Father

If there’s ever a contest held for the most controversial word in the Lord’s Prayer, surely this one will be a top contender: Father.

Earthly fathers can be a bit ambiguous. Some are wonderful men. Others aren’t. Most have moments that fall along a spectrum that ranges from saint to scoundrel. The fact that a child’s perspective of her or his father shifts throughout the years complicates matters.

My own earthly father demonstrated some of the best qualities of fatherhood. And some less so. The very first piece of my writing that was accepted for publication was an essay about my father. I described the awe and wonder and security of having a Daddy hold my hand and teach me about the world. I also talked about the things that changed when Daddy morphed into a stranger named Dad.

That transformation occurred abruptly. One day, I realized that although cream and sugar were normal accoutrements for a morning cup of coffee, rum was not. I watched Dad prepare his usual eye-opener — a ratio of about three-quarters rum to one quarter coffee. My perception shifted. The context in which I understood my life changed. Although Dad and I did not openly discuss his alcohol dependence, I think he saw discernment dawn behind my eyes.

Dad and I lost our connection. Our relationship became marred by doubt and distrust. I no longer believed in him, and he reciprocated by withdrawing emotional support from me. As I navigated my final years of adolescence, he expressed a deep disappointment over choices I made. Admittedly, some of my choices were regrettable, but others merely represented the growing distance between us. I chose a career path that differed from his, a choice that left his dreams unfulfilled. I maintained relationships with family members from whom he was estranged. Perhaps most significantly, I abandoned his atheism in favor of exploring spiritual matters.

Many young people go through similar periods of alienation from one or both parents. For the lucky ones, adulthood brings reconciliation. Dad and I never had that chance. He suffered a traumatic brain injury in an automobile accident. Although he lived through the experience, he did not recover normal cognitive functions. He lost all restraint in his desire for alcohol. When doctors asked him to stop drinking, he refused. Then, because they might ask again, he rejected all medical care. Eventually, his mental and physical functions just petered out, and he died.

So, when I encountered the admonition to address my prayers to a heavenly Father, the word Father carried too much emotional baggage. It became a stumbling block. I learned to adjust the words of my prayers so I could say “Abba” instead. Jesus himself told his disciples they could use this word when addressing God, so the substitution seemed divinely authorized. I’ve read differing accounts as to how closely “Abba” parallels with “Daddy.” Some say pretty close; others say the cultural overlap is minimal at best. Irrespective of which point of view represents linguistic reality, Abba is certainly a family word. And, for a while, it helped me to cross a chasm until I could embrace the word Father.

I associated the word Father with rejection. The very word became entangled with strict criteria for acceptance, and it left me doubting my value. I was worthless when measured against all the ways I fell short of expectations. I wasn’t smart enough to be wanted. I wasn’t poised enough to be tolerated. I made bad choices and didn’t deserve to be loved. Why would I even consider acquiring another Father, even a heavenly one, if having one meant all those things?

The word Father left me cold and indignant. An odd Bible verse even popped up to offer some justification: “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:26). From within the mindset of the hurting child I was, those words seemed to offer permission to wallow in angry memories.

To make matters more complicated, I understood that other people experienced issues with their earthly fathers that made mine appear saintly. I had friends who had been abandoned — literally, not just emotionally. I had friends who had suffered all kinds of abuse. I read about fathers who had committed every kind of degradation imaginable. Did God expect all these people to call him “Father” too?

Apparently so. God wanted to redeem the word so that I could understand his unconditional love for me. Another passage of scripture began working its way into my mind. Found in Isaiah 42:3 and quoted in Matthew 12:20, the verse which speaks of Jesus says, “he will not break a bruised reed or quench a smoldering wick.” A bruised reed, damaged and bent. Me. An ineffectual, smoldering wick on the verge of being snuffed. Me. God’s promise: He will not destroy me. He will rekindle me.

I began to see the possibility of a Father in another light with a different set of expectations. A father was one who held a child by the hand and didn’t let go during the turbulent years of adolescence. A father provided guidance, offered support, and always believed the best. From a father, a child learned the social graces, a work ethic, and the obligations of piety. The wisdom to deal with disappointment and the humility to deal with happiness derived from lessons that came through the office of fatherhood.

