On May 12, 2013, in Curaçao, the Dutch island off the Venezuela coast, Episcopal Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori preached a sermon on the text Acts 16:16-34 that raised a theological ruckus. (Source: NYTimes news story, June 12, 2013, Mark Oppenheimer.)
Now how often does a theological ruckus make the NYTimes? And from a text in the Acts of the Apostles, a book notable for its joyful exaggerations about the high speed growth of the young Christian Church, read evangelism? Miracle after miracle. And the Holy Spirit Herself notably in charge of this expansion. Who would critique Herself? Who could find controversy? It struck me as very funny.
It had to do, of course, with how scripture is interpreted and what scripture means in different contexts. Every generation must interpret scripture for its own time. That’s the point. That’s what keeps it holy—and alive.
So what was the ruckus really about?
Here’s a paraphrase of the biblical account, in brief and with NO interpretation, which is also the point—and the problem. Scripture leaves room for everyone’s take:
Paul is on the move spreading the Gospel of Jesus Christ through Greece with spectacular success, financed by a businesswoman/convert named Lydia. So far so good, but then one day a slave-girl with “a spirit of divination” (seeing beyond the obvious) shouted out,‘These men are slaves of the Most High God who proclaim to you a way of salvation.’ ” The girl followed Paul and his disciple Silas around calling out until Paul got annoyed and ordered the spirit to come out of her in the name of Jesus Christ. Which it obediently did causing the girl’s owners distress because they were making mucho money from her fortune telling. Her owners schemed to have Paul and other Christians arrested and thrown in jail for disturbing the peace and preaching the rhetoric of conversion. In prison Paul and Silas sang hymns to God; a violent earthquake shook their chains loose and all prisoners were free to escape but didn’t—in order to protect the jailer from losing his job or worse. The grateful jailer of course converts, is declared “saved”and he AND his entire household are summarily baptized.
Instant Christians and we all go out singing and rejoicing!! There you have it.
You see what I mean about Acts? Just the right amount of too many too happy endings!
In the meantime what happened to the poor slave-girl who, thanks to Paul’s pique, had been relieved of the divination gift that was her livelihood? Perhaps Paul was not really angry at her but at her exploitive owners? Nevertheless, the girl took a hit.
And what happened to Jefferts Schori? She preached about Paul’s failure to value diversity and to see the girl’s “difference.” She noticed, as did I, that the girl proclaimed the basic Christian kerygma: “These men are slaves of the Most High God who proclaim to you a way of salvation.”
Well, duh, I thought to myself. She even used the same slavery rhetoric as Paul used when he preached about Christians being "slaves" to God—and to no other I presume.
But the Presiding Bishop’s interpretation went viral. Angry Episcopalians flew around cyber space, defending Paul—and patriarchy I might add. Objectors denounced the Presiding Bishop for her provocative interpretation, questioning even her standing as a good Christian.
Most of the disgruntled Episcopalians were of a more traditionalist stripe and unhappy with Jefferts Schori’s support of gay and lesbian marriage and her hard line politics and legal stances against dissenting congregations who voted to secede from the Episcopal Church and expected to take their properties with them. NOT.
But is it not equally a NOT to biblical literalists to stay with a Church that has over-ridden biblical prohibitions against same-sex marriage? Again, a matter of interpretation in context.
You get the picture: a similar extremist tension to that which polarizes/paralyzes our government.
Scholars who were consulted agreed that Jefferts-Schori’s interpretation was not what the original biblical writers intended. Another duh—also the point of the ongoing tradition of scriptural interpretation incumbent on the Church. But what does it mean today?
Are you bored? I am. Yet I declare that my vote goes with the slave-girl who: 1) was exploited for her strange gift; 2) turned out to be a proclaimer of the gospel; and 3) was relieved of what the culture of her day thought of as “demonic” but which the text in Acts does not call “evil.” She might have looked on Paul as her abuser not her liberator.
Who, after all, would employ her now? Is there not, from a contemporary point of view, a sexist, possibly ableist, tinge to this text?—and to the extreme reactions to Jefferts Schori’s take? She too is a woman.
Jefferts-Schori said of prior generations of interpreters when asked for comment: “They had a limited view, because none of us is God.”
Jesus, I imagine, might take these two women out for lunch, (or to a quiet place) not for reprimand but to listen to their concerns—graciously, inclusively—and thank them for speaking truth to power, each in her own way.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Thursday, July 4, 2013
2013.07.04 Happy 4th in the Home of the Free
Why do I tear up when the piccolos toodle “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and the cannons boom to the mighty 1812 Overture?
