the last number of months, I’ve continued to chew on how most missionaries here think that preaching, monologues by leaders, and skillful, authoritative oratory are foreign, Western things. As I’ve written before, this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Our local culture has great respect for and takes great pleasure in skillful public oratory of all kinds. Yet this great disconnect persists, somehow, and the majority of missionaries remain convinced that informal group discussions are the thing that is truly local and contextual, and preaching and an old-fashioned and ineffective Western form.

I mused on this as we drove down the mountain at midnight. As it turns out, locals recite even their poems as if they’re preaching. No, recite is the wrong verb. What I saw during the poetry battle was not recitation, it was proclamation. Each poet was aiming to persuade the minds and hearts of his hearers of the truth and beauty of his message. The tone and posture of these poets were that of crafted conviction. Or, as Martin Lloyd Jones once said of preaching – logic on fire.

Through local eyes, it makes the way we Westerners casually lead our Bible discussions look limp, spineless, like we don’t really believe what we’re saying. Why do we missionaries persist in presenting the word of God like we do when locals present even their private poems with so much more authority and conviction?

So much for preaching being a foreign thing. No, once again, I must conclude that, here in Central Asia, preaching is everywhere. After all, even their poets are preachers.

If you have been helped or encouraged by the content on this blog, would you consider supporting this writing and our family while we serve in Central Asia? You can give here through the blog or contact me to find out how to give through our organization.

Two international churches in our region are in need of pastors, and our kids’ TCK school is also in need of teachers for the 2026-2027 schoolyear. If you have a good lead, shoot me a note here.

Blogs are not set up well for finding older posts, so I’ve added an alphabetized index of all the story and essay posts I’ve written so far. You can peruse that here

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A Proverb on the Ultimate Loneliness

There was no one to say to me, “How much is that donkey?”

–Local oral tradition

How might your culture and language paint a picture of utter loneliness and isolation? In Central Asia, apparently, being utterly alone means there’s not even anyone making inquiries about donkeys. Talk about being left out in the cold.

We were on a trip back to Poet City this week when we heard this proverb used for the first time, when a young preacher was describing how lonely middle school had been for him. Most of us have been there. Middle school can be a very rough time. The Bible has its own imagery describing these anguished depths of isolation, the strongest of which is probably Psalm 88:18, “Darkness is my only friend.”

Darkness makes sense, but why donkeys? Well, on the one hand, our Central Asians find donkeys so ludicrous, so hilarious, that they seem eager to fit them into their proverbs whenever they can. Another working theory is that because donkeys are viewed as very base, dumb, and dirty, it may be that ‘donkey business’ functions as a kind of shorthand for the lowest and most menial of human interactions. In this sense, it means sometimes you’re so alone that no one even bothers to interact with you even on these most base and even embarrassing fronts.

Though sometimes unavoidable, and even temporarily beneficial, the Bible consistently teaches that it’s not good for us to be alone. In fact, this is the first thing in the created world described as “not good,” such a bad situation, in fact, that it led to the glorious creation of woman. The preacher in Ecclesiastes elaborates further, stating that being with others means a better return for your labor, help back up after a fall, staying warm at night, and self defense (Ecc 4:9-12).

That’s a lot of benefits that come from not being on your own. Our Central Asian friends would add one more. Turns out it’s also better for donkey business.

Two international churches in our region are in need of pastors, one needs a lead pastor and one an associate pastor. Our kids’ TCK school is also in need of a math and a science teacher for middle school and high school. If you have a good lead, shoot me a note here.

Blogs are not set up well for finding older posts, so I’ve added an alphabetized index of all the story and essay posts I’ve written so far. You can peruse that here.

For my list of recommended books and travel gear, click here.

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Idioms for Mullets

Top for Allah, bottom for Abdallah

(or)

Top for Ramazan, bottom for Tarazan

–Local Oral Tradition

As with so many other American kids of the late 80s and early 90s, I once sported a mullet. And a curly-haired mullet at that. But hairstyles, as with fashions in general, are surprisingly global in their spread. Just go back and look at pictures of university students in Afghanistan in the 1960s and you’ll see what I mean. This means that mullets also made their way to many of the countries of Central Asia in past decades and are popping up once again, even as they enjoy their controversial return in the West.

