"The-Lord-has-been-good-to-me-this-week-so-I-want-to-thank-Him-for-all-His-lovingkindness-and-tender-mercies-because-He-helped-me-with-my-schoolwork-and-protected-my-parents-and-blessed-my-family-with-everything-we-need-so-all-I-want-to-do-is-serve-Him-all-the-days-of-my-life-so-please-uphold-me-in-your-prayers-this-coming-week-as-I-will-also-do-the-same-for-all-of-you-Praise-the-Lord-Forever-and-Ever-Amen."

This (verbatim) is the testimony I gave at church nearly every Sunday from the time I was six years old until I finished high school and left home for college.  Well, okay, I varied it a little bit from time to time.  Sometimes I said, "Jesus" or "God" instead of "Lord."  Or else I threw in a concrete detail, to spice things up: "Last-Tuesday-morning-Jesus-helped-me-get-an A-plus-on-my-Social-Studies-test-so-I-want-to-praise-and-thank-him-forever-Amen." 

During summer vacations, I skipped the bit about schoolwork, and praised the Lord for sunshine instead.  Occasionally, I threw in a memory verse or sang a hymn.  But mostly, I stood up, recited the above speech at the rate of about one thousand words a second, and sat back down.

I wasn't the only kid who did this.  It was a tradition at the church my father pastored throughout my childhood.  Every Sunday, after the worship songs and before the sermon, the congregation shared testimonies.  Children went first, and since I was the pastor's kid, I was expected to set a good example by popping out of my seat the minute my father invited us to share.  Some Sundays, when I was in a bad mood and took my sweet time standing up,  I'd feel my mother's eyes burning holes into the back of my neck. Stand up, stand up. I knew better than to defy my mother; I stood up.

Looking back now, I have to laugh, albeit ruefully.  I don't exactly regret those testimonies, or resent the tradition that forced them out of me.  For one, standing up in front of a congregation got me over stage fright early in life.  It doesn't faze me now to speak in front of crowds, and for that, I have those early testimonies to thank. 

And two?  Giving weekly testimonies taught me how to "God-talk" with relative ease.  That is, I'm pretty comfortable talking openly about God's place in my life; "religious" conversations don't embarrass me.  Until I became an adult and met Christians who were not trained in this way, I didn't realize it was common for believers to feel self-conscious about their faith.

So, a part of me is grateful for this heritage.  Another part of me, though, is taking a fresh look at the concept of testimony.  What does it mean to bear authentic, "real life" witness to God?  Is it possible to be pious and honest at the same time?  Must faithful testimonies always end in uplift? 

I ask these questions because my childhood recitations were unerringly pious, but very often dishonest; they hid a great deal about my relationship with God.  They hid uncertainty.  They hid fear.  They hid anger.  They jumped to false praise before honoring true pain, and they resorted to platitudes that fell flat even to my own ears because they cost me nothing.  They were easy.  Unlived, untested, unearned.

They were also ― I see now ― spoken in a voice that wasn't mine.  I don't use phrases like "lovingkindness and tender mercies" in everyday conversation.  Nor do I say things like, "Praise the Lord forever and ever!" or "Amen" with multiple exclamation points after it when I talk to my friends. 

So why, I wonder now, did I feel compelled to use this kind of affected speech in church?  And can I now, as an adult, find a truer voice, a voice that reflects who I really am with God? A voice that isn't canned or pre-packaged?

The expressions I used as a child were given to me by faithful and earnest adults, and I'm not ungrateful for them.  But they served as placeholders.  Shortcuts.  As long as I could rely on them, I didn't need to venture out alone with God, or pay the close, careful attention to him that genuine testimony requires.  To give testimony is to bear witness to what one has personally seen and heard.  To give testimony is to tell the truth one has come to know, even when that truth isn't convenient, neat, or pretty. 

So I'm slowing down.  No more thousand-words-a-minute.  No more clichés.  No more easy outs.  I'm trying to pay attention ― both to the world around me, and to the world inside of me.  And what I'm coming to understand is that God's movements in both are far more subtle, nuanced, and lively than anything a canned testimony might capture.

But of course, this is as it should be.  How dare I treat cheaply something that cost earlier generations of Christians (as well as Christians today, living under persecution) so much?  The martyrs didn't die for something hasty and pre-packaged.  They died for telling hard, cutting, joy-filled, pain-filled, powerfully undeniable stories about themselves and God.  Stories that they had lived.   

This is why, perhaps, the best testimonies begin in silence, where the deepest and most trustworthy knowledge often grows.  "Be still," says the One I long to testify to with precision and honesty.  "Be still and know that I am God."