I suppose it’s this thing of aging—a salubrious combination of sentimentality and gradual letting go of fretting over girth or acting goofy-happy.
Last evening we watched a 1985 documentary about the erection (well not really but a fun thought nonetheless!) of the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor. Ms Liberty was a gift from France to celebrate the centennial of American independence. The gift is significant, in part because the French knew how difficult it was to maintain the spirit of liberté egalité, fraternité against the pull of monarchy and other ills of control politics.
I grew up in NYC in the shadow of Lady Liberty, besides the Empire State Building. We used to go on Circle Line cruises and wave to her. What moves me most is that the statue is not a symbol or power, or even success, but rather a symbol of promise. America values independence, and freedom even more. The great statue’s torch, held so high and with such somber-faced dignity, reminds us not to forget our reason to be. Perhaps this is a bit like the sanctuary lamp that burns in churches remembers to us the promise of divine grace.
Boston strong turned into Boston nasty over the refusal to bury one of the Marathon bomber terrorists. Will Boston turn scared now as we face another mass celebration, ripe for bombs? I doubt it. We are patriotic, in spite of the Patriot Act.
Boston’s annual July 4th celebration this year will go on in its own spectacular way. The security will be tight,very. Some Bostonians will remember the pain and fear of bombings at another of Boston’s great traditions, the Boston Marathon on Patriots Day. Certain behaviors and items will not be permitted, including styrofoam coolers on wheels, non-transparent drink containers, trash cans, any homegrown fireworks, propane tanks for grills and NO BACKPACKS. That's a lot of lifestyle change. I hope they let the kids have sparklers.
I’m proud to be an American and proud to be a Christian. I weep for the joy and privilege of it.
I suppose it’s this thing of aging—a salubrious combination of sentimentality and gradual letting go of fretting over girth or acting goofy-happy.
Last evening we watched a 1985 documentary about the erection (well not really but a fun thought nonetheless!) of the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor. Ms Liberty was a gift from France to celebrate the centennial of American independence. The gift is significant, in part because the French knew how difficult it was to maintain the spirit of liberté egalité, fraternité against the pull of monarchy and other ills of control politics.
I grew up in NYC in the shadow of Lady Liberty, besides the Empire State Building. We used to go on Circle Line cruises and wave to her. What moves me most is that the statue is not a symbol or power, or even success, but rather a symbol of promise. America values independence, and freedom even more. The great statue’s torch, held so high and with such somber-faced dignity, reminds us not to forget our reason to be. Perhaps this is a bit like the sanctuary lamp that burns in churches remembers to us the promise of divine grace.
Boston strong turned into Boston nasty over the refusal to bury one of the Marathon bomber terrorists. Will Boston turn scared now as we face another mass celebration, ripe for bombs? I doubt it. We are patriotic, in spite of the Patriot Act.
Boston’s annual July 4th celebration this year will go on in its own spectacular way. The security will be tight,very. Some Bostonians will remember the pain and fear of bombings at another of Boston’s great traditions, the Boston Marathon on Patriots Day. Certain behaviors and items will not be permitted, including styrofoam coolers on wheels, non-transparent drink containers, trash cans, any homegrown fireworks, propane tanks for grills and NO BACKPACKS. That's a lot of lifestyle change. I hope they let the kids have sparklers.
I’m proud to be an American and proud to be a Christian. I weep for the joy and privilege of it.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
2013.06.30 Writing In The Dark
"The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis, and we'd have a mighty dull literature if all the writers that came along were a bunch of happy chuckleheads." William Styron
Don’t be afraid of the dark spots in your life. Let them be visible. The author of the above quote, William Styron, suffered from clinical depression for years. Out of its depths he wrote with profound empathy for human flawedness and human grandeur, even in himself when he wrote his book on his own depression, called Darkness Visible.
Most famous for Sophie’s Choice Styron wrote from the interstices of what classical theology called experimentum crucis, the experience of the cross, the matter of hideous choices.
We all have such times of despair and loneliness and fear that now, and ultimately, there is nothing. It is often the very place where we find something more, something mysterious, something impossible that allow us to enter the paradox of hope against hope.
One of my own such moments came when I’d been rejected twice for ordination. Delusionally, I thought I was nothing, God was nothing, and the Church was definitely nothing. And from somewhere deep inside me or outside me, I couldn’t tell which and it could have been both, I heard something: No one can take this away from you. Truth.
