My Secret Names for G*D

There are probably as many ways of prayer as there are people. Most religious traditions offer forms and formalities to be followed, and most have preferred languages and liturgies. But nearly all serious theologies or philosophies admit human words simply cannot define the Divine. Therefore, when we meet the G*D of our understanding, we may be called by name, but G*D remains anonymous. Which is why I can’t spell G*D and don’t try, as you see.

Since I grew up mostly on my own for a religion, Christian language was never routine for me. As I developed my own theology out of parts other people were busy discarding, I cobbled together my own religious language too. While I knew that some people found comfort in the religious language they grew up with, I thought it was exciting and meaningful to discover new language to invoke the holy. I also thought it made me a spiritual badass, I confess.

When I began my work in ordained ministry, I looked forward to finding new ways to express the mysteries of the divine with the progressive congregations I would be serving. In every call interview, the search committees expressed enthusiasm for this “creativity,” gushing that they wanted the new pastor to bring those “fresh ideas” so they would “attract more young people” and “grow the church.”

So I did that, and young people did come. But nobody else liked it. Nobody.

Boy, was I a sap. A blockhead. A chump. (See how creative I am in naming?) Here’s what I didn’t know — and only much later learned.

“Who do you say I am?”

Many, perhaps most, cradle Christians in the United States are used to the “traditional” language of the Bible, which for them is English — not Greek or Aramaic or Hebrew, which is what I would ignorantly call traditional. And so for them, the only true ways to talk about G*D are codified in certain English expressions: as basic examples, God is Our Father; Jesus Christ is Lord; and we are the sheep of His Kingdom, which is to come.

Some of you may read these phrases and say, “So? What’s your point?”

And if that’s your reaction, then bless you, for that means your spiritual journey has remained comfortably within the context and the deep meanings of these words. (Or, possibly, you’re an atheist who is only reading this piece because you enjoy word play. In which case, peace out, my friend.)

So much common Christian language sounded so unkind and unholy in my ears, I thought others would also be ready to renew it and replace it with new words of love for the infinite. In seminary, most of us were hot to do that and more. We thought, too, that the new language would also reflect renewed theologies for the 21st century, a new universality of Christian understanding recapturing the divine feminine and ideals of radical justice and inclusion.

But the believers in the pews, who might have agreed with these new theologies, still saw no reason at all to change the words. They had learned and internalized those passages in entirely different contexts and subtexts.

It wasn’t theology at all. It was something even deeper. And only now, years later, here is what I have learned about what might have been resounding in their flesh and in their bones at those times — when they were young. When they were children learning the language of love.

1. Their generation saw their fathers differently

For me, “Our Father” signified the cosmic paternal parent, of course, but also thousands of years of patriarchy that had cruelly excluded the maternal matrix of our Creation. Where was our Mother, the Earth, in the generation of life? Lost, or rendered irrelevant. I felt the loss and I resented the erasure.

But when I talked to the people about those feelings, they looked at me blankly. They were clearly hearing other associations, feeling other feelings. Now, decades later, I wonder if memories such as these might have reverberated in their ears when they said “Our Father…”

I remember holding my dad’s hand in the Fellowship Hall, feeling safe, before he started working on Sundays and had to quit going to church… and he was so proud of what I had learned in Sunday School, and I wasn’t sure whether Our Father’s name was Art or Howard, but I was sure about the Heaven part, so that was good, and dad said I could have a cookie that day…

I believe these pre-rational language associations remain deep within the hearts and minds of so many believers who still find themselves conscientiously, lovingly, broadmindedly following the Christian way. And should I have been the one to strip away this deeply embedded, loving father-feeling that has informed how that woman or man has understood not only G*D but fathers themselves? It would be cruel. It would be asking them to commit patricide.

2. They still believed in justice from above

And then there was this “Lord” business. How was it, I wondered, that Jesus, the humble carpenter, would wind up Lord of all, with a Heavenly Kingdom where He’s supposed to reign forever and whatnot? I just didn’t get it, and I still don’t. (I have other ideas, not important here.)

