We may have thrown the baby out with the bath water. In this case the “baby” is God. The bath water I suppose is all the dirty sins—against God and humanity— of the many patriarchal religions.
Out, out damn sins, but save the "baby." I’m stuck with God. I just can’t find a way around God. I’ve tried to use other names and alternative spelling like Godde. I’ve experimented with various alternatives like Upholder, Source of Life, Creator, Shepherd, Holy One, Light, even Love— but these are all descriptives, not names.
I need a name! God is a name, not a gender.
There is something unrelinquishable about a name!—if you’re going to be calling on someone or addressing them as if they count. And God knows we call on God enough!—just in case if nothing else. Naming is an important tradition in families, in the Bible, and in religions. G-d names people.
The other issue for me is plain courtesy. I was first introduced to divinity as God. I wouldn’t normally change the name I first knew anyone by, would I? Not.
My one time Jesuit spiritual director once suggested I find a name for God that was a term of endearment, something like I'd use with my spouse—when I found him endearing. But hon just didn’t do it.
I am a woman who fought passionately to get ordained a priest. As a woman, feminist, and priest I lobby for my conviction: God is not a boy's name.
Lots of Latino boys are named Jesus, Jewish boys named Moses, Muslim boys, Mohammed, but really! . . . Do you know anyone named God? Can you imagine it? “Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet the man I love and plan to marry. His name is God.” It’s more traumatic than, “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
When I was a child I thought of God as an old bearded man in the sky full of winks and wonders. and love for every ounce of creation. Then I was violated by an old man with a long white beard like God’s and after that I was pretty sure God was no man, even though the Church, all the prayers, the Bible, and everyone I knew called God He, Him, His, Himself.
I notice that traditional gendered language about God traps God in manhood and holy manhood at that—patriarchal images and theologies of omnipotence. Language that deifies transcendent manhood is a constant thorn in the side of the freedom of God to be God. It’s God-abuse!
It's also not good for us humans. We waste time and energy on gender-bound argumentation, all the while knowing that Divinity is not tied to a gender. It’s exhausting and personally it makes me furious and want to gnash my teeth. I do not feel loved and included in God who is only He. I'm a She. Divinity consistently clothed in such garb is NOT good for women, period.
So can keep God's name and get rid of the darn pronouns? It's possible.
At a retreat homily for seminarians I thought would be, well, liberal, I suggested that, although Jesus the earthly man of Nazareth, was a man, Christ taken up into the godhead was a messianic title that no longer required masculinization. And further, the Incarnation was not restricted to Jesus’ flesh but was for all flesh, over half of it female. N.B. The male seminarians freaked out; the women seminarians were moved and excited—but secretly. One calling me a "trailblazer."
Why couldn’t we say in our liturgy, “By Christ and with Christ and in Christ” instead of him when we elevate the elements? We have easily changed “It is right to give him thanks and praise” to “It is right to give God (or our) thanks and praise.” It’s not hard and it’s about Love.
Christians say God is unconditional love. Then why do we set conditions on that love by giving it a gender?
For Godde’s sake, literally, and before we know it some boy will be named God. Poor kid.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
2013.06.12 FLOTUS Take a Risk
Warning: it’s my soap box again!—one of them anyway.
Michelle Obama was heckled by an activist woman at a private Democratic fund-raising event just last Tuesday.
Heckling is not unusual. What was unusual was the way Mrs. Obama handled the harassment by heckling, a tactic I personally think is not only discourteous but rather effete in its ability to persuade or advance a cause, express views, or even to simply create flack.
What impressed me was that our FLOTUS came down from the podium and went straight up to the woman activist, got in her face and personal space, and said: “Listen to me or you can take the mike, but I’m leaving,” daring the stranger to own her rude behavior and daring the crowd to choose between them.
The First Lady won the standoff, but Globe editorial writer Joanna Weiss wrote on June 9, 2013, that reactions were mixed. "Some people will always accuse her of being “angry,” a word loaded with coded meaning. Even some fans thought she was impolitic here, too quick to show her temper, especially in contrast to her glacier-cool husband.”
Myself, I found it refreshing. This was not from afar, cyber-anger online where we don’t need to see people’s reactions, but a face-to-face confrontation—far from anonymous.