And that kind of truth is what we write about—always and repeatedly. It’s not the drama of the dilemma nor the triumph of new life, but the in between process of bearing up no matter what until your inner eyes can actually see luminosity in the darkness itself.
And that is what we write—over and over, this theme with endless individual variations.
Don’t be afraid of the dark spots in your life. Let them be visible. The author of the above quote, William Styron, suffered from clinical depression for years. Out of its depths he wrote with profound empathy for human flawedness and human grandeur, even in himself when he wrote his book on his own depression, called Darkness Visible.
Most famous for Sophie’s Choice Styron wrote from the interstices of what classical theology called experimentum crucis, the experience of the cross, the matter of hideous choices.
We all have such times of despair and loneliness and fear that now, and ultimately, there is nothing. It is often the very place where we find something more, something mysterious, something impossible that allow us to enter the paradox of hope against hope.
One of my own such moments came when I’d been rejected twice for ordination. Delusionally, I thought I was nothing, God was nothing, and the Church was definitely nothing. And from somewhere deep inside me or outside me, I couldn’t tell which and it could have been both, I heard something: No one can take this away from you. Truth.
And that kind of truth is what we write about—always and repeatedly. It’s not the drama of the dilemma nor the triumph of new life, but the in between process of bearing up no matter what until your inner eyes can actually see luminosity in the darkness itself.
And that is what we write—over and over, this theme with endless individual variations.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
2013.06.26 There's Nothing Like a Neighbor
There’s probably nothing more precious than a real neighbor, by which I mean someone who literally lives next door, not the figurative far-off neighbor we are all invited to love, but secretly fear.
I grew up on biblical food, the most frequently served up was: Love your neighbor as yourself, that is, in the same way you love yourself—an obviously specious commandment—deceptively easy, and taking a lifetime to get half right.
Still, try it out.
Our literal neighbor recently bought a basil plant for herself. It needed some sun that day so she put it over on our stoop. When we came home there it was. But was it ours? Did we forget we bought it? Or maybe it was hers and she forgot it? Or perhaps she bought it for us as a gift? What do do with a lost basil?
We claimed it; Dick, while I cheered from the sidelines, repotted it and put it back on our stoop. The next day it was gone.
After a flurry of emails filled with: “I thought you...” “And then we...” “If you love it keep it...” and “Oh we couldn’t do that, it’s yours...”, a conclusion was reached, and a mystery solved.
Resolution happened in person over the hose. Our neighbor watered and Dick pressed for details and facts like the good lawyer he’s become. Laughter sealed the deal: it was her plant repotted by her neighbor...therefore..............
We will share the basil and its savory gifts.
There’s nothing more precious than a neighbor even if you seldom speak or see each other. Because when you do, it feels as if you’ve always known each other well simply because you live next door and provide a mutual neighborly cushion of care.
I grew up on biblical food, the most frequently served up was: Love your neighbor as yourself, that is, in the same way you love yourself—an obviously specious commandment—deceptively easy, and taking a lifetime to get half right.
Still, try it out.
Our literal neighbor recently bought a basil plant for herself. It needed some sun that day so she put it over on our stoop. When we came home there it was. But was it ours? Did we forget we bought it? Or maybe it was hers and she forgot it? Or perhaps she bought it for us as a gift? What do do with a lost basil?
We claimed it; Dick, while I cheered from the sidelines, repotted it and put it back on our stoop. The next day it was gone.
After a flurry of emails filled with: “I thought you...” “And then we...” “If you love it keep it...” and “Oh we couldn’t do that, it’s yours...”, a conclusion was reached, and a mystery solved.
Resolution happened in person over the hose. Our neighbor watered and Dick pressed for details and facts like the good lawyer he’s become. Laughter sealed the deal: it was her plant repotted by her neighbor...therefore..............
We will share the basil and its savory gifts.
There’s nothing more precious than a neighbor even if you seldom speak or see each other. Because when you do, it feels as if you’ve always known each other well simply because you live next door and provide a mutual neighborly cushion of care.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
2013.06.23 Who Remembers Bad People?
Who remembers Dzhokhar Tsarnaev? For some odd reason I do—not a lot but some.
Why do we want to remember only the good, the heroes, the ones who are courageous and loving? Would we remember Jesus if there were not the grand idea of resurrection attached to his name?
I understand the feeling and its vehemence in the wake of such a tragedy. Perhaps if I had a loved one who lost a leg I’d feel the same. But I wasn’t.