I don’t think I’ll ever go back to the haircut I had as a 3-year-old, but I still laughed out loud when I recently heard the local equivalents of the English “Business in the front, party in the back” idiom about this particular hairstyle. The local sayings quoted above are getting at the same thing, though in a very Central Asian way.

In the first saying, the short hair on top and in the front is dubbed “For Allah,” meaning it’s respectful and presentable, even for a religious setting. But the back hair at the bottom of the head is “For Abdullah,” who is probably a 14-year-old working-class kid who has already started smoking and likes to ride on his Chinese motorbike as his mullet trails majestically behind him in the wind.

The first part of the second saying, “For Ramazan” is a local way of referring to Ramadan, the Islamic holy month of fasting and religious rededication. But the second part, “For Tarazan,” refers to none other than the vine-swinging jungle man we know in the West as Tarzan. This carries with it not only the carefree, somewhat rebellious sense of a teenager, but also that there is something hinting at the wild, the barbarian, in the mullet hairstyle. Which is, of course, one reason why young men like it. I remember reading how leather trousers became fashionable at some point among the teenagers of Rome, since only barbarians wore trousers while ‘respectable’ Romans wouldn’t be caught dead in them. A similar thing is going on here, it seems.

I find it hilarious that not only are mullets a global thing, but so is the opinion that they are a most uncanny hairstyle, a mix of things that probably should not have been mixed. The conservative middle class of the West and Central Asia may not agree on everything, but in their quips about mullets, they have surprising common ground.

We only need to raise 12k ($1,000 per month) to be fully funded for our second year back on the field. If you have been helped or encouraged by the content on this blog, would you consider supporting this writing and our family while we serve in Central Asia? You can do so here through the blog or contact me to find out how to give through our organization.

For my list of recommended books and travel gear, click here.

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A Proverb On Something Simply Impossible

I’m sayin’ it’s a male, he still says to milk it.

– local oral tradition

This local proverb is used when someone insists that you must do something, but that thing simply can’t be done. The farm/nomad logic here is straightforward. You can’t milk male animals, only females. Perhaps a similar saying in English would be “trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.” It can’t be done.

Our Central Asian locals can be quite persistant when they believe you can and should do something for them, but are perhaps holding out on them. This proverb seems like the kind that comes out after multiple rounds of trying to explain that you really are not able to oblige a given request. It’s a sort of appeal to a third party to side with you in the impossibility of the request.

I haven’t had the pleasure of using this particular local proverb yet, but am hoping that I will have the chance to do so at some point.

“No, elder brother, I’m telling you the truth. There is no way I can possibly acquire an American wife for you. Seriously. It can’t be done!”

“But dear teacher, I’m sure you know someone. Does your wife have any unmarried sisters?”

“Mud of the world upon my head. No. I’m saying it’s a male, he still says to milk it!”

If you have been helped or encouraged by the content on this blog, would you consider supporting this writing and our family while we serve in Central Asia? We need to raise 28k to be fully funded for our second year back on the field. You can help us with this here through the blog or contact me to find out how to give through our organization.

For my list of recommended books and travel gear, click here.

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She Forgot Our Names, But Not Rock of Ages

Grandmom Workman grew up in the mountain hollers* of West Virginia. Her dad was a coal miner, as were most of the men in her family. Most of them would go on to die of black lung – a tragic but common outcome for this kind of employment. There’s a little hilltop cemetery full of crooked gravestones that bears witness to this once numerous clan of hillbillies, though most of the Workmans have now either died or left those mountains.

When she was a young woman, my grandmom fell in love with my poppop, a blue-collar man from Philly who was in the Air Force. After a quick marriage and a brief stint in Myrtle Beach, they moved back to the Philadelphia area, where they soon bought the house they would live in until their deaths, just a few years ago.

As the saying goes, you can take the girl out of the holler, but you can’t take the holler out of the girl. Grandmom remained hillbilly to the core until her dying day, despite the comfortable suburban lifestyle Poppop’s trucking career provided. There was no evidence that my Poppop’s strong Philly accent or that of all her neighbors ever made so much as a dent on grandma’s West Virginia way of speaking. No, she never lost her accent or mannerisms. I grew up being called a “sweet patooty” and hearing farts referred to as “shootin’ bunny rabbits.”