Suffice it to say that kingship, or even lordship, never seemed a natural claim for Jesus to make. Indeed, when Pilate asks, “So… you’re a king?” Jesus just says, “If you say so.” And he doesn’t elaborate, because he knows Pilate won’t get it. And you know the rest — a 2,000 year game of “Telephone” that’s still going on.

So I wanted to revise this language, because when I heard “Christ the King,” I would think of Gaius Caligula, or Mad King George, or Ivan the Terrible. They were all kings, and they were awful.

But the good Christian men and women of my congregations didn’t hear it that way, I’m pretty sure. They learned about Jesus before they learned about bad kings, so for them, Jesus could be a good king.

Now, I wonder if when they heard Christ the Lord, or Christ the King, their deep memories resonated this way:

I remember that strange song about Good King Wenceslaus, who helps a poor man on a cold night. So the king asks his page, a kid like me, to help find the poor man, and they go together to bring food and fuel. Just like we did in Sunday School that time… And I remember when I believed that kings and rulers would be generous and saving and good.

And who am I to remove their memory of that time of innocence, when they had faith in the goodness of princes and pages? Faith in princes may be misplaced, but faith in goodness must be cherished.

3. They were brave enough to be humble

So without seeking a king, I told myself, I did not wish a kingdom — at least not one that is anything like those on earth. And of course, as a contrarian and an individualist and an arrogant snark, I did not want to be a sheep. So I didn’t want a shepherd, and surely others wouldn’t, either.

But who knows what kind of deal with the world even those “cradle Christians” have had to make over the years? It’s easy to assume that they were all complacent, conforming, comfortable. Now, though, I can bring more compassion to bear on what a lifetime of walking that walk might have required. When they say “a sheep of his pasture,” what rings in their hearts?

Humility and sacrifice are not easy. I’m not a sheeple or a sap or a chump. I am defying the expectations of a world that wants me hard and cold and keen, when I simply say that I’ll be a sheep of the flock. In other words, also a Lamb of God. Deal with it.

So now, with age and time and grace, I understand better why some people might not want to change their names for the holy. I no longer want to rough them up in church if they say “Father G*D.

But I still need words that I can say, quietly, that will blend in and yet still help me open my heart and my mind to the meanings I am seeking.

And so: my secret names for G*D

For me, G*d is neither male nor female, but is beyond both. G*D is infinite; G*D is beyond time and space… Whatever I can imagine, G*D is farther than that. So now I pray:

Our Farther, who art in heaven…

The traditionalist beside me is not dismayed.

And Jesus, humble prophet who was anointed as the Christ, for me did not insist upon taking on the mantle of a lord or emperor or king. But I do revere this anointed prophet, so I praise him in Latin:

Laud Jesus Christ, have mercy on me…

My neighbor in the congregation just hears the Deep South in my prayer.

And I still don’t want to seek the “kingdom” of G*D. I know what they mean, but it still sounds like a place where I don’t want to live. So I pray for the flowering of the family of G*D, and it doesn’t bother anyone:

Thy kindom come…

My experiment has captivated me. I am continually creating for myself other names for the divine, new ways to approach the numinous:

Laud God

The Wholly Goest

Jesus Christ: the Other Than

Does it matter what we call God when we meet up? I thought it did when I wrote this piece, and I still do:

View at Medium.com

So, yes, I am audacious enough to have pet names for the G*D of my understanding. Jesus called his G*D Abba. You call your G*D Father. I call my G*D Farther, and Lore, and Love.

But I no longer want to change the way others talk about G*D, if they don’t want to change.

I just know that if G*D has a million names, then we can all surely find some that will harmonize when we say them together in our gatherings. We will make a symphony of all these names of G*D.

And then, we’re each right.

And then, we’re all right.