a kingdom built of seeds

“Lord, teach us to pray.”

Our Father which art in heaven,

But only there, Lord? Far away up in the sky, above the clouds, beyond the universe, detached and out of reach? To say you’re in heaven makes it sound as if you’re distant, unavailable, like many of our own earthly fathers. Or like some prehistoric mythical idea well beyond our reach. Inaccessible.

And to what kind of father is your likeness. The good, the uncaring, or the evil? For even the good father may be evil at his weakest. Some hearts warm at the word “father,” while other hearts beat fast with fear and anxiety, or grow cold with grief and sorrow, or remain unmoved. Are you everything fathers should be but will never be, here. Or are you merely what they are—imperfect in love and prone to hurting their children; expecting too much or not present enough to expect anything at all; full of expectation, or full of indifference. What kind of father are you if you are not like any of these, but perfect? All of our definitions and ideas and images of father—even those of us who have the best of them—are wounded, broken, shattered.

We can’t help but see God through the lens of our own fathers. We can’t help but shape our image of God in their likeness. We put God in chains, associating him with the failures of flesh and blood, with human weakness and frailty. My own father is a shining example of Godly devotion, spiritual commitment, and dedicated faith. But he has always been somewhat distant, difficult to connect with, emotionally detached. His expectation is not spoken, but felt; his shadow is not overbearing, but is one I have never been able to embody. As increasingly loving and kind and compassionate and soft as he becomes with age, he fails the image of God, as all fathers do. Like an eclipse, his shape conceals the light of God. Perhaps this is one reason we see only in part, “…in a mirror dimly.”

And yet we forget. We modern people forget. For this Jewish rabbi to use the word “Abba” was a scandal, more yet a liberation. God could only be so near to his people, an Israelite only so near to their God. God’s living presence was confined and concealed in a temple, unapproachable and untouchable; it was not an arm put lovingly around his child, not a presence that cradled his beloved in his lap. A devout, faithful Jew did not call God—YHWH, whose name could not be written in its fullness—father, daddy, abba. It was novel, revolutionary, perhaps heretical and sacrilegious to certain hearers. It was a title far more radical to the Jews of that time than it is to us now. Much more. This powerful, unapproachable God suddenly referred to in intimate terms, the initiator and guardian of a family we are all part of, one in which we have always been included.

“Jesus is saying that we may address the infinite, transcendent, almighty God with the intimacy, familiarity, and unshaken trust that a sixteen-month-old baby has sitting on his father’s lap—da, da, daddy.” – Brennan Manning

I once thought I approached God this way. I may have been self-deceived. There was a contradictory message, you see. God was painted as father, yes, but only some of the time. Juxtapose this serene, comforting image with a holy, just, sword-welding, fire-breathing God who lets nothing get past him. Unless, that is, Jesus somehow begs him to relent on our behalf; and, mind you, Jesus only has the right to do so because God (Father) killed him violently on a cross. There was this disquieting, anxiety-ridden sense that, if God does relent, he does so almost begrudgingly, like some fiery Zeus who would have preferred the show to go on. The result is a confused and fearful follower.

There comes a time when you must choose. Is it Father first and foremost, or entirely, or is it something else altogether?

Teach us to call you Father.

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