She also never lost her ability to sing the hymns she learned as a girl in the little Pentecostal church her family went to – even after she developed severe dementia.

After my family moved to Central Asia, we would attempt video calls with Grandmom and Poppop. We first noticed that she started forgetting that different members of her family were no longer living. Then, she started forgetting our kids’ names and faces. Eventually, she struggled to remember the names of even her grandkids that she had known for decades, including my name. Through all of this, as Grandmom lost more and more of her mental clarity and physical function, Poppop’s steady gentleness with her was a remarkable thing to behold.

In time, it became challenging to know how to hold a conversation with Grandmom. However, I could always get her to remember and talk clearly about her childhood, even when the dementia seemed to be worse than ever. Often, she would speak of the hymns she sang as a girl. Her favorite was Rock of Ages, “Rock of ayges, cleft for mee… Let me haaad maaself in theeee…” I was amazed at the shift out of mental fog and into crisp clarity that would seem to take place when I would nudge Grandmom to focus on this season of her life and the songs that she had learned at such a young age.

This was doubly encouraging to me because my grandmom had always shut down spiritual conversation. Any mention of God, the Bible, sin, or the gospel would unleash a polite but impenetrable barrage of words declaring Grandmom’s confidence in her own goodness. In all the years before the dementia started, there was no evidence that she ever humbled herself to admit that she was a sinner in need of forgiveness. This was true even though her own son, my dad, had died while proclaiming this message as a missionary in Melanesia.

My dad’s death, of course, devastated his parents. Poppop seems to have eventually come to faith, a changed man, in the years following. But Grandmom was immovable. No conversational tactic could get through her defenses.

However, once she developed dementia, I noticed a willingness to talk about and dwell on hymns, like Rock of Ages, that did contain explicit gospel messages – “Let the water and the blood; from thy wounded side which flowed; be of sin the double cure; wash from sin and make me pure.“

Tragically, I do not think that my grandmom ever believed in Jesus. But if there is any hope, it would be found in the fact that hymns like Rock of Ages were a major part of the soundtrack of her final days. When all else was fading away, gospel truths put to a catchy melody and a West Virginia twang were on her mind and on her tongue. Perhaps they found their way into her heart and soul as well. She passed away in 2022.

My grandmom’s story taught me about the power of music for remembering and reproducing truth. The songs that Grandmom learned as a barefoot girl in a little mountain church stayed with her – for eight decades. They stayed with her when almost everything else had been forgotten.

This makes me want to double down on teaching our own children good, gospel-explicit songs. Apparently, they can remain with them until the end, even if they do not embrace the faith of their parents. God has somehow created music to be a thing strong enough that it can hold its own in the labyrinth corridors of memory, even against decades of unbelief, and even against the most formidable mental illness. A woman might forget the names of her own children and grandchildren. But she will remember the words of the songs of her childhood.

This season of ministry in Central Asia has brought with it an unexpected emphasis on local worship music. I suddenly find myself with four eager local guitar students (some of whom are former guerrilla fighters), with other local believers writing new songs and poems and asking for help with them, and with requests from many quarters for local-language songs that are richer and deeper and more congregational. An area of our ministry that has, until now, largely gotten the leftovers now calls for more proactive emphasis. Local believers need to be raised up who can write local songs, hymns, and spiritual songs for the church and then go on to lead and play them skillfully.

Because of my grandmom, I know the potential impact of this kind of work. Through good songs, local believers can unstoppably retain and reproduce truths from God’s word as they go about their daily work in the bazar, if they end up in prison without a Bible, or even if they someday lose their minds and memories.

How amazing is this gift of music that God has given to us? And what a comfort as well. Even in old age, his truth can remain fixed in our minds, and that, by the power of a simple tune.

‘So even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me, until I proclaim your might to another generation, your power to all those to come. ‘

-Psalm 71:18

*holler is a Appalachian form of hollow, a small valley.

We need to raise 31.7k to be fully funded for our second year back on the field. If you have been helped or encouraged by the content on this blog, would you consider supporting this writing and our family while we serve in Central Asia? You can do so here through the blog or contact me to find out how to give through our organization.

Two international churches in our region are in need of pastors, one needs a lead pastor and one an associate pastor. If you have a good lead, shoot me a note here.