In the traumatic transition we call high school I recall my heart aching for the unpopular, the odd balls, the misfits. I tried desperately to fit in so I could shelter any defects, like flat-chestedness or shyness, in some tight-knit clique. I needed a category and a group.
When I was in grade school in NYC there was a girl who moved to NY from Russia. Her name was Olga. She spoke broken English but enough to get along. She wasn’t pretty and wore odd clothes. I was among a group of girls who bullied her. We used to chase her down the sidewalks calling whatever nasty names that came to mind. She ran faster than we did and disappeared around the corner. I remember Olga. I do not remember my bullying companions, not even their names. Strange.
But Dzokhar was “bad”—a murderer, perpetrator of senseless violence. Yet I remember him and his name. Is anyone “bad”? I don’t think so. Everyone has a story and everyone does bad things, even evil things.
I remember the Tsarnaev brothers in part because I know I’m not perfect; in part because probably no one else remembers them (well maybe a parent); in part because one is dead and the other has lost his life whether he gets executed or not; and in part because I think Godde sees into their hearts and God remembers them by name, resurrection-like.
I’m not God or a spiritual hero. I just try to copy along when I can.
I recall being shocked at a rather snarky Boston Globe commentary by Kevin Cullen who declared boldly that he would remember and honor the names of the wounded in the Boston marathon bombings but he did not want to remember the names of the perpetrators. These he wanted to forget, forever.
I bet his name is not on any prayers lists in any churches.
Why do we want to remember only the good, the heroes, the ones who are courageous and loving? Would we remember Jesus if there were not the grand idea of resurrection attached to his name?
I understand the feeling and its vehemence in the wake of such a tragedy. Perhaps if I had a loved one who lost a leg I’d feel the same. But I wasn’t.
In the traumatic transition we call high school I recall my heart aching for the unpopular, the odd balls, the misfits. I tried desperately to fit in so I could shelter any defects, like flat-chestedness or shyness, in some tight-knit clique. I needed a category and a group.
When I was in grade school in NYC there was a girl who moved to NY from Russia. Her name was Olga. She spoke broken English but enough to get along. She wasn’t pretty and wore odd clothes. I was among a group of girls who bullied her. We used to chase her down the sidewalks calling whatever nasty names that came to mind. She ran faster than we did and disappeared around the corner. I remember Olga. I do not remember my bullying companions, not even their names. Strange.
But Dzokhar was “bad”—a murderer, perpetrator of senseless violence. Yet I remember him and his name. Is anyone “bad”? I don’t think so. Everyone has a story and everyone does bad things, even evil things.
I remember the Tsarnaev brothers in part because I know I’m not perfect; in part because probably no one else remembers them (well maybe a parent); in part because one is dead and the other has lost his life whether he gets executed or not; and in part because I think Godde sees into their hearts and God remembers them by name, resurrection-like.
I’m not God or a spiritual hero. I just try to copy along when I can.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
2013.06.19 Dear Dad
My father, McDonald Gillespie, grew up in Morristown NJ. After college Dad moved to New York City and went into advertising. Yes, he was a “Mad Man.” I watched the popular contemporary soap of that name, twice and never again. It was all too familiar: the 3-martini lunches, the mutual flirtations with secretaries, a shallow and competitive culture with rigid gender roles: Dad went to his office and advertised soups and Mom stayed home and advertised me. Their generation was full of anxious men and women using all their smarts to make money and ward off fearful memories of the 1929 depression.
My father imbibed his share of martinis, had one flirtation (I learned this from my mother) and also worked hard and with integrity at what he did. He never represented a product he didn’t believe in and use himself. We ate plenty of Campbell’s Soup (especially the tomato, so MmmMmmgood) and we never drank Coca Cola, only Pepsi. Dad, naturally, smoked Lucky Strikes for a bullseye.
Dad rose to executive VP status in spite of it all. He didn’t like the exaggerated advertising trend, embellishments to sell the product for profit. In fact, when television ads came in, he fumed when his agency decided to put marbles in the bowl of Campbell’s vegetable soup to make it look rich in edibles. Marbles didn’t sink to the bottom like all the real veggies and pasta products. My father thought that was dishonest and unnecessary. It was. He was a very honest man whose natural reserve commanded respect—well deserved. I loved him and never said it enough. So..................
Dear Dad,
2013 marks the 30th anniversary of your death at 71, an age far too young for the length of our love.
