I have often said that God is too great, too big, too complicated, for humans to understand. But I heard something this week that completely changes my view of this—I now think that maybe God is too simple for us to understand. Allow me to explain:
People have lots of different facets to their personalities. This results in different behaviours, depending on the situation—so they might be Mrs Friendly when they are in one group, Mrs Tense and Rude when they’re at the doctor’s, Mrs Shy when they apply for a job, and so on. I noticed this in myself when I was teaching. As a teacher, I never shouted—I barely ever raised my voice—a frown was enough to tell the class I was unhappy and I found a quiet ‘dangerous’ voice to be much more effective with 13-year-olds than shouting (because then they knew I had ‘lost it’). However, in the same period, I would hear myself yelling at my own children when they were being particularly slow/late/stupid. Because at home and school I was different people—and my own children’s behaviour affected me in a way that no pupil, however special, ever could. (If you ask my children, they will probably tell you they would have preferred to be spoken to like a cool teacher rather than a furious mother, but that’s not how life works.) My point is, we have different emotions, and they produce different behaviours.
When we think about God, we think about him in terms that we understand—so we attribute different emotions and behaviours to him too. However, perhaps this is misleading. Because if God is unchangeable, then perhaps everything he does is in one single sphere. He is always everything, combined. So we really should not differentiate between God’s love and his anger, or his joy and his justice, or his compassion and his punishment. Unlike us, perhaps God does not have different sides to his nature. He is not too complex, but rather so uniform, so simple, that he is beyond our understanding.
It was described to me as if God is light—a single stream of light—but we cannot understand that, so we only see God as if from the other side of a prism, when each light-colour has been separated. We can understand and talk about those single ‘colours’ but we find the concept of the whole light, being one thing all the time, too difficult.
There are perhaps echoes of this in Deuteronomy 6:4, ‘ יְהוָהאֱלֹהֵינוּיְהוָה׀אֶחָֽד’ ‘YHWH, your God, YHWH is one.’ I am now wondering whether this is what the verse means? That God is not a complicated mish-mash of different moods and emotions and characters. He is simple, uniform—one.
Interesting idea, huh? Think about it.
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Hello, and how are you? Have you done anything different lately? In general, I prefer ‘routine’ to ‘unscheduled’, though we did break our routine a little this week and attend a different church. The church in the village didn’t have its usual service, and we have occasionally passed a big church called ‘Hillsong’ in a nearby town—so we decided to have an adventure and attend! (As you get older, even little changes are an adventure.)
We looked online, decided to attend the 9:30 service, checked where to park and set off. Unfortunately it coincided with the Tonbridge Half-Marathon, and most of the roads we wanted to drive along were shut, so we watched the time tick away, decided that we did not want to arrive late at a new church, and made a plan to turn round if the chaos continued. Luckily we found a way into the town, abandoned the car in a nearby car park and hurried to the church.
Hillsong does not look like a church. It looks like a warehouse, or an architect’s office, with big doors. I was desperate for the loo by this point, so hoped there would be some washrooms near the entrance.
Hillsong has a large entrance hall, and there were lots of people milling around, and we avoided eye-contact and headed to the nearby washrooms. I was worried it might be a tiny room with no privacy next to a coat cupboard (which is fairly standard for church washrooms) but no, this was a whole line of public facilities, all very clean and convenient. Excellent.
We then continued into the building. There was a queuing system—like at a cinema—but I noticed it was a ‘child check-in’ kiosk, so we avoided that and walked to the main room. Except it wasn’t the main room—it was full of toys. So was the next room, and the final one was for parents to make coffee while they watched their children. We were clearly in the kids area. It’s a long time since we had kids.
Realised that the meeting room must be upstairs, so passed all the people in the lobby (again) and were met at the top of the stairs by a couple of people with baskets full of Nespresso capsules. I accepted a capsule with a smile—a cup of coffee would be rather lovely. Then I realised that it was not, after all, a Nespresso capsule, it was a super-hygienic tiny cup of ‘wine’ and a wafer sealed in plastic, ready for communion. (Not sure if it’s okay to feel disappointed to be taking communion rather than having a good cup of coffee, so we will move swiftly on.)
The meeting room was huge, it resembled a cinema with a stage at the front, and a massive screen and large speakers. We sat in the dimmed auditorium, on comfy seats (made up for the Nespresso disappointment) and waited. It was nearly 9:30, but most seats were empty.