What are the “coded meanings” in “anger?” Is it the old fear of a woman scorned in love or politics? Is it any anger? Is it loaded with racist/sexist/heterosexist/ableist subliminality? If a woman’s anger, is it a violation of gender role stereotype, politically incorrect, or just recalcitrant sexism?
I recall some years ago when I expressed anger. I was trying to get ordained priest in the Episcopal Church just after the Church had voted (1976) that women could be ordained. I was among the first group of women to enter the ordination process in Connecticut. We were “legal” so the bishop and committees had to receive our applications, but we were hardly welcome in the face of naked sexism in a patriarchal institution.
The committee turned me down saying that it would be a “dual vocation”—that I would not be able to be a mother and a priest.
After fuming and self-denigrating for a while I, with the encouragement of my therapist, wrote a letter to the bishop, sent also to every member of the committee. I expressed my anger at the injustice and advocated for myself in what I thought was a healthy manner.
Guess what? My anger was labelled naive, aggressive, hostile, immature, defensive, and, yes, unbecoming for a woman. My anger was called anything but anger, a quite normal feeling in response to an injury, or for the sake of justice.
That was 35 years ago. And the condemnation of female anger is still with us, although much of the condemnation goes underground—along with the anger I would add.
I’m proud of Mrs. Obama. Her action gives us pause. I hope it will be instrumental in breaking down the rigidities of our patriarchal system. When we dare to go face to face and into another’s personal space, we risk rejection AND we also risk establishing a damn good relationship of truth. Heaven forfend. Is that what we’re afraid of?
And for Christians (and other religions too, men and women alike) who are supposed to live respecting the dignity of every human person, it’s time to get a grip and take some risks for the sake of connection. Anger-in-truth is no sin.
Michelle Obama was heckled by an activist woman at a private Democratic fund-raising event just last Tuesday.
Heckling is not unusual. What was unusual was the way Mrs. Obama handled the harassment by heckling, a tactic I personally think is not only discourteous but rather effete in its ability to persuade or advance a cause, express views, or even to simply create flack.
What impressed me was that our FLOTUS came down from the podium and went straight up to the woman activist, got in her face and personal space, and said: “Listen to me or you can take the mike, but I’m leaving,” daring the stranger to own her rude behavior and daring the crowd to choose between them.
The First Lady won the standoff, but Globe editorial writer Joanna Weiss wrote on June 9, 2013, that reactions were mixed. "Some people will always accuse her of being “angry,” a word loaded with coded meaning. Even some fans thought she was impolitic here, too quick to show her temper, especially in contrast to her glacier-cool husband.”
Myself, I found it refreshing. This was not from afar, cyber-anger online where we don’t need to see people’s reactions, but a face-to-face confrontation—far from anonymous.
What are the “coded meanings” in “anger?” Is it the old fear of a woman scorned in love or politics? Is it any anger? Is it loaded with racist/sexist/heterosexist/ableist subliminality? If a woman’s anger, is it a violation of gender role stereotype, politically incorrect, or just recalcitrant sexism?
I recall some years ago when I expressed anger. I was trying to get ordained priest in the Episcopal Church just after the Church had voted (1976) that women could be ordained. I was among the first group of women to enter the ordination process in Connecticut. We were “legal” so the bishop and committees had to receive our applications, but we were hardly welcome in the face of naked sexism in a patriarchal institution.
The committee turned me down saying that it would be a “dual vocation”—that I would not be able to be a mother and a priest.
After fuming and self-denigrating for a while I, with the encouragement of my therapist, wrote a letter to the bishop, sent also to every member of the committee. I expressed my anger at the injustice and advocated for myself in what I thought was a healthy manner.
Guess what? My anger was labelled naive, aggressive, hostile, immature, defensive, and, yes, unbecoming for a woman. My anger was called anything but anger, a quite normal feeling in response to an injury, or for the sake of justice.
That was 35 years ago. And the condemnation of female anger is still with us, although much of the condemnation goes underground—along with the anger I would add.
I’m proud of Mrs. Obama. Her action gives us pause. I hope it will be instrumental in breaking down the rigidities of our patriarchal system. When we dare to go face to face and into another’s personal space, we risk rejection AND we also risk establishing a damn good relationship of truth. Heaven forfend. Is that what we’re afraid of?
