As I journey on my current path into the heart of God, I am learning and seeing afresh. Many of the books I’ve read and the people with whom I have shared conversations, worship, and silence, have lit the way and it is wondrous, like new wine in a new wineskin. For some of my previous “brothers and sisters,” undoubtedly, they may believe I have actually lost my way. As soon as I use unfamiliar terms like the Divine Feminine, or toss out the discovery that the early church (pre-written Bible) actually referred to the Holy Spirit as “she” and not “he,” or, if I suggest we consider the term, “Universal Christ” and where will that lead the conversation?
When my grandson doesn’t want me to tell him something or believes I may be about to chastise him or correct him for some ill-considered misdemeanor, he covers his ears with his hands. This is what I imagine some of my dear readers may be doing right now. Or, the other gesture I’ve even done myself, I hold my hands over my ears and start repeating, “blah, blah, blah” very loudly to drown out the secret or revelation I don’t want to hear.
So, yes, my journey of the last five years has introduced me to the concepts of God as neither father nor mother, or perhaps more accurately, father AND mother. Of course, both of these are titles humans have created to understand and have a friendlier relationship to an almighty Creator of heaven and earth who, nonetheless, loves all living things.
Here’s my confession for my progressive friends today. I don’t mind referring to God as Father. When I first encountered God over forty years ago and I lay down for the first time at the feet of Christ, in surrender, I “heard” God say that He would be my father, faithfully, and be a comfort to the child within me who lost her human father at age nine. And all this time, Father God has indeed been true. My youth was plagued, instead, by mother issues and challenges and abuse. Is it any wonder that I don’t easily gravitate to the Divine Feminine? Don’t misunderstand me, I’m all on board, really, but for my inner home, it is still the Father who speaks.
But I have another confession. You see, the real conundrum is in the word, “our.” That’s right. Not unlike the Jewish lawyer in Luke 10 who asks “who is my neighbor?” I am secretly asking who is included in the “our” of the Lord’s Prayer? Our: my family? Our: my neighborhood? Our: my town, my state, my country, my continent? Damn, the whole world? You gotta be kidding me. I’m praying for everybody? It feels weighty like the discovery Jim Carrey makes in Bruce Almighty. This is heady stuff. And what about all those “our” people who could care less? What about that atheist guy who smugly says he isn’t afraid to burn in hell?
I think I’d be happier if, let’s say, I changed it to “our Creator.” Right? But then I’d be throwing out the part I like the best to make the “our” work better. Lazy solution.
The easiest time to say “our” is in church. Everybody is doing it, so we’re kind of a gang who believes in the same leader. We’re devoted. In those moments, I don’t think anyone is worried about the “non-ours.” I figure the church folks are probably including ALL church folks into the first word of this prayer. That’s comfortable, until we start discussing details on the front lawn, like who is saved and who isn’t, or, is the cup filled with juice or wine, or, did that guy actually put his lips on that thing? Stuff like that. The “our” seems to fly out the window then.
Since I include liturgy in my private practice, the Lord’s Prayer appears, at minimum, twice a day in the morning and at night. If I’m feeling flush with devotion, I might throw in a Vespers office. That would make three “ours” a day. And what about the Psalms? I’m always grateful for the personal pronouns there.
God brought this knot to my mind and won’t let go. Here’s plan A to begin to untangle it. Perhaps I will need to write about a Plan B, but I’ll have to see how things go. Watch this space.
Since next week is Holy Week, I will fast again, Monday through Saturday. If for no other reason, to ponder you: that is, you, the nameless unknown person to me and embrace “you” in “our” prayer together. I will look into the eyes of the most hapless and the famous, the politician (even that one I won’t name) and the excavator man who dug out my neighbor’s sewer pipe. I will watch people walking their dogs or sitting alone in front of the St. Johns Towers. I will give attribute to images on television and voices on the radio. I will find a connection that confirms and affirms, that we are in this together, this life on earth, with the breath of God sealing us in love.
Our Father, who is in heaven. . .
And I immediately knew that “impatient” was the operative word for me. Impatience does not happen in the twinkling of an eye. It’s a process and literally, has steps along the way and thought patterns that culminate into full blown impatience. Here are just a few of the steps I discovered about myself.
Repercussions can develop from impatience that are more wretched than the original. Must I carry on until the “venomous snakes” (Numbers 21:6) show up before I repent? Or, can I breathe into the onslaught of impatient feelings and counter them with gratitude? 
Many people left the church quickly while some drifted away as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months. Some stayed, stalwart and determined, to show that this church was not about a single leader. The body of believers is the church etc. And although campuses shriveled and closed, a faithful core remained and now, more or less, the church is revived under new leadership and denominational oversight.
I was one of those who drifted away with no place to go. I have been a church attender for nearly forty years. Sunday morning without obligations was a surprise to me, a kind of unhurried and lazy rising. In many ways, it was a truer sabbath than rushing out the door by seven a.m. to help set up this or that, attend stand up meetings, fill in for missing teachers, or run AV equipment; in general, work two back to back services wherever help was needed (the dream team).
I thought visiting a variety of churches each Sunday would be fun. It’s not. I found myself with a secret checklist: how many people greeted me? Were there any children? How old was everyone? How was the sermon? How many attended? How did they celebrate communion and how often? What buzz words did they use? What clues were in the bulletin? How was the music? Was there anyone there “like” me? Was there diversity? Was the interior attractive? What kind of outreach do they do? Was there an unspoken political agenda? Was there an awareness of current events and acknowledgment of human suffering?
In the end, I set most of this checklist aside and stuck to these elements of discernment: Can I be myself in this place without self-editing what I say? Do I experience God’s Presence in this place and within myself while I am there? Can I grow in spiritual formation and discover more about the mystery of the Holy Trinity in this place?
Meditations from Zion 