Although it may seem counterintuitive, once I had a better idea about what a father ought to be, I could actually remember my own earthly father in a more compassionate way. I realized that he carried the wounds of his own journey through life, and as a result, he couldn’t reach the lofty goals he set for himself. He, too, was bruised and barely smoldering. I bore the brunt of his frustration with himself. He wanted the best for me. He wanted me to be faultless for my own benefit, not just to make him look good.

I was forced to acknowledge that, despite a few bad memories, many of my recollections did align with the ideals of the very best. His death preceded my understanding, so I cannot provide a glorious account of our reconciliation, but I am no longer ashamed to admit that he contributed to my genetic makeup and my upbringing. He fathered me, truly. He taught me to stand in awe before nature’s wonders. He demonstrated hospitality to people from all walks of life. He respected individuals irrespective of race, social status, or language. He played with words, joyfully creating new expressions.

Although my understanding came too late to tell him so, I forgave him for what I perceived as his shortcomings. This provided me with a new experience of freedom, and I could begin to address God as Father.

Then I stumbled over a curious verse in Matthew 23:9: “And call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven.” In this context, I wondered whether I needed to reconsider the evolution of my feelings toward my father on earth, and I was confused about denominations where the leader of a congregation is addressed as “Father.”

The word father carries multiple meanings. Father is a title for a male parent — whether by the biology of procreation or by laws of adoption. A father is an ancestor, a forebear. A father is a priest. A father is a founder, a patriarch, a head. Father is a title of respect for an older, wiser man. As a verb, to father is to beget.

In which of these contexts did father apply to men of the earth, and in which did the word apply exclusively to the one Father in heaven? As I worked through this question, I uncovered surprising correlations between the role God wanted to play in my life and the various manifestations of fatherhood. True, I had a familial father on earth and I had benefited from the guidance of men (and women) who were older and wiser than I was. But I discovered that I wasn’t to view just one person or even one patriarch as the fulfillment of all that a father should be. The one Father in heaven would be a father to me by reaching out through the arms and actions of many.

Beyond these concerns about the word Father, the politics of gender introduced another stumbling block. In contemporary times, efforts toward achieving gender neutrality have gained prominence, and some people reject the term entirely, especially as applied to God. In their view, using a masculine word to define God diminishes women. It is a contentious issue, but as far as I know, no one has yet come up with a word in English that carries a sufficient amount of linguistic overlap with Father to serve as an all-inclusive substitute.

The term parent maintains the appropriate familial connection but it incorporates a nebulous uncertainty as to which parent. The ambiguity robs it of intimacy. Parent serves best as a term of formality and distance. Parent marks a fill-in-the-blank space on a permission form. It isn’t a tender word. It doesn’t cry with heartaches, kiss wounds, or laugh with joys. Our parent. Our guardian, our patron, our protector, our caretaker. God is certainly all these things, but none of the words carries the semantic fullness of father.

The feminine counterpart, mother, might serve some people equally as well as father, but when I try to embrace it as a substitute, I encounter a different problem. Mother lacks some ancient metaphoric associations. Sexist history certainly taints western culture, but even if this is regrettable, it is true. In the context of the writings that have been passed down through centuries, father was the specific parent who gave a name and identity to the family. Father was the parent responsible for providing for the family. Father was the parent who trained up a child for a trade or consented to a marriage.

I am the child of a generation that grew up with these associations embedded in my internal lexicon. As future generations grow up in a world with different gender-related experiences, these associations may become more fluid, and the people who experience them may have an easier time relating to God as mother. Afterall, God has no gender. God is spirit. Male and female were both made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27).

I don’t argue with people who prefer to address God as mother. I respect their journeys in linguistic evolution. In communal prayer, I can even join my thoughts with theirs. But, in the quiet of my own heart, I’m not one of them.

When I pray to God the Father, I’m not addressing a male authority figure. I’m simply addressing the divine parent who gives me spiritual identity and spiritual belonging. I’m praying to the transcendent One who is concerned about training me for my mission in life. If you prefer to address your prayers to a differently titled spiritual parent, go ahead. For myself, I’ve made peace with Father.