The service started on time, with a band playing very loud music, and singers singing and dancing on the stage, and the words projected onto the screen. I didn’t know the songs, so told myself I didn’t have to sing (I hate singing. I like to listen.) As the music played, people gradually arrived, and the seats filled up. I’m guessing there were about 200 people by the end of the first song. Everyone was standing, some people lifted their hands, most people swayed. However, unlike some Pentecostal churches I have attended, we did not sing everything 5 times—there was a clear programme, and the leaders were taking us through the programme without deviation. The songs were all praise songs, mostly discussing a personal adoration of God, and the tunes were ‘modern’ but not unpleasant. It was too loud for me though. I put my fingers in my ears, and enjoyed them much more, as without the vibrating eardrums, you could actually hear the melody. Felt old.
A few different people led. At one point there were prayers, and people’s prayer-requests scrolled across the screen, followed by answers to previous prayers. I’m not sure whether these were personal to this church, or were submitted from Hillsong as a whole. (Hillsong is a large, global organisation, with churches in many cities.) There was no money collection, but a QR code appeared on screen, and people raised their phones to access the website (and I assume paid an offering, if they wanted to). All very modern.
A man led communion. He stood on stage, and said (I think) all of the things that are usually said at communion, with all the quotes from the Bible that are usually quoted—but very fast—so I had to watch very carefully. Suddenly realised I needed my Nespresso-communion-capsule, grabbed it from the floor. Oops, he’s eaten the wafer and I can’t get mine out from the plastic! Now he’s drunk the ‘wine’ and I’m having trouble with the cellophane…got there eventually. Felt old, again.
Not coffee.
After a final song, we were invited to sit. We had stood for half an hour.
The screen then projected the main speaker. It was very like being at the cinema, but not unpleasant. The talk was captivating, and the speaker was personable—so I sort of forgot he was a projection, and settled to listen. There hadn’t been a Bible reading until now, but he quoted lots of verses from a Psalm, and other random verses (verses taken out of context are not my favourite thing) and wound them into pithy sayings as he preached. His message was simple—God created you, you are special, don’t ever forget that. Not a bad thing to hear. He spoke for 30 minutes, which was too long for me. He linked his message to Black History Month, saying that all ethnic groups were part of Britain, and had something important to add to the nation. I thought he spoke well.
Then there was more singing, (just one song) and a long prayer, and people left. There was a man at the door, and he shook everyone’s hand and wished them well. It was a nice touch.
So, would I go again? Well yes, I would. Not every week, but maybe occasionally, when I was feeling like I wanted something different, a new way to worship God. It would be easy to be lazy though—to attend as a spectator and never really think. I did smile at one point, when the speaker declared that this church was a mix of genders and ages and ethnic groups. I don’t think anyone was over 60 years old (I was probably the oldest person in the room!) I wonder if they would have made that claim if no one under 40 had attended—do older people not count? But having said that, this is a church that offers something very accessible to young people, and most churches are failing there. And the message, whilst simple, was not unlike what Jesus preached—not loads of theology, just a basic reminder to let God be part of life.
I am aware that Hillsong as an industry has had problems, but I do not think that has to detract from the good of localised churches. They are meeting a need. Much of it was excellent. It was very centrally-controlled. Like McDonald’s. It was also (like McDonald’s) offering a product that people like. Just not Nespresso capsules…
*****
Goose continues to enjoy life. (Unrelated, just a great photo!)
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I went to the Society for Old Testament Study conference in Cambridge. It was excellent!
You may remember that in January I attended a conference in Sheffield, which was also good but this one was better. Perhaps it’s because I knew what to expect, or maybe because my general knowledge (and understanding of ancient Hebrew) has improved, and I found the papers much easier to understand.
I stayed in St. Catharine’s college—which is very pretty when you enter: an historic building for the porter’s lodge where I collected my key, a pretty square of grass surrounded by brick buildings within the walls, an old chapel. Then I walked past the green, to the new wing where the conference was held, and it all seemed rather less romantic—more functional than pretty. My room was in the new building, and it smelt of feet unless I had the window open, when it smelt of onions because I was near the kitchen. But it was warm, and comfortable enough, and it had its own bathroom (just—not sure I would have fitted in the shower if I’d been any bigger!) Best of all, a number of fire doors and insulated walls meant it was pretty sound-proof, so I slept well.
