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Column Take care with words when imaging the Holy
By JEANNETTE BATZ
My earliest soul memories were just steeped in Christianity,
explains Jenny, telling me how her grandfather, a Methodist minister, used to
play Samuel and Eli with her. Metaphors came easily, she adds, because I
was in the story. I was walking around the house with a towel on my head.
Id come running in and tell my grandmother, I think I saw Him in
the garden, and shed say, I think you probably did too.
Lets go see. And of course, if you are in the story, then it is not
a fixed thing, its a living thing, and there is new content in there. We
go to the garden and wonder what He is going to say.
It wasnt fundamentalist, but sort of literalist and
concrete, Jenny reflects. I would recite the Possums Creed.
And I always liked the prayer of humble access, because it was about gathering
the crumbs. Im smiling, completely charmed by the whimsy and the
fervor.
And then she tells me, quite abruptly, that her father came home
from war and began brutally abusing her. Thats had a significant
effect on my faith development, she says formally, because it means
I have special problems in faith other people dont have, and I also have
gifts.
One of the problems is, in church I do a lot of translating,
because imaging God is difficult for me. Our Father who art in
Heaven. Even the parables: Would a father asked for bread give a stone?
My answer is yes! But if God is like that, who is God? I cant make the
feminine shift to God as a mother, either. So I do things like, God is a
honeysuckle vine, God is a castle, God is a rock, God is a ship. And they
change all the time.
The next Sunday, I hear the language of the liturgy through
Jennys ears and resent it. I never wanted to hear pain in these words or
feel cynical about them. I wanted them as rosy and comforting as my own loved
childhood. And that is now an impossible luxury.
With my imagination unhinging like Pandoras box, I hear a
hundred different subtexts. How does an unwed mother feel lauding the Virgin of
Virgins? A Vietnam vet, hearing words of might and glory and the triumph of
righteousness? A Nicaraguan refugee, comparing the absolute power of almighty
kings and military despots?
We resist such comparisons instinctively, maintaining that the
liturgy floats above everyday life and literal analogies. Our petty kings and
abusive fathers bear no relation to God. Yet at the same time, we scold each
other whenever Mass is not relevant to our daily lives; whenever it
exists in its Sunday slot, disconnected from the rest of our experience.
God is not physical. But we try to make God physical with
language, following a good English teachers advice by emphasizing
concrete particularities, working from what is familiar, making vivid word
pictures that appeal to our senses. These painfully finite expressions that
result remind me of a passage in Rilkes Book of Hours: Love Poems to
God (translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy). A screaming
shattered the voices that were trying to utter God in unison, the poet
writes, and what they have stammered ever since/are fragments/of your
ancient name.
I once went through an entire Mass mentally substituting Love for
God at every occurrence. I was reassured to find it worked beautifully,
replacing old associations but preserving deeper meanings. My substitution game
had started years earlier, when my grandmother complained that the women always
went to church and their husbands came in their Buicks to pick them up, but
wouldnt go in. Suddenly it dawned on me -- if men are taught to be
competitive with each other, I reasoned, and if Gods a guy, of
course they dont want to kneel down and do His bidding. Its
easier for us, its what were supposed to do.
And so, long before sexist language became an issue, I started
playing around with pronouns, wondering if things would hit differently said a
different way.
They do.
Our Mother, who art within us, hallowed be thy presence. Thy
loving enfold us, thy peace restore us, in spirit and earth forever. Give us
this day the milk of your kindness; hear our smallest struggles, and ease them
with your gentleness, that we may walk arm in arm, fearless in your love.
Conservatives hate such fiddlings. So, for that matter, do many
liberals: Susie Bright, a writer and performance artist famous for her
freewheeling commentaries on sex, writes in The Sexual State of the
Union, Ill never get used to cute progressives referring to God
as she or it, because I know from every aspect of
Catholic training I received that God is an angry, vengeful M-A-N. (She
also calls Christianity an ancient form of sex education that got
everything wrong, characterizing the Christian God as Butterfly McQueen,
running down the street screaming, I dont know nothing bout
birthing no babies! )
Normally, Id avoid euphemisms too; Im not big on
rewriting traditional beauty every six months to suit the current agenda and
make purely cosmetic corrections. But surely there are words that cause no one
pain? I think, for example, of New Zealands version of the Anglican
prayer book, which refers to an Eternal Spirit, living God/in whom we
live and move and have our being. There, the analogies spring from the
Maori love of nature: living flame, burn into us/cleansing wind, blow
through us/fountain of water, well up within us/that we may love and praise in
deed and in truth.
Naively, I can see nothing objectionable. But when I read that
passage to a more fundamentalist friend, he winced. He cant stand
all that Sophia stuff, and he certainly cant tolerate a
rephrasing of the Trinity as Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer. Let alone
Earth-maker, Pain-bearer, Life-giver,/Source of all that is and that
shall be,/Father and Mother of us all. Shouldnt be necessary, he
harrumphs. Perfectly good as it is, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, thats
who they are in the tradition, theres nothing wrong with maleness.
Unless, of course, your human father beat and raped you and your
mother did nothing to stop him.
My friend would probably argue that the daughter should learn to
make distinctions, that it would be healthy to think of fatherhood and the
Father in a different way. Hes right. But memories dont do our
bidding so readily.
Another woman once told me how much trouble she has with the
commandment about honoring thy father and mother; such honoring had kept her in
pain most of her life. On retreat, a priest compared the parental bond to our
relationship with God, presenting the former as a step toward the latter. She
left the room.
Ah, but these are dysfunctional examples, youre thinking:
Why ruin a common language of great truth and beauty with a few sour stories
told at random?
Because those stories belong to all of us. And if the language we
use to reach toward God causes some of us to contort our minds, design
elaborate labyrinths just to tolerate the imagery, we have perhaps made the
abstract a little too concrete. Better to follow the Muslim injunction and make
no representation of Allah whatsoever.
The biggest spiritual problem is to remember that God is
just crazy about me, Jenny says. Shes used her instincts and her
imagination and anything else that would work to get past the literal
associations. God is not a scholarly thing to me, she explains.
This is not about homework. Its too important, and you cant
compartmentalize it. This is about life and death, this is about breath and
being.
In the beginning was the Word and the Word was made flesh.
When we re-create that mystery, we should choose our words
carefully.
Jeannette Batz is a senior editor at The Riverfront Times,
an alternative newspaper in St. Louis.
National Catholic Reporter, April 3,
1998
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