I am ail iaith: doing theology one step behind

I have been doing some thinking - yes, me (probably for something formal). It is around the notion of ail iaith (Eng: second language). I am proud of my stuttering attempts to learn Welsh and immerse myself in another culture, which is distinct from Sheffield, the city which I grew up in and love more the older I get - the older bit is more poignant this year.

When you are ail iaith - operating in a second language or in a different culture, you are naturally one step behind. This is obvious in conversations, when your vocabulary is stretched or you are (still) translating into your mother tongue and then back again in order to communicate competently, if hesitantly, in a second language. At the beginning, you are restricted, very restricted, as you realise that a toddler has more command of the language than you do, and you find your thoughts that are detailed in one language 'contracted into a span' in your second. ('contracted to a span' is from Wesley’s hymn Let heaven and earth combine, which is a song about the incarnation. I wonder in what sense the incarnation is stuttering.... ducking to hide thunderbolts). In what sense is incarnational theology one pace behind?

Of course being ail iaith might be obvious with language, but for me, I see myself speaking a different language in other areas too. I am passionate about theology making sense in urban areas, particularly white working class ones. It is a moot point whether Holyhead is urban or not, but its estates meet many of the indexes of deprivation that might be found in Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow and Sheffield. Yet I do not speak the first languages of working class areas any more. I did. But my lived experience is three decades ago, although I have lived on estates since then as a student, professional and priest, but always in the knowledge that I could escape if I so wished. Indeed in many ways, learning to speak articulately and relevantly in such a place is harder than learning the iaith nefoed (language of heaven, Welsh). For in urban areas, I can slip with effortless ease into thinking that I do not need to learn, assuming that my three decades old experiences are normative. When you work in your second language you are not in standard mode.

This is also the case for me when engaging with black, feminist, womanist or gay theologies. I am ail iaith. It is an uncomfortable place, but in the uncomfortability there is vulnerability.

What would an ail iaith theology look or feel like? It would be provisional and partial. The practitioner would always be working as seeing through a glass darkly. Arguably, all practical theologians do this all the time, and yet there is a danger that we assume that our way of being is dominant. Certainly a white, heterosexual educated middle class male can feel that with some degree of ease.

And lest we think that ail iaith are always deemed to be outside, those we might think are inside are also ail iaith. In the context of Wales, people born in the country can be second language in terms of their command of Welsh. English and Welsh speakers can assume that their identity within the nation is normative.

Finally, for now one pace behind can be seen as negative, but it might the very thing that creates the moment in which we can think clearly about what is happening.

The vulnerability of being like a child again can open doors to new experiences. More later... perhaps.... gobeithio.