The conference was fully catered, and we ate together on long tables in the dining room. Some of the best chats were during meals, when I sat next to someone interesting and scholarly (almost everyone was interesting and learned) and I listened to their conversation. I didn’t say too much, because I didn’t have anything to offer, but their conversations were great fun! Was Esther written originally as a comedy? Is there enough evidence to support the idea of the Exodus ever happening as an historical event? What is the cognitive perspective of Ecclesiastes? All fascinating. It was tempting to record them, but I felt that might be crossing a line.
The meals were a bit ‘school dinners’ (Sheffield Uni had better ones). I did suffer a moment of guilt. We were issued with an electronic meal pass, and told that this allowed us one main, two sides, a drink and a dessert—anything else must be paid for. They told us that originally, all catered students were able to collect their food unsupervised, but apparently ‘some students’ would collect several main courses, and even go back to the servery two or three times to refill their trays, therefore it was now restricted. I had a horrible feeling that ‘some students’ might have included my sons at their own universities. I didn’t comment, and joined the other scholars who were shaking their heads in disapproval.
One afternoon we were invited to the Divinity College, where we were given wine, listened to a speech (a very clever one, of course) and then toured the library. I love libraries. One day I shall live in one.
The conference was fairly intensive, with papers read all morning and evening. Honestly, this is literally what happens—someone clever writes an academic paper for a journal/book, and then they read it, with questions answered afterwards. It’s hard to listen at first, but after a while you train your ears to concentrate, and what is read is usually fascinating. The questions afterwards are very clever, and show the depth of knowledge in the room.
On one day though, there were no afternoon papers, and most people went on a tour of Ely cathedral. I opted out (I knew my brain would be tired) and instead I rested, then met family in the city for a drink. Cambridge is such a pretty city. Though at this time of year, with students returning, you need to be careful where you walk. There is a lot of vomit in Cambridge.
Dipping into the academic world is very tempting. It doesn’t feel like ‘real life,’ but is slightly removed, only brains and conversation matter. I would love to stay part of that world a little longer, though I’m not sure if all the time in the world would be enough for me to catch up with some of those brains.
I returned home to grumpy chickens, a bored goose and a house FULL of spiders. I realise this is the time of year when spiders mate, but honestly! My house must be the spider equivalent of ‘Club 18 – 30’!
Thanks for reading. Enjoy your week and take care. Love, Anne x
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I think there is little in life as thrilling as applied knowledge. To learn something new (like a language) is interesting, but when you manage to say something in that language and they understand you — wow! That’s exciting! I have found my Master’s course has given me lots of these moments, and the latest source of pleasure for me is a book by John H. Walton — Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament. Allow me to share the excitement with you.
The book basically explains that unless we understand something of how ancient people thought, we cannot properly understand what they meant when we read the Old Testament. For example, if I ask you what the Old Testament writers say about Artificial Intelligence, you will reply that they had no knowledge of computers, therefore although we can possible use some of the principles set down in the OT and apply them to AI, they did not explicitly write about those things. Their understanding differs from ours.
The two examples I want to tell you about in the ancient world are: what meant something existed, and why having lots of descendants mattered.
In the ancient world, material things were not as important as they are today. Today, we know something exists if has a material form (and some people struggle with the idea of God because there is no material form to rely on). But not so in ancient times. In those days, something existed if it had a name and a function. Therefore believing in several gods was normal, as long as they all had a name (Sun-god) and a function (there was sunlight). Try to remember that: having a name, and a function, meant that it existed—it was real.
Now we move to their understanding of what happened after death. They absolutely believed in some sort of existence after death, but it was very different from our own view (much of which comes from Plato, who taught about spirits leaving physical bodies and living a spiritual life). In the ancient world, they believed in a vague existence in an altered dimension to the physical world, in a place called Sheol. (Note: ‘Sheol’ and ‘Hell’ are not the same thing.) They believed that life in Sheol was affected by life on earth; life was sustained in Sheol by what happened in the world of the living. People in Mesopotamia and Egypt underwent certain rituals to enable the life of their dead ancestors—providing them with food for example. One important ritual involved ‘remembering’ the dead—talking about them, recalling the things they did before they died, somehow maintained their existence in Sheol. To be forgotten was the worst thing that could happen. Community was hugely important, and community included ancestors who had died (therefore asking ancestors for help was part of normal life).
