I grew up in East Vancouver in a neighborhood that was originally built for returning war veterans after the second world war. Many of the streets in our old neighbourhood are named after important battles; Normandy Drive, Anzio, Skeena, Dieppe Place, Rupert and Renfrew Street.
East Vancouver is made up of narrow streets lined with cherry blossom trees and winding back alleys. While my sisters and I had a backyard to play in we often met our neighbourhood friends in the alley behind our house. Many of our neighbours’ parents were first-generation catholic Italian immigrants. The slightly socially awkward Tony who lived with his parents to our left, the Castoros behind us, and the DiGiovannis up the alley. They would turn what lawn they had into rows of tomato and pea plants, while garage cellars would be used to brew their homemade wine.
On lazy summer days, usually after our walk to the 7-eleven for a slurpee we would play in the alley; skip rope, rollerskate, or ride our bikes through the winding alleys which we knew better than any modern GPS.
Or, we would convert a little wooden structure that was connected to our fence and designated to house garbage bins into an impromptu theater. We staged various plays, with one performance that had us repeatedly collapsing in laughter on the grass, gasping for breath.
And when we became bored of this we would turn the top of this wooden structure into a fort from which we would throw small, red mountain ash berries that hung idly above us, onto unexpecting passing cars. We would then climb from there onto the roof of the garage and bask like lizards in the sun. We only went inside when the sun began to set and we heard our names being bellowed from our kitchen windows.
Every now and then the Castoros would host family gatherings in their open, double-door garage that was lined with grape vines. They would extend long tables covered with their house wine, fresh pasta and backyard tomato sauce. She's coming! we would declare when saw Mrs. Castoro walking through our back gate with a large platter full of canestrelli, cannoli, and maritozzo.
At Christmas we exchanged Swedish platters of bullar and pepparkakor for Italian panettone and pizzelle. As it happens with all good neighbours, they became, and have remained to this day, family.
I remember the Sunday that Donna had her first communion. We spent the morning trying to get a glimpse of her from our balcony, where she floated in and out of the house among her extended family who came over to celebrate.
We noticed my dad go out the back gate to capture a photo with his now vintage camera. Out we followed in our white, now dirtied Sunday tights, no shoes, no time for that…and there she was! Camera-ready until my dad discovered we were shoeless, agh, hurry, girls, go, hurry! Go, get your shoes! running…running as fast as we could, up the backsteps, grabbing whatever old shoes we could find for a photo that will last a thousand years.
But it didn't matter, Donna glowed and every single person at the party paled in comparison to her. We left that day with a handful of pink and white confetti almonds wrapped in white tulle and a pink ribbon.
We were different from our neighbours. While my dad was also a first-generation immigrant from Sweden, and my mother a fifth-generation immigrant from the UK; we were their northern European protestant neighbours. Not just any kind of protestant… but third-generation Pentecostal.
Which leads me to the point of this reflection. Some of our differences often confounded me, considering we had mostly the same bible. One difference in particular-
Why were our catholic neighbours allowed to say oh my god! And we, as protestants, were most definitely, not.
It was, after all, taking the Lord’s name in vain
Furthermore, they had to be informed about the rapture… the end times, don’t you know? The falling sun and moon, the tribulation, the mark of the beast, being swept away in the blink of an eye.
Yet, while Catholics carry their own various religious traumas, being left behind for an unthinkable tribulation mercifully isn't one of them.
What do they teach in catechism? I would wonder.
And they would respond to my fiery Revelation inspired preaching with...
Oh my god, Lisa! What are they teaching you in Sunday School?
Revelation, the last book of the Bible, is both the most neglected and the most obsessed over book in the bible. Neglected because some traditions recognize they don’t have the knowledge or insight required to interpret ancient apocalyptic literature and thus best to leave it alone altogether.
While Pentecostals and a few other protestant denominations have obsessed over it. They have read a literal interpretation into this unique form of ancient literature and made a grand, rather terrifying, story out of it. Fear, after all, has a spectacular way of filling pews.
