Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong

by Sophie Hudson

  Let me put it this way: I was working in an environment where I’d overhear someone telling a joke with the words continuationist and cessationist in the punch line—AND PEOPLE WOULD LAUGH. As someone who had never hung out in a lot of Bible studies or learned Hebrew or attended seminary or earned a PhD, I was astounded. So it was no wonder when, one morning when I overheard a lively discussion about dispensationalism in the teachers’ lounge, I had two reactions: (1) what in tarnation is dispensationalism? and (2) should I ever find myself in some adult version of Bible Drill, this crew right here will be my RIDE OR DIE.

  There’s a verse in Psalms that says, “The unfolding of your words gives light; it imparts understanding to the simple” (119:130). And if there’s any one piece of Scripture that sums up those first couple of years of teaching in Birmingham, I would say, YES. THAT. BRING IT, PSALM 119. I was surrounded by so many gifted Bible teachers at my school that I sometimes felt like I was taking in information faster than I could process it, but the great advantage was that I started to see and understand things in Scripture that I’d never noticed before. I’d always thought of the Bible as a series of stories, but I started to see how those stories were connected. The words that had been so mysterious for so long began to unfold before me—a person who most definitely qualified as theologically “simple”—and those words illuminated everything.

  As you might suspect, this was a bit of a game changer.

  In Baton Rouge, David and I had been members of a sweet church that felt very much like the church where we’d grown up (with the exception of a good bit more liturgy and the prevalent use of the phrase, “Lard, hear our prayer”). It was perfect for us at that point in our lives; it was the first church either of us had chosen as adults, and the familiarity of it helped us ease our way into the congregation. We weren’t overly involved, but there was a sense of belonging that comforted both of us, I think.

  By the time we moved to Birmingham, church had become a nonnegotiable for us, so we began looking for one our very first weekend here. However, since our house was so far out in the country, we were constantly confronted with the realization that no matter what church we chose, we were probably going to have significant travel time each way. We spent several months visiting this church and that one, always trying to decide if it was a place where we’d want to drive forty minutes for Family Night Supper. I was frustrated by our inability to settle down, and even when we eventually joined a little church that was about a half hour from the house, I knew deep down that we lived too far away for it to work.

  We continued in our state of church limbo for the next eight or nine months, but fortunately I had the benefit of great teaching and worship at school to sustain me. David, however, felt like he was dying on the vine, so when a neighbor asked if we might want to visit a Baptist church that was about fifteen minutes from our house, David practically screamed, “OKAY!” and then asked what time to be there. Joining a Baptist church was nowhere—NOWHERE—on our radar; keep in mind that we both come from sturdy Methodist/Episcopalian stock, and the Baptist church was mostly a mystery to us. I’d loved my Baptist school in Baton Rouge, but it turned out that a significant number of the folks who worked there were nondenominational, Presbyterian, or Catholic, so I wasn’t exactly reading The Baptist Faith and Message while I hung out in the teachers’ lounge.

  So one gray, December Sunday, David and I woke up and got dressed and made it to that Baptist church in time for the nine o’clock service. We walked into the sanctuary just as the music started, and while I had grown very accustomed to praise-and-worship music at my two Christian schools, it was a whole new worship day for David Hudson. There was a soloist at the piano with a full choir behind him, and if I could pick only two words to describe the experience, I’d have to go with loud and lively.

  We found some seats in the back (of course), and while I was instantly captivated by the music, David appeared to be mildly horrified. We stood through two more songs, and when the pastor moved to the front of the sanctuary, I knew that there was about to be some preachin’.

  Not preaching. That would be a much more formal affair.

  What we had in store was some PREACHIN’.

  And sweet mercy. Did we ever.

  I had often heard older family members talk about pastors who could “preach the stars down,” but that was one of the few times I’d seen it live and in person. There was strong biblical content, there was practical application, and there was compelling communication. It would have been impossible not to listen. When the sermon was over, we sang a (lively) modern version of an old hymn, and as we left the sanctuary and walked back to the car, I kept glancing over at David to try to get a read on his reaction.

  Once we sat down in the car, David actually spoke up first.

  “Well, what did you think?” he asked.

  “LOVED IT,” I replied.

  He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, so I broke the silence.

  “What did you think?” I asked. And then I held my breath.

  “Well,” he answered as he turned the car onto the main road, “I’ll say this: at least they didn’t haul out the snakes.”

  So it was a thumbs-down for him.

  By the end of our second summer in Birmingham, David and I had been married for five years. We still had issues that we were working through, but I’d finally gotten to a place where I could accept that we always will. It took me a long time to realize that if there was tension or an argument or maybe even some simmering resentment, that didn’t mean that we weren’t meant to be together or that we weren’t compatible or that OUR MARRIAGE WAS OVER, THE END.

  It just meant that we were human. And sinners. And the Lord was using our marriage to sharpen us, to refine us, and oh have mercy, to sanctify us. He was also using our marriage to help us grow in grace, in love, and in trust.