Now, the Hebrews (who wrote the Old Testament) had variations of these beliefs, but we can see overlaps with their thinking. They too wanted descendants. I had previously thought this was so their children could care for them when they were old, but this doesn’t explain why several generations of descendants would matter—a belief that they would remember them after death makes sense in this context. (There is a text, which I cannot find, where someone explicitly says ‘I have no descendants to remember me.’ If you find it, please send me the reference!) Walton makes the point that the thinking of the Old Testament writers was much closer to the thinking of people in ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt than it was to the thinking of the New Testament writers (and far removed from our current ideas about things). If we understand this, it helps us to better understand what they wrote.
All very interesting, but the best bit comes when it’s actually applied. This happened this morning, as I drank my coffee and read a section of Genesis. I’m currently in the Italian Alps, and using a little book of devotions each morning, which I don’t especially like (I don’t like being told how to react/feel in response to what the Bible says). This morning’s passage was Genesis 16, when Hagar has run away from Sarah and God has spoken to her. In verse 13, Hagar says: ‘Then she called the name of Yahweh who was speaking to her “the one who sees”…’ (My translation of the OHB Hebrew.) This ties beautifully with the first thing I told you: Something existed if it had a name and a function. Hagar was accepting that God was real, thus she gave him a name and a function—God saw—‘seeing’ people was part of God’s identity.
The passage also says that God promises Hagar more descendants than she can count (verse 10). Again, if we apply our knowledge of what that would mean to Hagar, it would mean that after her death she would have numerous descendants to remember her—which was hugely important in the ancient world. This woman, a mere handmaid, rejected by her mistress, would be remembered forever, even after death.
I found reading this chapter with the understanding I have acquired about the ancient world changed my understanding—which I think is pretty exciting! I am loving being able to learn. I will tell you more in other blogs.
I hope you enjoy something today too. Thanks for reading.
We arrived in LaThuile in bright hot sunshine. It was too hot to walk far, and even the shade was warm (which has not been my experience previously in the Italian Alps). However, within a day, the weather changed: the temperature plummeted and we woke up to snow on the mountains. This was very exciting! I love snow. Never before have I experienced snow in August.
After lunch, we found the car where we had abandoned it in the town garage (because we are staying in a little apartment in the town centre and the narrow cobbled streets barely fit a bike, definitely not a car), We drove up the winding road to St Bernardo’s Pass, and there we found snow! It was jolly cold. I had brought my woolly hat but most of my clothes were the thin impracticable kind that you take on holiday. (Husband was so pleased to see it again so soon after it had been put away at the end of winter. He loves that hat.) Husband strode off, looking for the best ‘snow photo’ spot. I spoke briefly to some pretty cows with donging bells round their necks (who ignored me) and then went in search of warmth in a cafe. The cafe had a few toys, and I bought a cute St. Bernard dog toy, because this area has lots of them (the real variety) and even I realise that owning one would not be wise given where we live.
The rest of the holiday passed peacefully enough. We returned to the most beautiful valley in the world (Route 11) that we found last year. It continues to earn the title, it’s too beautiful to describe and even photos don’t really show the beauty of the place (especially my photos!) You will have to visit yourself. Just be careful as you drive to a parking place, as the road is very narrow and there are no barriers and the drop is very long if you fall. Nice place to die though.
We were very good, and went for a run every morning. We found a relatively flat road to run along (beside a bubbling river and looking at mountains). But it was hard to breathe. Husband informed me it was very good for my lungs because the high altitude makes them work harder. It didn’t feel good though, it made running very hard work and not at al enjoyable (apart from the scenery). Afterwards we went to Angela’s Cafe, which was crammed with local people all speaking Italian and drinking espresso coffee. I also drank espresso coffee, of which I am rather proud. I noticed a few years ago that only foreigners drink things like cappuccino or latte, and all locals drink tiny cups of strong black coffee. I therefore forced myself to drink it—like a teenaged boy forces himself to drink beer even though he would rather have a lemonade. I now enjoy drinking it, but I especially enjoy the approval I see in people’s eyes when I order it. Husband orders a cappuccino, and often this is passed to me, as the more ‘girly’ drink. Anyway, Angela’s Cafe has very good coffee, and it advertises that it’s grown by women, to help raise the standard of living in families, so I rather like that too. We always reserved croissants for the following day, because they are eaten in the morning by the earlier customers. This then was our routine: run by the river, recover and shower, breakfast in Angela’s Cafe, buy bread for lunch, return to little apartment. Not a bad way to start every day.
