Regardless of what recently happened (or didn’t happen) in the Church of Sweden (see a “fake news” in The Guardian and a correction in The Local), the tendency to stop calling God “Father” or “Lord” is there, as we can see for example in the “Bibel in gerechter Sprache”. This begs a broader question: can revelation really be completely divested of the language in which it was given? If we agree that there is such a thing as revelation of God which occurred historically (and I know this is a big if for some), then the language we have necessarily bears the marks of the contingencies of the human conditions of the times. But if the revelation really happened there and then, then this is (theologically speaking) the only language we have, with all its limitations and all. Now of course, the early Christians were very affirmative of the “translation principle”, not only in the linguistic, but also in the cultural (or inculturational) sense. But the translation still means that there must be some kind of correspondence, equivalence, correlation between the original and the translation – a faithful translation is bound to the original, even if its outward form is a complete paraphrase.
Let me illustrate this on the divine titles mentioned above, “Father” and “Lord”.
“Father” is the “God of our Lord Jesus Christ” – that’s how he called him, that’s how he knew him, that’s how he revealed him. Again, yes, with all the contingencies of the actual historic situation. But when Christians started to call God “our Father”, they did not seek a generic relationship or experience of the divine, but rather the concrete relationship and experience (should we say unity, oneness?) that was brought to them and demonstrated to them by Jesus and implanted in them by his Spirit. So on one level, when I call God “Father”, I am referring back to that historical occurrence in Jesus, I am inscribing myself into it, as I am invited to do. I don’t presume I know what this all means or implies, since the knowledge of this is only and exclusively present in Jesus himself. If I don’t step through that narrow gate, I cannot know what difference it would make if I called God “Mother” instead. And everyone that does enter, testifies that this title “Father” has absolutely nothing to do with patriarchal oppression or anything like that. In some sense, all these words are “icons of the ineffable”, or “mappings of an unknown territory”, meant to transport us to a place where we are not, a place beyond (our current) language, and definitely beyond our cultural identities and religious scruples. And we know that these icons do have this “transporting” power.
Here one could object that the actual icons might be so off-putting to some, that they will not even try to enter through them. Yes, I agree this is a serious question which should not be shrugged-off. Briefly, I would tackle it by stressing that the language we use is provisional, referring to realities beyond our current experience. This should be clearly explained very early on in Christian catechesis, so that the young-in-faith might know that they can put some expressions in brackets, if they are foreign to their cultural experience.
Now besides this, a really interesting fact is that there existed an early Christian tradition (it seems before the worship of Mary took over), that Jesus considered the Holy Spirit to be his Mother. It is preserved in this logion from the Gospel of Hebrews/Nazareanes: “Just now my mother, the Holy Spirit, took me by one of my hairs and brought me to Tabor, the great mountain.” This was quoted twice by Origen and three times by Jerome, always in a positive sense (see http://www.faithfutures.org/JDB/jdb134.html). This builds on the fact that in Hebrew and Aramaic the word for Spirit is feminine, and it seems that this aspect was preserved to some extent in the Syriac spirituality (interestingly, the Church of Sweden seems to be aware of that, as per the article in The Local above). Now calling God “Mother” would simply destroy this delicate differentiation, which has profound implications for Trinitarian theology. Really, it’s just like a bull in a china shop – all in the name of our anxieties and hysteria about gender issues, which will – I am sure – appear to some future generations as quaint as the oriental despotism, now derided by the liberals.
Regarding “Lord” – yes, this feudal title is obsolete and here I am all for a meaningful translation. Kyrios as a Caesar’s title is certainly about a strong (the strongest) figure of public authority. So a “ruler” or even “president” would be roughly equivalent. To be even more exact, a very good fit would be “president of USA”, since this is the leader of the most powerful country in the world, just as Caesar was in Jesus’s time. Now I understand that some people might have problems with authority figures and shrink at the idea of ascribing such imperial concepts to the deity, but this completely misses the profound language game that is taking place in the New Testament. By ascribing this title (Kyrios) to Jesus, the first disciples did something radically subversive, which literally cost them their lives. They were saying: the real ruler of the world is not Caesar with his pomp and might, but this meek-and-mild outcast preacher from Galilee, who was executed by the Empire. Today’s language version: not Trump or Putin are the real rulers, who should be admired, obeyed and followed, but Jesus, the crucified and risen one, is the one we should be loyal and devoted to, since he really has the means to set the world right. And his way is a way of love, radical nonviolence, community, sharing – and existentially participating in the divine.
I think by trying to be culturally relevant, the churches that strive after “politically correct” theological language in this way are really shooting themselves in the foot. They are diluting or rather castrating the radically good news about Jesus to such an extent, that it loses its power and its identificational force – the potential to give a strong and good identity. If the gospel really is a God-revealing message, then it should be allowed to be challenging, shouldn’t it? If it challenged the cultural assumptions of its age (see for example Galatians 3:28; Colossians 3:11), shouldn’t it do the same today? Otherwise, wouldn’t it be just a message about “god in our own image”, about our own reflection projected into the absolute, and thus finally, just us speaking to ourselves? Who would really want to listen to that? I don’t need a church to tell me that “anything goes”, the world is already full of this. That is why, honestly, I think many people say “thank you very much” to such churches and stop attending them.
Matjaž Črnivec 