For my list of recommended books and travel gear, click here.

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A Proverb on Wishes vs. Diligence

The tree of wishes is a tree that’s fruitless.

-local oral tradition

I recently heard this local proverb for the first time. It points to the wisdom that wishes don’t actually change anything. No, we must live in the world as it actually is, a world that requires work to achieve what we desire. Apparently, we have a saying in English that is similar, “If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.” I’m not familiar with this saying, but it makes sense. Beggars don’t ride horses because wishes don’t actually result in horses. Wishes don’t result in anything – unless they are transformed into action.

Solomon agrees, “The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied” (Prov 13:4). Solomon tells us that wishful thinking is often linked to being a sluggard. And diligence is so important that it makes the difference between a satisfied soul and a soul that gets nothing, a soul that’s fruitless.

We’ve also seen here in Central Asia that it’s not just sloth that can lead to fruitless wishful thinking. This kind of posture can also come from a culture enslaved to fatalism. If a people group doesn’t believe that God actively intervenes in their daily lives, if they don’t believe that their actions can be used by God to make a significant difference, then they are not likely to translate their wishes into action. After all, if everything has already been determined and God is distant, then what’s the point?

Western culture is very active when it comes to trying to turn desires into reality. Sometimes this borders on being naively optimistic. But the underlying belief that we really can change things through our efforts has deeply Protestant (and biblical) roots. In contrast, the culture here has been cut off from the wisdom of God’s word for so long that they’ve largely lost this practical agency and optimism of the book of Proverbs, even though old local proverbs like the one about the tree of wishes still linger. Thankfully, the Bible is now available in our local language. That means that little by little, its wisdom will be leavening the worldview of our people group, especially that of the believers.

Long-term, this will mean much less sitting underneath the wishing tree – and much more planting, pruning, and picking from trees that actually satisfy.

If you have been helped or encouraged by the content on this blog, would you consider supporting this writing and our family while we serve in Central Asia? You can do so here.

Two international churches in our region are in need of pastors, one needs a lead pastor and one an associate pastor. If you have a good lead, shoot me a note here.

For my list of recommended books and travel gear, click here.

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A Proverb on The Power of Slow Work

Work gradually done is a king upon his throne

– local oral tradition

This local proverb speaks of the power and efficacy of slow, steady, diligent work. This kind of work is compared to a king enthroned – weighty, authoritative, influential. It reminds me of Proverbs 12:24, “the hand of the diligent will rule, while the slothful will be put to forced labor.” According to both our local oral wisdom and Solomon, authority is the natural result of long-term labor that has proven wise, fruitful, and effective.

One of the very interesting things about this season in our area of Central Asia is that we are now seeing the good fruit that has come from missionaries who years ago chose the slow and steady route to church planting. In multiple cities now, church plants that both locals and movement-driven missionaries said would never work are actually thriving. And, wonder of wonders, they are raising up faithful, humble, qualified local leaders. Yes, their road has been very messy and involved much suffering. But they have kept their hand to the plow and kept going, one plodding step at a time.

I heard this past week about a local pastor who has approached our former team in Poet City to ask them for help in leadership development. As is modeled by most foreign organizations, this local leader has relied on ministry programs and salaried positions to raise up other leaders. But this approach keeps failing him. This is because ministry salaries and positions cannot create faithful character, though they sure can wreck the character of young and immature potential leaders. However, this pastor has seen from afar as young men like Darius* and Alan* have been raised up over a number of years to now be a faithful elder and faithful elder-in-training, respectively. And this evidence of slow labor speaks with a kind of authority all its own.

The slow route of faithful shepherding will always lap the seemingly fast route of exciting methods. And when rushed and shallow work inevitably collapses due to an inadequate foundation, other work will suddenly be elevated, enthroned as it were. If this newfound authority is then accompanied by a humility based on the fact that the principles and methods employed were not really our own at all but merely an attempt to be faithful to God’s word – then that newfound influence can be put to good, even eternal, use.

If you have been helped or encouraged by the content on this blog, would you consider supporting this writing and our family while we serve in Central Asia? You can do so here.

For my list of recommended books and travel gear, click here.

*Names of places and individuals have been changed for security

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An Idiom for The Demystified

The magic has been emptied.