We finished each day by eating dinner in La Maison—the restaurant we ate in almost every evening last year. They allow us to have a table in the wine cellar, and they know that I like a chair rather than a bench, and that our Italian is terrible. It’s a friendly place to eat and the food is delicious.
One evening, when walking towards the restaurant, I noticed that my dress felt odd. I ran my hand down the side, and realised I could feel the seam. When I glanced down, a big white label was flapping at the side, and all the buttons were on the inside! I had somehow managed to put on my dress inside-out and not notice. We were next to a little chapel at the time, so I ducked inside while Husband stood guard, and quickly turned my dress the right way round. I was so pleased that I noticed before we arrived at the restaurant. Made a note to always look in the mirror before I leave home in future. (I do of course blame Husband, who really should have noticed.)
Other than clothing issues, the holiday was lovely. The Italian Alps are so lovely in the summer. I hope to come again. Thanks for reading, have a good week. Take care. Love, Anne x
Our day in Milan was somewhat spoiled by the heat. I think this is unusual, as we’ve visited before and it wasn’t too hot to walk. It felt more like Seville in August than Milan. But we coped, mainly by searching for the coolest places. (Cool as in temperature.)
Our first stop was the Pinacoteca di Brera gallery—which happens to be the source of the most romantic gift ever. About a hundred years ago, when our children were young, we visited this gallery (mainly because we had not understood that to see ‘The Last Supper’ by Leonardo da Vinci required booking tickets months in advance. This was a less-good alternative). We walked to the gallery, and wandered around, looking at lots of religious art (which neither of us appreciate) and wondering why we had bothered, when we entered the very last room. This room displayed art showing life in the 1500’s, and it was much more to our taste. (This might be because, according to a sign, Gerolamo Induno and his brother ‘were the leading exponents of genre painting which used personal, domestic images to draw the uneducated classes to art.’ I am clearly one of ‘the uneducated class’!) I especially liked a painting by Induno, which showed a teenaged girl sitting in her messy bedroom, with a popular poster on the wall, apparently texting (actually, she was looking in a small compact). I had a teenaged daughter at the time, and this painting struck a cord on many levels. I loved that even though the ‘poster’ was a popular painting by a local artist (‘The Kiss’ by Francesco Hayez) and the furnishings and clothing was different, the girl was not so different to girls today. I looked at the painting for a long time, and chatted about it with Husband, and forgot all about it.
However, Husband, who is not usually given to especially romantic gestures, surprised both of us. Using his work computer (because at the time, we shared one and he wanted it to be a secret) he contacted the gallery, asking if it was possible to buy a print. It was not, but if they were willing to send him a photo for personal study. This was all in Italian, which Husband does not speak. He agreed, and they sent him an invoice and a contract to sign (again, all in Italian, which he does not speak). He signed it (a bit risky!) and sent off a large amount of money (very risky!) and waited for the image to arrive. It never arrived. He then realised that as he was using his work computer, the IT security blocked files of a certain size. He had to contact the IT department, and admit improper use of company computer (luckily he was very senior, so they forgave him) and ask them to release the file. They did, and the image arrived. Husband then printed it off, and gave it to me for Christmas. What a lovely gift. We bought a frame for it, and hung it in the bedroom (because then it really is for personal study, and doesn’t break the agreement). Romantic, huh?
This year, we found the painting again. It was interesting to see the brush strokes (because they don’t show on my copy) and the slight variation in colour. The guard shouted at me for standing too close.
After the gallery we walked past the shopping arcade with the fancy roof, and to the cathedral (the Duomo). The queue for the cathedral stretched out across the plaza, the sun beat down, we decided to just look at the outside. We enjoyed seeing the gargoyles and statues (which I wrote about in my blog on Milan a few years ago). We walked down towards the castle, and I thought I might melt. So hot. We detoured into a lovely cafe, and ordered desserts and drinks, and spent the whole afternoon chatting and eating ice cream. Which frankly, is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
We ended the day with drinks in the hotel bar (which is rather nice because they brought plates of snacks to eat with the drinks). We ate in a cafe near the hotel. Went to bed tired—it’s surprising how heat saps energy even when you don’t do much. Tomorrow we head for the Alps, where we have a little apartment for a couple of weeks. I am hoping it will be cooler.
