Picture a shaman in a dimly lit hut, eyes closed in a deep trance. Their body sways, and from their lips comes a stream of sound that is clearly speech, but in a tongue you’ve never heard. It’s rhythmic, filled with strange clicks, guttural croaks, and soaring vowels. Is this a direct line to the spirit world? Or is it simply, as a skeptic might say, meaningless babble?

For decades, many linguists and anthropologists have moved past this simple binary. The phenomenon—known broadly as glossolalia, but encompassing a wide range of ritual speech—is far more interesting than mere nonsense. When a ritualist adopts a ‘spirit language’, they aren’t just making random noises. They are engaging in a highly structured, rule-governed sociolinguistic performance. They are, in essence, giving voice to a second self.

What is a “Spirit Language”?

A spirit language, or ritual register, is a specialized way of speaking adopted during a trance, possession, or ceremonial channeling. It signals a profound shift in identity: the speaker is no longer just themselves but is now a conduit for a deity, an ancestor, or a nature spirit. The form this language takes can vary dramatically across cultures:

• Lexical Replacement: In some cases, like among certain Siberian shamans, the grammar remains largely the same as their native tongue, but the vocabulary is completely different. They use a secret lexicon of archaic words and onomatopoeia to represent the sounds of the animal spirits they channel.
• Distinct Languages: The Kallawaya, traditional healers in the Bolivian Andes, possess a secret ritual language—Mach’aj Juyai—which is distinct from the local Quechua or Spanish. It’s a complete language passed down through generations of healers, used specifically for medicinal and ritual incantations.
• Register Shifts: Balinese spirit mediums often don’t invent a new language but instead speak in Kawi (Old Javanese) or High Balinese—prestigious, archaic registers they might not use or even fully understand in a conscious state. The language itself carries the authority of the past and the divine.
• Glossolalia: This is the term most people associate with “speaking in tongues”, often in Pentecostal Christian traditions. It sounds like a fluid, invented language, unintelligible to listeners (unless an “interpreter” is present).

Dismissing these as “babbling” misses the point entirely. From a linguistic perspective, the key isn’t whether the spirit is “real”, but whether the language produced is structured. And the answer is overwhelmingly yes.

Finding the Rules in Ritual Speech

Even the most seemingly chaotic form of spirit speech—glossolalia—follows predictable patterns. Linguist William J. Samarin, after extensive study of Pentecostal glossolalia, concluded that while it isn’t a “real” language (it lacks a consistent relationship between sound and meaning), it’s not random. He called it a “pseudo-language” that adheres to the rules of the speaker’s native linguistic toolkit.

Here’s how we can see the structure:

1. Phonology: A speaker of American English engaging in glossolalia will typically use English phonemes. They will aspirate their /p/, /t/, and /k/ sounds just as they would in English (e.g., the puff of air in “pot” vs. the unaspirated sound in “spot”). They won’t suddenly produce a Xhosa click or a French uvular ‘r’ if those sounds aren’t part of their phonological inventory. The set of sounds is limited and rule-governed.

2. Prosody and Intonation: The rhythm, stress, and intonation of glossolalia are highly patterned. Researcher Felicitas Goodman found that across different cultures and native languages, the intonation contour of trance speech often followed a similar arc: rising in pitch and tempo, reaching a peak, and then descending as the trance subsides. This suggests the “tune” of the language is a key structural element, separate from the “words.”

3. Morphology and Syntax: While spirit languages often use simplified grammar, they aren’t without form. Speakers create pseudo-words by combining a small set of syllables in repetitive ways (e.g., “shala-ma-shante, koro-ba-shante”). Phrases are often repeated with slight variations, creating a poetic, incantatory rhythm. It’s a syntax of parallelism and repetition, not of complex clause subordination, but it is a syntax nonetheless.

The Speech of a Second Self: A Sociolinguistic Performance

Beyond the nuts and bolts of phonology and syntax, spirit language is fundamentally a social act. It’s a performance meant to construct and legitimate an alternate identity—the “second self” of the spirit.

Think of it as an extreme form of code-switching. Just as you might switch from a casual slang with friends to a formal register in a job interview, the shaman switches from the mundane community language to the sacred spirit language. This switch does crucial work:

• It Marks the Sacred: The unintelligibility or rarity of the language is a feature, not a bug. It sets the ritual moment apart from everyday life, creating a sacred space where normal rules of communication don’t apply.
• It Establishes Authority: To be considered a legitimate channel, the ritualist must perform in a way the community recognizes as authentic. A shaman who produced sloppy, unconvincing spirit speech would quickly lose credibility. The “rules” of the spirit language, though unwritten, are enforced by the expectations of the audience. The performance must be convincing.
• It Embodies the Other: The voice itself often changes. Pitch may become higher or lower, the pace faster, the timbre rougher. These vocal modifications, combined with the special language, are the primary means by which the medium physically and audibly becomes the spirit. The language is the costume for this new identity.

Why It Matters to Linguists

The study of spirit languages pushes the boundaries of what we consider “language.” It forces us to see language not just as a tool for transmitting factual information, but as a dynamic, creative resource for building worlds, performing identities, and negotiating social status.

These ritual registers demonstrate the universality of linguistic structure. Even when humans are creating what they believe to be a supernatural tongue, they unconsciously import the phonological and prosodic rules of their own languages. It reveals that the architecture of language runs so deep, we can’t easily escape it even in a state of ecstatic trance.

So, the next time you encounter a depiction of a channelling ritual, listen closely. You aren’t hearing random gibberish. You are hearing a masterclass in sociolinguistic performance—the carefully constructed, rule-governed, and deeply meaningful speech of a second self.