And for Christians (and other religions too, men and women alike) who are supposed to live respecting the dignity of every human person, it’s time to get a grip and take some risks for the sake of connection. Anger-in-truth is no sin.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
2013.06.09 Books We Hear
You can tell a lot about yourself by noticing what your favorite book was as a young child. Often there’s one favorite, one that stands out, one that touched your imagination in provocative ways. It would be the one you requested and loved to skim when no one was available to read it to you. It would be the one your mother or father got sick of. It would be the one whose plot somehow mysteriously told you who you are and where you wanted to go, if life afforded the opportunities and you had enough health and chutzpah to follow them.
I remember the Dick and Jane readers, full of boring repetitions: Run. Run Run. See Dick run—going nowhere fast! Baby Sally and Puff the kitten had promise, but the rest of those plodders killed any possibility of plot or excitement. If that was the spice of reading it was not for me. Bad writing did, however, motivate me to learn to read so I could move on from these primers. They weren’t spiritual. They didn’t enliven me.
Thanks God for Dr. Seuss who came along and, by writing a good read, made learning to read enticing.
My favorite pre-reading book engaged me in a life, an image, and a story fraught with meaning I would come to love and remember. It was called The Little Book About God, published just four years before I was born. It’s small and not full of colorful illustrations to attract a young child. My mother must have picked it out for me at one of our annual book-buying trips to Macys in NYC. The book spree was almost more exciting to me as the clothes-buying jaunt, also at Macys.
Why my mother thought I’d love this book is uncertain. Perhaps it had something to do with her own yearnings and the fact that she thought I was a gift from God born after several miscarriages and lots of anguish. And maybe I told her I’d met God under the table. I don’t know but God was an early mental preoccupation for me—a Mystery I still ponder and have come to love beyond love.
My younger sister’s favorite book was The Little House. She grew up to live in a little house and be a champion of justice for little people, who, like the book’s little house, got overpowered by big city growth and other oppressions.
My children's books of choice told me a lot about them, their souls: wild things, things that moved fast like planes, trains and automobiles, little houses and family love, searching and finding the right mother.
My husband’s favorite, one of them at least, was The Little Engine That Could. No wonder. He still is one.
What was yours?
I remember the Dick and Jane readers, full of boring repetitions: Run. Run Run. See Dick run—going nowhere fast! Baby Sally and Puff the kitten had promise, but the rest of those plodders killed any possibility of plot or excitement. If that was the spice of reading it was not for me. Bad writing did, however, motivate me to learn to read so I could move on from these primers. They weren’t spiritual. They didn’t enliven me.
Thanks God for Dr. Seuss who came along and, by writing a good read, made learning to read enticing.
My favorite pre-reading book engaged me in a life, an image, and a story fraught with meaning I would come to love and remember. It was called The Little Book About God, published just four years before I was born. It’s small and not full of colorful illustrations to attract a young child. My mother must have picked it out for me at one of our annual book-buying trips to Macys in NYC. The book spree was almost more exciting to me as the clothes-buying jaunt, also at Macys.
Why my mother thought I’d love this book is uncertain. Perhaps it had something to do with her own yearnings and the fact that she thought I was a gift from God born after several miscarriages and lots of anguish. And maybe I told her I’d met God under the table. I don’t know but God was an early mental preoccupation for me—a Mystery I still ponder and have come to love beyond love.
My younger sister’s favorite book was The Little House. She grew up to live in a little house and be a champion of justice for little people, who, like the book’s little house, got overpowered by big city growth and other oppressions.
My children's books of choice told me a lot about them, their souls: wild things, things that moved fast like planes, trains and automobiles, little houses and family love, searching and finding the right mother.
My husband’s favorite, one of them at least, was The Little Engine That Could. No wonder. He still is one.
What was yours?
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
2013.06.05 Women and Violence—Again and Forever?
I’ve just read The Anglican Journal’s small report on a meeting held on March 1-3, 2013, sponsored by Anglican Women’s Empowerment (AWE, nice acronym!). The meeting was held in Manhattan, New York and was attended by eleven women who traveled from Africa and America to have conversations.
Conversations took place in small groups with the goal of breaking the silence about violence against women. The groups had the topic and the structure and, as the Indaba model encourages, each group established its own focus and process.
Indaba is a South African term that basically means meeting. The just retired Archbishop of Canterbury appropriated the term for the Lambeth Conference of Anglican clergy in 2008. The idea is that medium-sized groups (not plenaries) come together to converse about large, even global, issues and problems. Call it a family meeting.