Thanks for reading. I hope the weather is good for you today.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
Another painting I like. It shows a mother saying goodbye to her son as he goes to join Garibaldi’s army.
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Milan was hot. As in, really, really hot. We flew to Malpensa Airport, with the excellent plan to catch a train to the city centre and then walk to our hotel. The airport part went well. Milan airport has a walkway, which is basically an art gallery, with sculptures and music and atmospheric lighting. An unexpected interlude as you pull your luggage towards the railway station. Only in Italy.
The rest of the plan was less interesting. We managed to buy tickets, and found the correct platform, and boarded the train. But as we perched on seats around the luggage (that we were too worried about leaving in the rack next to the door) we realised the journey was long, and it was past lunch time, and we had been awake since 4am. I tend to wilt when I miss meals, so had brought some snacks, but they were warm and squashed and tasted of plastic.
We arrived at the massive station in Milan, and eventually managed to find the exit (though not the correct one). Walked around the exterior of the station, pulling heavy case over ruts in the paving stones while the sun burned down on us. Followed Husband along many hot streets, over many major roads, with suitcase wheels sticking and clothes soaked with sweat whilst passing pristine-looking beautiful Italian people. Italian people always look like they washed their hair this morning and have dressed in the latest designer clothes and are just taking a break from looking beautiful to meet their friends for an espresso. Felt very English.
Arrived at the end of the slope up to the hotel. It was steep, and cobbled, and I thought I might faint. Luckily, a porter spotted us, and came to the rescue. Usually we bat away porters and cling on to our bags as though they contain the crown jewels; this time I relinquished my luggage with thanks and offered to buy him dinner. (The dinner bit isn’t true, but the emotion was there.)
We stayed at The Westin, which apart from the steep cobbled drive, was very nice. Our room was clean and comfortable, and they provided ‘White Tea’ toiletries which I especially like.
After a shower and a change of clothes, we went to meet friends for dinner. I had been very clear when explaining that walking far was not going to happen, and thankfully the restaurant was very near the hotel. We sat under a sunshade, and had drinks and ice-creams and watched the trams carrying beautiful people to wherever it was they were going. It was still hot, but as long as I wasn’t required to move, it was fun.
Dinner was pizza. I don’t much like pizza, but having said I wasn’t walking more than 2 1/4 minutes from the hotel, I didn’t feel I should give further input. It was actually very tasty pizza. Unfortunately, the local insects also found me very tasty, and in my rush to shower and change, I had forgotten insect-repellent. Luckily, I was so tired that even itchy bites couldn’t keep me awake, and I slept well, ready for a day exploring the sights of Milan.
In my next blog I’ll tell you about the most romantic gift I have ever received, where the coolest parts of Milan are, and how to make an ice-cream last an entire afternoon.
Thanks for reading. I hope you manage to struggle through an difficult parts of your day.
In my last blog, I continued my discussion about God’s name, and whether we should call him by the name given in Exodus, or by a title, such as ‘LORD.’ However, if we DO decide to use the name given in Exodus (whether privately or in public) how should we pronounce it?
Usually, we see the tetragram YHWH used in place of God’s name. I understand this to be because some people consider the name too holy to say, and therefore they remove the vowels. The name given in Exodus is : אֶֽהְיֶה which is Hebrew for ‘I am/will be’ and usually the masculine singular form of the verb is used: ‘יהוה’ which we substitute for the English letters: YHWH. We then add vowels to make it pronounceable, and end up with ‘Yahweh.’
I was interested to learn how this should be said though, especially given the v/w confusion — I’m not sure why ‘W’ is used, as I have learnt that ‘ו’ sounds like ‘v’. I will ask my tutor when term starts. Why do we not write it as ‘Yahveh’? I did some research, and discovered that likely BOTH are wrong—or at least, not what Moses would have said.
Languages, all languages, change over time. If Chaucer stepped into a time-machine and arrived in Tesco, I doubt they would understand what he was saying. If Shakespeare arrived in Waitrose, they would probably understand him, but assume he was foreign. Now, Hebrew has also changed over time. During the time of Moses (whenever you decide to date him) the Hebrew being spoken/written was different. The verb that is used for God’s name would have probably been written with a waw, a ‘v’ in the middle, as we write it today. Before 900 BC, there were no vowels, so the ending we have today would not make a ‘eh’ sound, but more of a ‘hah’ sound. Therefore, the problem we have (as explained by Mark Futato, The Divine Name ) is that the middle of ‘YahWeh’ is before Moses, but the ending of YahwEH is way later, long after Moses. Therefore, whatever name God gave to Moses, and whatever name the people then used in the Old Testament, it was almost definitely NOT ‘Yaweh’.