-local oral tradition

“What’s the infinitive form of that verb?” I asked my local friend.

“Aha! You are smart to look for the infinitives. Once you know the infinitives of our language then the magic has been emptied.”

“Come again?”

This conversation is how I learned this new saying this past week. Essentially, this local idiom can be used for any situation where something previously incomprehensible now suddenly makes sense because you’ve found the key to understanding it. It would be equivalent to our English ‘pulling back the curtain,’ something being ‘unraveled,’ or ‘lifting the veil.’ This idiom seems to reference the universal “so that’s how!” exclamation of understanding when you find out how a magic trick is really done.

My friend was using this idiom to communicate that once a foreigner learns the infinitives of the local language’s verbs, then the whole system of verbs and their many perplexing forms will make so much more sense. Finding keys like this that bring order to a foreign language (or culture) that initially feels like chaos is usually a moment of significant breakthrough for a weary learner. Every language has its own logic, its own keys. Find them and it will be demystified and suddenly logical and accessible. Its ‘magic’ of inaccessible mystery may be emptied, but the magic of getting to understand and use the language well will have just begun.

If you have been helped or encouraged by the content on this blog, would you consider supporting this writing and our family while we serve in Central Asia? You can do so here.

Our kids’ Christian school here in Central Asia has an immediate need for a teacher for the combined 2nd and 3rd grade class. An education degree and some experience are required, but the position is salaried, not requiring support raising. If interested, reach out here!

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A Proverb Against Silly Self Denial

Are you a melon eater or a melon picker?

– local oral tradition

I just learned this one this week and I’m so glad I did. Allegedly, it’s a saying all our locals know well. However, it does require some explanation.

In our Central Asian culture, there are a lot of honorable and repeated refusals of generous offers of hospitality. Now, when these offers are made in the honorable-hypothetical way, turning down an invitation is exactly what you are supposed to do. But when it’s a genuine offer from a friend, something clearly good and helpful, or something you would simply be foolish to refuse, that’s when this saying comes out.

The logic of this saying is that, given the choice, everyone would rather sit and eat sweet juicy melons than go out into the heat of the late summer fields and pick them. A clearer way to phrase these sentiments in English might be, “Are you actually choosing to go out and harvest melons when I’m offering to serve them to you? I’ve already done the work. Why are you denying yourself something good that I’m clearly ready to bless you with?”

There are times when self-denial and refusing others’ service or help is good, right, and noble. And then there are times when it’s just silly – or even a form of pride. True humility not only avoids taking advantage of others’ hospitality and generosity but is also willing to receive it. Sometimes we need to swallow our pride and just enjoy that good gift that is being genuinely extended to us.

I can easily picture a Central Asian mama, hands on her hips, scolding her brother who’s come for a visit, but is for some reason refusing to sit and take a minute to rest.

“Don’t be dumb. It’s 111 degrees outside. Sit and eat some cold melon for a minute.”

While this is a more informal proverb, I’m curious if it might also work for those who object that the free gift of salvation in Jesus is simply way too easy. Many here feel that salvation through faith in God’s promises is not a difficult enough road for them. They would rather walk the anxiety-ridden path of works righteousness than rest in the free gift of salvation being offered them in Jesus. Why? Because the gift is all of grace – and therefore it means they can’t feel proud of themselves for having earned it.

Don’t be a melon picker. Be a melon eater. Receive the good gifts of God.

If you would like to help us afford a solid set of wheels for driving around our corner of Central Asia (11k needed), you can reach out here.

For my list of recommended books and travel gear, click here.

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On Being a Language Pragmatist

The goal of language learning and language use for any missionary should be effective spiritual communication. The goal is not the language itself, but rather faith that comes by hearing. Because of this, language is the necessary tool, the vehicle by which a missionary is able to achieve effective communication.

Now, if you have been reading this blog for a while you will know that I think language itself is a stunning and wonderful thing – but that it’s also a limited thing. Humans in general are not usually awake to the wonder of language. And many missionaries don’t learn the local language nearly well enough because doing so can be such hard work. However, many missionaries also like to fight about language, elevating language learning and language usage choices to the level of dogma, seemingly believing that it will make or break a ministry or church planting movement if you don’t get it perfect.