Here’s an eye-opener that shot my eyes nearly out of my head.
A youngest woman participant at the AWE gathering, Faith Meitiaki from Kenya, expressed surprise that women in the developed world struggle with life challenges and sexual abuse and domestic violence in the same way women in less privileged circumstances do.
She said: “For me it was an eye-opener: that, as long as you are a woman, you will always face violence. That was the common denominator between the women from Africa and America.”
As long as you are a woman. So why have I and so many other women continued to write, work and preach against violence against women? Are we hopeless cases because of our gender? Is there safety for women without a man to protect her?
I have no good answers but I will think and pray about this “eye-opener.” The only one thing I am completely sure of is that this painful common denominator, which I suspect is no different for women in general than it was for those women at the AWE meeting, is not God’s will, God’s desire, God’s dream, or whatever else you want to attribute to a power greater than human power, a power more loving than human power—even if you don’t believe in God.
We earthlings with our free will and the best of our good will just aren’t doing very well with justice, compassion, truth and love. Simply so.
But is it because we are godless or humanless? Or both?
Conversations took place in small groups with the goal of breaking the silence about violence against women. The groups had the topic and the structure and, as the Indaba model encourages, each group established its own focus and process.
Indaba is a South African term that basically means meeting. The just retired Archbishop of Canterbury appropriated the term for the Lambeth Conference of Anglican clergy in 2008. The idea is that medium-sized groups (not plenaries) come together to converse about large, even global, issues and problems. Call it a family meeting.
Here’s an eye-opener that shot my eyes nearly out of my head.
A youngest woman participant at the AWE gathering, Faith Meitiaki from Kenya, expressed surprise that women in the developed world struggle with life challenges and sexual abuse and domestic violence in the same way women in less privileged circumstances do.
She said: “For me it was an eye-opener: that, as long as you are a woman, you will always face violence. That was the common denominator between the women from Africa and America.”
As long as you are a woman. So why have I and so many other women continued to write, work and preach against violence against women? Are we hopeless cases because of our gender? Is there safety for women without a man to protect her?
I have no good answers but I will think and pray about this “eye-opener.” The only one thing I am completely sure of is that this painful common denominator, which I suspect is no different for women in general than it was for those women at the AWE meeting, is not God’s will, God’s desire, God’s dream, or whatever else you want to attribute to a power greater than human power, a power more loving than human power—even if you don’t believe in God.
We earthlings with our free will and the best of our good will just aren’t doing very well with justice, compassion, truth and love. Simply so.
But is it because we are godless or humanless? Or both?
Sunday, June 2, 2013
2013.06.02 Hooking a Soul
I’ve always thought that the arts offer a special perspective, somehow able to transcend in-your-face reality without discounting or prettying it. All great arts transmit faith, hope and love, these three—and the greatest of these is hope, light as a feather and just as profound.
But shouldn't the greatest be love as St. Paul said in I Corinthians 13? Only if that love is God's.
Poet Frank Bidart, according to a Poets and Writers (May/June, 2013) interview, admits to a potent distrust of love, as if it would win out in the end. A quote from his 2013 book Metaphysical Dog, describes his disillusion, and has been true of his own life:
“As a boy you despised the world for replacing
God with another addiction, love.”
Bidart is “skeptical” that romantic love can validate one’s life but admits that all love is saying yes to something. He says yes to art. “It’s the closest thing to God I have found. Art is the way I have survived.”
Here is one of Bidart's poems that exemplifies the saving power of the art of poetry and acting: (Ennis Del Mar is the main character in Annie Proulx’s short story “Brokeback Mountain” and Heath Ledger is the actor who so superbly played Del Mar in the movie.)
“Poem Ending With a Sentence by Heath Ledger”
Each grinding flattened American vowel smashed to
centerlessness, his glee that whatever long ago mutilated his
mouth, he mastered to mutilate
you: the Joker’s voice so unlike
the bruised, withheld, wounded voice of Ennis Del Mar.
Once I have the voice
that’s the line
and at
the end
of the line
is a hook
and attached
to that
is the soul.
But shouldn't the greatest be love as St. Paul said in I Corinthians 13? Only if that love is God's.