Does this matter? We don’t think so in the case of Jesus, (as Andrew Case, Pronouncing and translating the Divine Name points out). We say ‘Jesus’ but his parents would have named him ‘Yeshua’ and if you go to Italy, or China, or France, they pronounce it differently again. As I commented in my last blog, maybe the name is less important than we think. Maybe it is who God is that matters, and his name is for our benefit, so we know who we are talking to—and therefore the pronunciation, or whether we use a name or a title, does not matter at all. Thanks for reading. Have a great day, and take care. Love, Anne x
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I have further thoughts on whether we should refer to God as YHWH, or a pseudonym, such as LORD or ‘The Name’ or ‘Jehovah’. Here are some interesting considerations.
For example, what should Bible translators write when translating parts of the New Testament that include direct speech and are quotations of the Old Testament? In New Testament times, they would have quoted the Hebrew version—which uses YHWH as the name of God. However, whilst they would have thought the Hebrew word, they would not have spoken it. Since the time of Amos, speaking God’s name had almost superstitious repercussions, so when speaking, even when reading aloud, they would always substitute ‘Adonai’ or ‘Elohim’ in place of YHWH.[1] Of course, the New Testament was written in Greek, so they simply used the Greek word for ‘Lord.’ What therefore, should modern translators write? You understand my question? Should they write what the people would have actually said, or should they write the words of the Hebrew passage being quoted? If you look at Bibles from different ages, they have not all agreed on this, and there are differences. I guess it doesn’t affect the meaning of the passages, but I find it interesting.
This leads to a consideration of why New Testament writers didn’t find a Greek equivalent for YHWH, and instead used ‘Lord’ (κυρίου). Should we follow this example, and no longer use the name of God? Everyone is a product of their times, even if we choose to reject our culture, we are affected by it. Did the early church continue the embargo on saying God’s name? I don’t have any evidence either way, but certainly was what written implies they continued to substitute a pseudonym.
Whilst this is interesting for Christians, for modern Jews it is more inflammatory. Apparently, the 1985 version of The New Jerusalem Bible used the name YHWH, but in 2019, the chief Rabbi of Rome spoke to Pope Benedict XVI and asked for this to be changed, as saying God’s name is offensive to Jews.[2] This then, is another consideration. As Jews find the spoken form of YHWH ‘offensive’ should we, due to respect, also not say God’s name? We do not, as a rule, adapt our religion for other faiths—and certainly I wouldn’t suggest that we stopped talking about Jesus because some find our belief offensive—but is this a little different? Is it seen as overtly confrontational? I do not, myself, follow the teachings of Islam, but nor would I write or draw something about their faith which would be insulting. Not on purpose. But to what extent should we accommodate other beliefs? Where do we draw the line, what is ‘respectful’ and what is acquiescing to something which we do not believe?
I suppose it depends on whether we feel we should use God’s name. Did God give the name YHWH because it is personal and represents a personal relationship? Or is it merely a label, given for ease of reference, because God is so much bigger than anything we can comprehend and a ‘name’ is a human invention. In Exodus 3:14, it seems clear: ‘This is my name forever, and thus I am to be remembered throughout all generations.’ (זֶה־שְּׁמִ֣י לְעֹלָ֔ם וְזֶ֥ה זִכְרִ֖י לְדֹ֥ר דֹּֽר ) I would interpret this as meaning that God’s name, YHWH, should be remembered forever. However, the form of the name, ‘I will be’ (אֶֽהְיֶ֑ה) might be significant—perhaps God was saying that his ‘name’ (as in, how he is to be known/understood) is in what he has done (that is, having been the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob) and therefore this, these past actions, are his ‘name’ and this is what should be remembered forever.
If we pay heed to how the people in the ancient Near East thought, then something only existed if it had a name and a function.[3] Therefore ‘naming’ gods was important, as was knowing what they did. Is this the problem that God is addressing? Does he understand that Moses, as part of his ancient thinking, needed God to have a name and a function. This is certainly what God gives him in the Exodus passage.