But because we love language and yet are also very aware of its limitations, we are language pragmatists. This posture means we will happily use whatever language makes for the deepest understanding of the truth we are trying to communicate. In this posture of language pragmatism, I believe we have a precedent in God himself, who in the Bible happily switches from Hebrew to Aramaic to Greek and also throws in 80-some Persian loan words for good measure. In this, the God of the Bible is refreshingly contrasted with the deity of Islam who rigidly confines the language of heaven and prayer to one earthly tongue – 7th century Arabic – and demands that all his followers do the same now and in the life to come. As if the weight of eternity could possibly be borne by one human tongue alone.

Now, don’t get me wrong. This posture of language pragmatism doesn’t make us care less about language learning. It actually makes us more serious about our study of a given tongue. Again, when the goal is effective communication of God’s truth, then you can’t help but notice when the majority of the population isn’t being reached by the global, regional, or trade languages being used by most Christian efforts among your people group. These other tongues might be good for reaching a subset of the population who have second or third-language proficiency in them. But if they are ineffective in carrying gospel truth to those inner places of the heart and mind where true understanding takes place, then the language pragmatist will adjust accordingly and try to master the indigenous tongue. He’ll be bad at it for a good long while, but that same filter of effective communication will drive him forward until he reaches a higher and higher level in the local language – or whatever language he needs in order to fulfill his ministry.

Perhaps some stories will help illustrate what this looks like on the ground. During the beginning of our first term, our supervisors told us explicitly not to share the gospel in English. They were worried that if we got into this habit, we would lack the motivation to learn the local language well enough to be able to share in it effectively. And also, that our local friendships would stay forever fixed in the language they began in.

The problem was we were English teachers. So, while we were still speaking the local language like toddlers, some of our advanced students were reading English versions of Orwell’s dystopian novel, 1984, and wanting to discuss it with us. When the doors opened for spiritual conversation with these advanced students, we felt conscience-bound to switch to English as often as necessary for the sake of clarity and understanding. Our supervisors, in their zeal for the local language, had fallen into a kind of rigidity that caused them to confuse the goal with the means.

In the long run, we found that our local friends were also language pragmatists. They were happy to switch to whichever language led to deeper understanding or relational connection. To this day, we still might bounce back and forth between advanced local language and advanced English as needed in a given conversation.

Consider another example. One of our sister people groups speaks their mother tongue at home and with one another, but is only able to read and write in the dominant regional language. This means that their Bible studies are always a bilingual affair. The Bible is read in the regional language but the discussion takes place in their oral mother tongue. Our colleagues who work among this people group have taken the wise (and pragmatic) approach of seeking to learn both languages.

Some language purists might object that the real goal should be to get these locals reading and writing their own language. And this may very well be an excellent long-term goal. We fully support increased literacy all around, especially when it comes to the language a person dreams in, prays desperate prayers in, and yells in when they stub their toe. But in the meantime, use the tools you have, and don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

While using those good tools, ask these two questions continually: 1) Is effective communication currently taking place? And 2) Would our communication of spiritual things be more effective were we to use a different language? These questions keep the missionary safe from the risk of assuming communication is actually taking place – an assumption that is all too easy when you’ve been told by others the ‘right’ language in which to do ministry.

But hold on, isn’t pragmatism bad when it comes to missions? Only sometimes. Only when we are being pragmatic about things the Bible would have us be principled about. Using ministry salaries to bribe people into becoming Christians is pragmatic in the wrong way. Using whichever language is best to communicate a concept such as atonement is being pragmatic in the best sense. When the Bible gives freedom to follow practical wisdom in a given area, then Christians should walk in that freedom – enjoy it, even – rather than creating their own little missiological laws to then be bound by.

The wonderful truth is that the Bible does not demand we use any given language in order to do God’s work. Instead, we are completely and utterly free to use any of them to effectively communicate the gospel. Each of the world’s 6,000-plus languages has a unique glory all its own, one that will shine forth in worship in this age as well as in the age to come. This means they each belong to us, the heirs of that resurrection. And we can grab any handful of them that we need to (as our limited brains allow) in order to preach the gospel, plant churches, and disciple the saints.

So, consider joining us in becoming pragmatists – language pragmatists, that is. It’s really quite freeing.

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