Poet Frank Bidart, according to a Poets and Writers (May/June, 2013) interview, admits to a potent distrust of love, as if it would win out in the end. A quote from his 2013 book Metaphysical Dog, describes his disillusion, and has been true of his own life:
“As a boy you despised the world for replacing
God with another addiction, love.”
Bidart is “skeptical” that romantic love can validate one’s life but admits that all love is saying yes to something. He says yes to art. “It’s the closest thing to God I have found. Art is the way I have survived.”
Here is one of Bidart's poems that exemplifies the saving power of the art of poetry and acting: (Ennis Del Mar is the main character in Annie Proulx’s short story “Brokeback Mountain” and Heath Ledger is the actor who so superbly played Del Mar in the movie.)
“Poem Ending With a Sentence by Heath Ledger”
Each grinding flattened American vowel smashed to
centerlessness, his glee that whatever long ago mutilated his
mouth, he mastered to mutilate
you: the Joker’s voice so unlike
the bruised, withheld, wounded voice of Ennis Del Mar.
Once I have the voice
that’s the line
and at
the end
of the line
is a hook
and attached
to that
is the soul.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
2013.05.30 Fuck Off ?!
Well, I guess if the inimitable and great British artist Helen Mirren can tell a bunch of gay drummers on parade in London to “fuck off” then the lid’s off, no?
Mirren, earlier this month, was playing Her Majesty the Queen in a delicate play called The Audience.
Her F-outburst had merit, considering that London theaters are right on the street and the furious enthusiasm of a parade of drummers was interfering with both the actors’ concentration and the theater-goers’ ability to hear their lines. So Mirren swept out into the street at Intermission and in full regalia told the blighters,“Shut the fuck up. People have paid fucking a hundred pounds for their theater tickets.”
How politically incorrect can it get? But it was a parade-stopper. Mirren said she felt badly. AND: “Something had to be done.” Good on! commented a gay friend and Mirren fan.
Helen Mirren, according to my beloved spouse, somewhat of an amateur actor himself, is sort of a “fishwife”—not a woman who sells fish. But is there such a characterization for a man who might tell his female wife, his female nurse, his female secretary, et al. to fuck off several times a day? Who’s ever heard of a fishhusband?
The humorous twist in the F-story is that she did this while in costume and make-up for the role she was engaged in as QEII.
The gracious twist to Mirren’s fishwifery is that Helen Mirren, not on stage but in real life, recently stood in for the Queen to answer the dying wish of a 10 year old Downs Syndrome boy beset with spine cancer. He wanted to go to Buckingham Palace and have tea with the Queen. Mirren took the boy and his family to the Gielgud Theater, a fine substitute for the palace, and afterwards took them back stage for tea and cakes and a visit with the corgis (see below) who had played their parts in the play.The boy was transported. Mirren played both herself and her royal role with grace. Even the family admitted it was hard to tell the difference between Mirren and Her Majesty; the boy never knew—and, to that family, it did not matter. How fucking royal of Mirren!
What is most real is most spiritually correct, if not politically so.
To tell you the truth, I love the explosive expressiveness of the F word and use it myself. I’ve never used it from the pulpit but there are times I’ve thought it might fit, even, or especially, from the lips of Jesus or Moses.
Some times political correctness or the rules of civil decorum, especially around the parameters of being a “lady,” might be chucked—or fucked.
HOWEVER, Helen Mirren isn't Dame Helen Mirren for naught. She attended a concert of the drummers a few days after she'd insulted them on the streets. She went to support them and their performance and to make amends for her own "performance."
Mirren, earlier this month, was playing Her Majesty the Queen in a delicate play called The Audience.
Her F-outburst had merit, considering that London theaters are right on the street and the furious enthusiasm of a parade of drummers was interfering with both the actors’ concentration and the theater-goers’ ability to hear their lines. So Mirren swept out into the street at Intermission and in full regalia told the blighters,“Shut the fuck up. People have paid fucking a hundred pounds for their theater tickets.”
How politically incorrect can it get? But it was a parade-stopper. Mirren said she felt badly. AND: “Something had to be done.” Good on! commented a gay friend and Mirren fan.
Helen Mirren, according to my beloved spouse, somewhat of an amateur actor himself, is sort of a “fishwife”—not a woman who sells fish. But is there such a characterization for a man who might tell his female wife, his female nurse, his female secretary, et al. to fuck off several times a day? Who’s ever heard of a fishhusband?