Perhaps this giving of names is less important to our modern minds. Many people admit to believing in ‘something’ but they are happy to keep it vague. I have friends who admit to believing in ‘something’ but nothing more specific than that. There can be ‘some kind of God,’ something beyond our human world, but they don’t need a name. Personally, I’m not sure whether I need a name or not, but I do need evidence of action, I do need to remember what God has done for me, I do need to know that he is a reality. Maybe this is what Exodus 3:14 is saying.
I will continue to grapple with this. If you read anything relevant, let me know. In my next post, I will consider how God’s name should be pronounced–because that’s not clear either!
Thanks for reading. Have a great day, and take care. Love, Anne x
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[1] Andrew Case, Pronouncing and Translating the Divine Name (Amazon: Self-published, 2020).
[2] Dom Henry Wansbrough, The Revised New Jerusalem Bible (New York: Penguin Random House, 2019) see Forward.
[3] John H. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2018)
There is a story in my family, about Fanny Cornell. She was my grandfather’s great great grandmother (I may have the number of ‘greats’ wrong) and she was a carrier in Harston. Harston is a small village near Cambridge, and the story goes that Fanny had a horse and cart, and she would regularly transport goods from Harston to sell in Cambridge. I picture market gardeners, lace-makers, weavers — all giving small bundles to Fanny, to be sold at the market. Apparently she couldn’t read or write, and she kept the money folded into separate parts of her handkerchief, and despite the complicated sums and various amounts, she always gave the correct money to the producers in Harston.
However, the most memorable part of the story is that after selling the wares in Cambridge, Fanny would visit The Eagle pub, where she would drink until completely legless. The landlord would then lift her back onto her cart, and the horse knew the way back to Harston. In case of robbers, Fanny kept a large pepper pot on the cart, ready to throw into the face of anyone who tried to delay her. (I’m not quite sure how the ‘brave woman with the pepper-pot’ tallies with the ‘completely drunk being carried home’ description, but family folklore is best if not fact-checked too closely.)
When I mentioned the story to Emm, he was very excited and told me he often drinks in The Eagle as it’s near where he works. We decided to visit and take Ruth before she goes back to Canada. Our aunt thought that we might find the portrait of Fanny in the folk museum in Cambridge, so we went there first.
The folk museum is in a building previously used as a pub, and the various rooms display historical Cambridge. There was also an Agatha Christie display, which was interesting because I read all her books when I was young, but I never discovered what her link to Cambridge was. Husband found the museum challenging, because it was reminded him of the Victoria and Albert in London — more like an attic of stuff people don’t want to throw away than an organised archive. But I loved it. The man at the entrance was very interested in our story of Fanny, and contacted the curator for us. I expected an elderly woman with tangled grey hair, but instead an attractive young Canadian girl found us, and said she would look in their store room. She returned, not with a portrait of Fanny, but with a booklet about Harston which had a picture of a portrait. When we read the book, it seems that some of the ‘facts’ about Fanny might actually be merged descriptions of a few different individuals — though I guess there is no reason to assume that the booklet is any more reliable than our family story. (I have learnt a lot about ‘citing from reliable sources’ at college, and neither source is more reliable than the other.) I will believe our family legend until proven wrong.
Next was a trip to The Eagle. The pub has a few stories of its own: There is a window that is never closed since an ancient fire when people were trapped inside, and if it’s ever closed everyone in the pub feels suffocated. There is also table 4, which is occupied by a ghostly man. He happily shares the table when people sit there, but he frequently spills their drinks. Make of the stories what you will, but I think they’re fun.
The window at the top is always left open.
The pub was used by the RAF during the war, and has various insignia stuck to the walls, and the signatures of airmen on the ceiling. It’s also where the discovery of DNA was announced to the world, and there’s a plaque to commemorate the woman, Rosalind Franklin, whose work led to the discovery (even though the men who announced it tried to steal her work and exclude her from the credit). It was also full of modern-day drinkers, and tourists, and it was easy to imagine the bustle of ancient days.
We did, of course, see more of Cambridge while we were there– the sandstone colleges, the ancient houses on modern streets, the university entrances that remind me of Victorian prisons with their high towers and forbidding gates, the tourists, the teashops, the roads full of cyclists. It was raining, and cold, but Cambridge is beautiful.
I hope you hear some good stories this week. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
Gates that remind me of a prison entrance.Bikes and beautiful buildings.The round church.The oldest bookshop.Each college has its own chapel. More of a cathedral than a chapel.
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