The American Protestant Church, like many groups, has a particular vocabulary.  There are very intentional words and phrases, steeped deep in theology.  There are grand arguments and church splits over the use of specific words.  Just this week I found myself in the throes of a discussion of the word ‘idolatry.’ 

The sensitivity over particular vocabulary is understandable to an extent.  Being clear and precise on what we mean with our words is important.  It is, as Adler tells us, the distinction between our ‘words’ and our ‘terms.’  The ‘words' are what we find in the dictionary.  The ‘terms' are the way the way words are used in this context by this author/speaker/denomination.  Precision matters.  

Until it doesn’t.

I have a friend that grew up in a different circle than I did.  Because we live in the Bible Belt, he understands that certain words are important and special because of the reverence with which they’re treated, but he’s not concerned with the theological implications.  He also doesn’t understand why churches ‘major in the minors’ splitting hairs on terms.  It’s through his eyes that I’ve become more sensitive to the vocabulary we choose in talking about our God.  

Then I lost my keys.  

I couldn’t find them.  Anywhere.  I swapped key rings and pants and drove my wife’s car and somewhere between laundry and the ball field, I lost my keys. 

I found myself using the same word, ‘lost’ to describe my keys as we do to describe those that do not yet believe in God.  Seemed odd.  And the more I thought about it, the more odd it became: the inadequacy of language I suppose.  

So I asked my bride, who teaches English about the word tense (she put me through Grad School, so I trust her on technical matters of the English language.  And Latin.  She knows Latin too).  Admittedly, I didn’t understand her explanation (or stopped listening when she started diagramming sentences, I don’t remember).  What I did understand is that ‘lost’ describes the state of an object in relation to its orientation.  A driver is ‘lost’ only when he loses his place on the map.  Nothing materially changed about himself or his car, except his confidence in relation to where he was supposed to be.  

Then I remembered my keys.  Nothing directly changed about the state of my keys when they were on my key ring and when they weren’t. Indirectly, everything changed.  Their function as a lock opener was completely negated, caught among the seat cushions.  The value of my keys, their very essence, is in their role in opening locks.  I’ve also used keys to entertain toddlers and make jewelry and seen keys melted into art, but none of that is possible in the seat cushions.  

How then, does this illustrate the ‘lostness’ of a nonbeliever?  ‘Lostness’ (and ‘foundness,’ I suppose) are states in relation to God.  As Christians, we believe that our place is in relation to the Father, ‘found’ in his grace.  What we mean, I think, when we describe our life as a Believer is that we have found our way as if on God’s map. We have found our value and meaning in the same way that my keys find meaning in relation to me and my door locks.  My keys won’t matter to my neighbor and serve a lesser role to my 1 year-old nephew.  It’s only in my hands do my keys assume their value.  

As a Christian, my heart goes out to those that have not yet understood their ‘home’ in Christ; that state of their heart in relation to the Father, but ‘lost’ seems inadequate.  While it may be theologically and technically correct, it feels like there should be something more.  As a man that has known the grace of God, I understand ‘home.’  I understand the feeling of ’not home’ as well.  I’ll leave the technicalities to the theologians, but I want my children and my neighbors and my co-workers to know ‘home.’  That feels a better description of grace.  Come home, won’t you.