The humorous twist in the F-story is that she did this while in costume and make-up for the role she was engaged in as QEII.
The gracious twist to Mirren’s fishwifery is that Helen Mirren, not on stage but in real life, recently stood in for the Queen to answer the dying wish of a 10 year old Downs Syndrome boy beset with spine cancer. He wanted to go to Buckingham Palace and have tea with the Queen. Mirren took the boy and his family to the Gielgud Theater, a fine substitute for the palace, and afterwards took them back stage for tea and cakes and a visit with the corgis (see below) who had played their parts in the play.The boy was transported. Mirren played both herself and her royal role with grace. Even the family admitted it was hard to tell the difference between Mirren and Her Majesty; the boy never knew—and, to that family, it did not matter. How fucking royal of Mirren!
What is most real is most spiritually correct, if not politically so.
To tell you the truth, I love the explosive expressiveness of the F word and use it myself. I’ve never used it from the pulpit but there are times I’ve thought it might fit, even, or especially, from the lips of Jesus or Moses.
Some times political correctness or the rules of civil decorum, especially around the parameters of being a “lady,” might be chucked—or fucked.
HOWEVER, Helen Mirren isn't Dame Helen Mirren for naught. She attended a concert of the drummers a few days after she'd insulted them on the streets. She went to support them and their performance and to make amends for her own "performance."
Monday, May 27, 2013
2013.05.26 What Is the Trinity?
I don’t know what exactly the Trinity is, but yesterday was Trinity Sunday so it’s on my mind.
Oh okay, it’s a Christian doctrine that tells us that the nature of Divinity is relational: three self-expressions in one being: Father, Son & Holy Spirit. or Creator, Christ and Holy Spirit. Not very revolutionary unless you need God to be absolutely singular in nature—a monolith.
Here’s the idea: Creator/Mother/Father ignites life energy; Christ is Jesus, who catches the energy and lives it so well he could be related, as a Son; the Holy Spirit is the Great Connector, She plants seeds of love and healing all over the cosmos. The three dance together as one ball of divine energy, and I am invited to join in just as I am, vulnerable, human, and resurrectable, as Jesus was.
The Trinity evolved out of the faith of the early Jesus followers who experienced Jesus of Nazareth as the most divinized human being ever alive.
Who really cares? I do. Why? Because the Trinitarian idea of God is more feminine—relatable and intimate by nature, not just because feminists change the spelling of the divine name or give the Holy Spirit a feminine gender. The Trinity is re-creating every second, like a book you can read, re-read, and read again and it's always new.
So here is my imperfect analogy—derived in part from my own efforts as a religio- spiritual writer.
God Creator is like the author who has a fabulous bright idea in mind.
Christ is like the book (first in a series) the Creator writes to give form to the idea.
Holy Spirit is like readers who read the book.
The original bright idea is the unifier, present in author, book, and readers. It’s my favorite book.
Oh okay, it’s a Christian doctrine that tells us that the nature of Divinity is relational: three self-expressions in one being: Father, Son & Holy Spirit. or Creator, Christ and Holy Spirit. Not very revolutionary unless you need God to be absolutely singular in nature—a monolith.
Here’s the idea: Creator/Mother/Father ignites life energy; Christ is Jesus, who catches the energy and lives it so well he could be related, as a Son; the Holy Spirit is the Great Connector, She plants seeds of love and healing all over the cosmos. The three dance together as one ball of divine energy, and I am invited to join in just as I am, vulnerable, human, and resurrectable, as Jesus was.
The Trinity evolved out of the faith of the early Jesus followers who experienced Jesus of Nazareth as the most divinized human being ever alive.
Who really cares? I do. Why? Because the Trinitarian idea of God is more feminine—relatable and intimate by nature, not just because feminists change the spelling of the divine name or give the Holy Spirit a feminine gender. The Trinity is re-creating every second, like a book you can read, re-read, and read again and it's always new.
So here is my imperfect analogy—derived in part from my own efforts as a religio- spiritual writer.
God Creator is like the author who has a fabulous bright idea in mind.
Christ is like the book (first in a series) the Creator writes to give form to the idea.
Holy Spirit is like readers who read the book.
The original bright idea is the unifier, present in author, book, and readers. It’s my favorite book.
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