  The truth of the matter, I reckon, is that marriage sometimes feels a little bit like a soap opera. You love, you argue, you reconcile, you storm out of the room, you cry, you slam doors, you hurt, you heal, you laugh, and you pray with everything in you that there’s no evil twin lurking around the corner.

  So what David and I found—as I imagine lots of folks have—was that no matter what happened in our personal soap opera (which, Lord have mercy, we would not broadcast on any network, ever, because I really don’t think it would be edifying or encouraging for anyone to see me have a breakdown over the color of my kitchen walls, much less watch us stand in stunned silence when one of us backed a car out of the garage but, unfortunately, forgot to close the driver’s-side door), we navigated the twists and turns and cliff-hangers a whole lot better when we were walking the road of faith together. If we were learning and growing together—if we could sit in church on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights and know that, ultimately, we were about and after The Same Thing—all the distractions and drama of the day-to-day seemed a whole lot less important.

  I realize that many couples start their married lives with that belief system firmly in place, but we did not. I’m mighty grateful that the Lord saw fit to lead us there.

  And that Baptist church that we visited? Well, much to our surprise, we kept going back. Every once in a while we’d look at each other and say, “We’re not really going to join a Baptist church, are we? ARE WE?” But the longer we visited, the more connected we became, and over time it started to feel like our church—not just some place where we were visiting. Finally, after THREE YEARS (yep, you read that correctly), David said that we needed to fish or cut bait in terms of becoming full-fledged members—and his recommendation was that we fish.

  So the Hudsons went fishin’.

  At a Baptist church, of all places.

  When the Lord led us to Birmingham, we didn’t have the foggiest idea why. We just knew that we couldn’t get away from it, almost like a physical map was following us around with a big spotlight over north central Alabama. Sometimes it even seemed like that big spotlight was surro
unded by strand after strand of blinky Christmas lights.

  It didn’t make a lick of logical sense.

  But the Lord.

  And I’m convinced that two churches—the one that founded the school where I worked and the one where we finally became members after three years of hanging out on the back row—are the primary reasons the Lord brought us to this place. When we arrived in Birmingham in two cars with two dogs and all our worldly possessions in the back of a midsize U-Haul, we were battle weary and broken, trying our best to slap Band-Aids on the places that hurt the most.

  But those two churches, in countless ways, are the places where the Lord put us back together. Through the teaching we heard and the people we came to know and love, He repaired our foundation, strengthened our frame, and gave us the tools we needed to build our little family.

  And as I sit here and think about it, I can see so clearly that He healed us in places where we didn’t even know we had wounds.

  Between that and, well, the barbecue, we are just all kinds of grateful.

  DAVID AND I were in our late twenties when we started to make our way back to church.

  Wait. I’m sorry. What I should have said is, “David and I were in our late twenties when the Lord began to lead us back to the church,” and clearly I will now have to go before the elders to account for my poorly communicated view of God’s sovereignty.

  That was a joke.

  But y’all were scared for just a minute, weren’t you?

  Anyway, by the time we found and joined a church in Baton Rouge, it had been almost ten years since either of us had been involved in a congregation with any degree of regularity. Then, once we moved to Birmingham, we eventually joined an evangelical church (Baptist, no less), and one of the things we realized pretty quickly was that Christians had come up with a whole new set of vocabulary words during the years when we were mostly absent. We were so happy to have a church home again; we were just surprised that we weren’t quite up to grade level as far as our churchy language was concerned.

  And yes. Of course. There are lots of things about being involved in a church that are way more important than having a personal glossary of the most important new terms. For instance, knowing Jesus as your personal Savior is sort of a critical piece. No doubt. It’s also good to trust your leadership and sit under sound teaching and feel a sense of belonging when you sit in your favorite pew/movie theater–style seat/barstool (in case your church is set up like a coffee shop so no one feels, like, intimidated, and also, FREE LATTES). But in our current evangelical culture, it definitely doesn’t hurt to be well versed in the lingo.

  Plus, you know, it makes you seem holier.

  (THAT WAS A JOKE.)

  So in case you’re new to the latest church verbiage, here are a few key phrases you’ll want to know.

  Refining

  I’d never really paid attention to this word until we moved to Birmingham, and for a while I wondered if they were partial to it here because of Birmingham’s history as a steel town. Turns out it’s from the Bible (Malachi 3, I believe—and some other places), and it has to be the church’s favorite term for what the Lord does when we go through something difficult. He burns off all the impure, unnecessary stuff and purifies us like silver. This is a really good word to know when you’re in the middle of a hard time but want to make sure you don’t sound bitter when you’re sharing prayer requests with your accountability group. So instead of saying, “I am so ticked that I didn’t get the job I wanted,” you say, “I didn’t get the job! I can only trust that the Lord is refining me!” And then maybe you could sing a hymn or two for good measure.

