Father
~ Father ~
Throughout this book, when I speak of God, I most often refer to God as He.
That’s not a theological claim—it’s a reflection of my conditioning, my culture, and my habits of speech. It’s how I learned to speak about the Divine, and I’ve chosen not to edit it out because it feels true to the way I process and express my experiences.
That said, I want to be clear: I don’t believe God is necessarily a he, or a she, or even an it. I don’t pretend to know what the reality behind that word fully is—only that, in some deep and personal way, I feel connected to it. And I also recognize that all language falls short of what it tries to describe, especially when it comes to something as mysterious and infinite as God.
Still, I once heard something that gave me pause—and maybe even a little peace—about why God is often referred to as Father in the Bible and in Jewish tradition. The thought was this:
Perhaps God is called Father not because God is male,
but because the absence or wounding of a father
is one of the deepest pains in the human story.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s the place in us
that most longs to be seen, held, and redeemed.
I don’t know if that’s universally true. But it feels true enough to acknowledge.
So, as you read, I ask for grace in my use of language—and invite you to look past the pronouns toward the presence I’m trying, however imperfectly, to name.
I’ve recently been impressed with two things that I feel like God is teaching me.
You don’t need to be right, you need to be love.
When we love each other, it doesn’t make God real, it just makes him tangible.