Yet, as you will find in my upcoming courses, both approaches have been misguided in their approach to this very unique genre of writing. Unique to us 21st-century people that is, not unique to those living in the 1st century, where its themes and symbols all had a meaning they would have understood in their context.
The book of Revelation, we learn, is an important piece of literature that was intended to help encourage the Church. It was intended to give us hope, rather than fear, in times of uncertainty. Therefore, since our worldview impacts how we live—whether Revelation is ignored or obsessed over in toxic and unhealthy ways, it will have detrimental consequences on how we live, and on how we represent Yahweh to the world.
Thus, it wasn’t, in fact, my Catholic friends who were taking the Lord’s name in vain. Rather, it was I who was guilty of it all along.
As I covered in my post On No Longer Being Able To Talk To God, the term god is a title for any being that resides in the spiritual realm. It is not a name.
Thus, using Oh My God as a figure of speech when shocked, excited, or angry; has nothing to do with the command about taking Yahweh's name in vain.
Biblical scholar Carmen Joy Imnes in her book Bearing God’s Name: Why Sinai Still Matters, helps us understand this better.
While Genesis talks about being an image bearer as something that includes all of humanity; name-bearing is restricted to those in a relationship with Yahweh. Those in relationship with Yahweh are elected or summoned to reveal a visual model of people relating to Yahweh in the way they were created to be.
And Jesus fulfills both dimensions of election by perfectly imaging Yahweh and bearing his name with honor. He is the Human, par, excellence.
Thus, this commandment is connected to how we reveal the character of Yahweh to our neighbours, in the same way that our Brother did.
It’s much easier to keep it as a curse word though, isn't it? The Church has proven how much harder this command is to keep when it's about revealing Yahweh's character to others:
The crusades and all religious battles…taking Yahweh’s name in vain
Christianizing through colonization…taking Yahweh’s name in vain.
And yes, spreading traumatizing fear through literal interpretations of Revelation that have nothing to do with the plan or character of Israel’s God...also taking Yahweh's name in vain.
I now feel fully liberated from the religious command of thou shalt not oh my god. For me, breaking from the weirdness of using this term is a form of spiritual discipline; a reminder to myself and any religious ears willing to listen, of its true meaning. It also rolls off the tongue like a symphony. As if it has always belonged there.
The pentecostal revival movements were mission-driven to get people saved before Jesus returned. There wasn’t time to learn how to read ancient literature; souls' lives were on the line! Jesus was coming back soon.
It also cannot be denied that there was a legitimate movement of the Spirit which brought many in that generation to sustained inner peace when they discovered the way of Jesus; including my grandparents on both sides of my family and on both sides of the Atlantic.
Mother Spirit Wisdom, had Her way because of the church's fervent preaching and despite it.
The rickety old theology on which their preaching was based, was never meant to have the last word. Just like the veteran houses in East Vancouver, while put in place as the best they had, for a season, in order to house thousands of returning soldiers who were ready to begin a new life; the structures were never built to last.
My old neighbourhood has changed. Many of the houses, including mine, have been torn down and rebuilt. New, safer building codes have been established and old toxic insulation had to be thrown out and replaced. Even the infamous garbage hut and make shift theatre is gone. Every one of our old neighbours has moved away, except for Tony. He stayed. Still in those blue overalls. Still trying to fix that old car.
We ought not to stay when it’s time to grow and change and learn and tear down and rebuild. Especially when our buildings, or our interpretations, begin to decay and become toxic.
All is not lost; the good and true, of course, always get to remain; We have a good story to tell. Just like the cherry blossom trees, winding alleys, and our friendship with the Castoros.
Resources & Suggesting Reading
Carmen Joy Imnes, Bearing God’s Name: Why Sinai Still Matters, p. 164-165
Suzanne McDonald, Re-imaging Election: Divine Election as Representing God to Others and Others to God (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010
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