  Season

  I am guilty of overusing this one. In fact, it might have a slightly addictive quality. Season is the Christian’s favorite way to publicly acknowledge that, “Hey, what we’re dealing with might be good, or it might be bad, but it won’t last forever.” Over the years I’ve heard people refer to sweet seasons, hard seasons, growing seasons, dependent seasons, sanctifying seasons, joyous seasons—you name it. The key to proper usage is that the season must have an element of hardship or joy. That is why I cannot advise you to walk up to your pastor and say, “You know, I just sort of feel like the Lord’s calling me to a season of drunkenness. Maybe even a little debauchery.” That probably won’t end well.

  In His grip

  As best as I can tell, this has been the preferred letter or e-mail closing for Christians since approximately 1997. When I was a teenager, people just signed off with “In Him,” but by the time I started working at a Baptist school in the late nineties, the closings had become much more biblically specific (“In the blood of the Lamb,” “In the strong name of Jesus,” “In the name of the One Who came to seek and to save,” etc.). Over the last few years there’s been an emphasis on participle-based closings (“Seeking Him,” “Growing in Christ,” “Clinging to the cross,” “Loving because He first loved me,” etc.), but “In His grip” has hung in there and seems to have some real staying power. It’s a classic, though I am always tempted to go with a closing that a blog reader suggested several years ago: “Continuing in sin so that grace may abound.” Praise His merciful name.

  A fresh word

  This is another one I’d never heard before we moved to Alabama, and initially I thought maybe Alabama had some grammar issues. But eventually I learned that “a fresh word” is when a pastor or teacher explains a passage of Scripture in a way that’s completely new to you. Yes, the pastor has actually used a whole bunch of words, but word works as a collective noun in this case, referring to the whole of what was said (I totally just made that up, so I hope it’s accurate). You might also hear a convicting word, a prophetic word, a good word, or a challenging word. And technically, I guess, you might hear a boring word or a self-righteous word, but we don’t really talk about those.

  Give Him some praise

  In more charismatic churches, this phrase would more than likely come from the worship leader, and then all the folks in the congregation would clap or raise their hands or maybe even shout. In more orthodox churches, this phrase would probably come from, well, nobody. Because no one would ever dream of saying this. Ever. And you can show your praise and reverence for the Lord by BOWING YOUR HEAD AND SAYING THE ANCIENT PRAYERS AND THEN ZIPPING IT. Thank you.

  Transparent (see also: authentic)

  This is the modern-day church’s antidote for curing Christians’ tendency to pretend like everything is perfect. Obviously it’s good to be real and genuine and what have you, but everybody knows there’s at least one person in every Sunday school class or Bible study who takes “transparent” a step too far. Yes, the church wants and needs to love people right where they are, but I am not too sure there’s any real point in the church knowing about someone’s painful bunions, their frustrations with very specific aspects of their sex life, or—here’s my personal favorite—martyresque confessions. Sometimes it’s hard to love someone unconditionally when prayer-request time gets hijacked by something like this:

  Y’all, the other day I just had to go before the Lord and say, “OH, ABBA DADDY, I want to honor You in everything I do, but I confess, Jehovah Shammah, that I am weary after spending the last sixteen days providing underprivileged children with an in-depth study of the book of Leviticus, and even though I am grateful, Jehovah Nissi, that I was single-handedly responsible for leading forty-four of them to professing faith in Christ, I come to You and just ask for a small window of rest, Lord.”

  Obviously it’s good to be transparent, but you know what else is good? Humility. And common sense.

  Beth Moore

  You won’t get a single sarcastic remark out of me as far as this one is concerned. She has had more impact for the Kingdom of God than just about any Bible teacher in modern history, and her faithful obedience has changed the lives of tens of thousands of women—if not more. Her words will ripple for generations. In fact, I think so much of her and her ministry that I’m gonna end
this without a single punch line. Willingly.

  Stumbling block

  When I first heard this term—which comes from the book of Matthew, I think—it reminded me of “speed bump,” and I have an annoying tendency to mix them up when I’m talking. So if you ever walk into my church with a big platter of fried chicken when I’m trying to stick to a diet and I say, “Oh my word—that fried chicken is gonna be a speed bump for me today,” you’ll know what I mean.

  Tomlin

  Chris Tomlin is a good Texas boy who has written a big chunk of our modern hymns and roughly four million worship songs (this number may be a slight exaggeration, but I don’t think it’s by much). Worship pastors like to refer to him by his last name only, sort of like they’re bros from way back who like to hang out and jam (just acoustic, though) when they’re in the same town. Apparently singing the same person’s songs over a period of years breeds a good degree of familiarity and also affection. I find this oddly sweet.

  The Wesley Brothers

  John and Charles Wesley were sort of a big deal back in the 1700s. They were brothers, pastors, and founders of the Methodist church. They also wrote lots of the old hymns that we still sing—the Chris Tomlins of their day, if you will. Or maybe Chris Tomlin is the Charles Wesley of our day. However, I bet no one sang this verse from “Jesus, Lover of My Soul” and then called “Wesley” by his last name.

  Thou, O Christ, art all I want, more than all in Thee I find;