We first met when I was born of course and you named me. Naming is a big deal you know, at least it is in the biblical tradition where God names people and gives them gifts. You weren’t God, although sometimes I thought Mom thought so, but you named me Lynda, with a “y” to call me Lyn. You gave me your good looks, your serious-sided personality, and your appreciation for sacramental liturgy. Or did I give you that?
Two memories stand out for me, Dad. They’re not martini memories though I have a few of those too. As I grew up and got to know you I knew that you drank to relieve the silent soft ache of shyness. I have it too. And we both overdid the drinking, or let it overdo us—until we both stopped, you because of pancreatitis, and me because I came to myself.
My childhood stand-out memory is a summer one. We spent time on a farm in upstate NY and every so often we’d go on riding breakfasts with Farmer Kurtie and his daughter Bella. Remember? This was a special father/daughter adventure, just for the oldest daughters, before we hit our teens. We packed food and headed out into the open country at pre-dawn. The image engraved on my heart is this: In the pre-dawn we sat still and quiet, I on my small pony and you on your big horse, which is to say we were together like one, our souls riveted as we watched the globe of orange sun rise and take over the earth for a new day. After that we ate breakfast sandwiches made of bacon slathered with mayo and maybe lettuce too— unhealthfully delicious.
My adult memory of you was your last Christmas. You’d had surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from your esophagus. You had a feeding tube for nutrition but couldn’t eat or drink. You mustered all your strength and all your soul to make it in your wheelchair to the family table for the Christmas meal, which you couldn’t eat. You lifted a cup of coffee, took a deep whiff but no sip, grinned and toasted, “Merry Christmas everyone.”
You did it for us and you did it for Christmas. It was the most beautiful “eucharist” I’d ever seen.
Thanks Dad.
My father imbibed his share of martinis, had one flirtation (I learned this from my mother) and also worked hard and with integrity at what he did. He never represented a product he didn’t believe in and use himself. We ate plenty of Campbell’s Soup (especially the tomato, so MmmMmmgood) and we never drank Coca Cola, only Pepsi. Dad, naturally, smoked Lucky Strikes for a bullseye.
Dad rose to executive VP status in spite of it all. He didn’t like the exaggerated advertising trend, embellishments to sell the product for profit. In fact, when television ads came in, he fumed when his agency decided to put marbles in the bowl of Campbell’s vegetable soup to make it look rich in edibles. Marbles didn’t sink to the bottom like all the real veggies and pasta products. My father thought that was dishonest and unnecessary. It was. He was a very honest man whose natural reserve commanded respect—well deserved. I loved him and never said it enough. So..................
Dear Dad,
2013 marks the 30th anniversary of your death at 71, an age far too young for the length of our love.
We first met when I was born of course and you named me. Naming is a big deal you know, at least it is in the biblical tradition where God names people and gives them gifts. You weren’t God, although sometimes I thought Mom thought so, but you named me Lynda, with a “y” to call me Lyn. You gave me your good looks, your serious-sided personality, and your appreciation for sacramental liturgy. Or did I give you that?
Two memories stand out for me, Dad. They’re not martini memories though I have a few of those too. As I grew up and got to know you I knew that you drank to relieve the silent soft ache of shyness. I have it too. And we both overdid the drinking, or let it overdo us—until we both stopped, you because of pancreatitis, and me because I came to myself.
My childhood stand-out memory is a summer one. We spent time on a farm in upstate NY and every so often we’d go on riding breakfasts with Farmer Kurtie and his daughter Bella. Remember? This was a special father/daughter adventure, just for the oldest daughters, before we hit our teens. We packed food and headed out into the open country at pre-dawn. The image engraved on my heart is this: In the pre-dawn we sat still and quiet, I on my small pony and you on your big horse, which is to say we were together like one, our souls riveted as we watched the globe of orange sun rise and take over the earth for a new day. After that we ate breakfast sandwiches made of bacon slathered with mayo and maybe lettuce too— unhealthfully delicious.
My adult memory of you was your last Christmas. You’d had surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from your esophagus. You had a feeding tube for nutrition but couldn’t eat or drink. You mustered all your strength and all your soul to make it in your wheelchair to the family table for the Christmas meal, which you couldn’t eat. You lifted a cup of coffee, took a deep whiff but no sip, grinned and toasted, “Merry Christmas everyone.”
You did it for us and you did it for Christmas. It was the most beautiful “eucharist” I’d ever seen.
Thanks Dad.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
2013.06.16 Stuck With God? OK, But Not Godde's Pronouns
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.
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.
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