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Not a “he/she” rant.Sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t about whether to use “he,” “she,” or “they” when referring to God. Instead, I’d like to tackle “thou” and “thee.”Hundreds of years ago, instead of the all-purpose “you” and “your” of today’s English, the following pronouns were used:<ul><li>thou – 2nd-person singular, subject (Thou art my friend.)&nbsp; </li><li>thee – 2nd-person singular, object (I gave the book to thee.) </li><li>thy – 2nd-person singular, possessive (I read thy book.) </li><li>ye/you – 2nd-person plural or formal (O ye of little faith!) </li></ul>As “you” and “your” began to replace these more specific pronouns, English speakers continued to use “thou,” “thee,” and “thy” to indicate an intimate or familiar relationship. They also kept using them to address God in liturgy and religious writings. By now, the first of those uses has mostly disappeared. But the second one lingers. Why? Why do some worshipers—like the folks who get up early to attend the 7:45 a.m. service every Sunday at my church—still want to thee and thou God?&nbsp;During the transition, I can imagine that keeping thou and thee helped people retain the sense of intimacy with God. By speaking to God in the same way they would speak to a beloved parent or their dearest friend, God remained approachable. But now? Who talks to their parents or friends like that? For me, that language is distancing, so I choose to use the same pronouns with God that I use with those who are dearest to me.One could argue that the distancing of thou and thee is a form of respect for the Creator of the universe. I get that. But for me, if an encounter with the Creator of the universe has left me awestruck, I’m definitely not reaching for “thou” or “thee.” I’m more likely to cry and make inarticulate sounds. And because God is closer than my breath, God understands exactly what those sounds mean with no pronouns needed.

Pronouns for God

We stood outside the sanctuary of our church yesterday morning, poised to enter it with palm branches and “Hosannas.” We do this every year on Palm Sunday to remember how Jesus entered Jerusalem for the last time over two thousand years ago. But before we went in, our priest reminded us that the way Jesus entered wasn’t by chance. It was an intentional statement, a deliberate act of protest. Jesus entered riding on a donkey, surrounded by crowds waving palm branches (symbols of resistance) and crying out Hosanna (save us). At the same time, Pilate entered Jerusalem by a different gate, riding on a warhorse and surrounded by the might of Rome. Jesus knew that his procession would look nothing like Pilate’s. Because his Kingdom looks nothing like empire.The most recent No Kings protests took place on Saturday. I joined one near my home carrying the sign pictured above. After pondering what to write on my sign, I decided to go with something that looked nothing like this regime. I stood by the road, holding my sign and waving at people going by in cars. Whenever the light turned red, the few who seemed determined not to look at us would begin to squirm. Maybe it was my imagination, but if they happened to glance at my sign, something in their faces changed. And some would smile tentatively and wave back or give a thumbs-up.&nbsp;There’s nothing quiet or meek about my sign. If taken seriously, it’s actually quite radical. Radically loving. Nothing like this regime.

Nothing Like Empire

Today is Ash Wednesday, the official beginning of Lent. The Episcopal service includes these words from Psalm 51: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”<figure id="figure-oeq16ouyxbmlsot97g"><img id="oeq16ouyxbmlsot97g" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/5XsI132lHaEWGnZD6yC9zJJJvNO0N2c9hR74OxXfdABTcvXcVElzUwhKL2sNyOfc.png" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-2xl md:rounded-3xl lg:rounded-4xl" style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="1:1" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/5XsI132lHaEWGnZD6yC9zJJJvNO0N2c9hR74OxXfdABTcvXcVElzUwhKL2sNyOfc.png" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 1/1; object-position: center center;"></figure>The photo shows a detail of a bed quilt I made for a friend many years ago. It’s been so well loved and used, she brought it back recently for a refresh. That’s what our hearts need too. Even the best of hearts—those that have loved well and been used in all the right ways—need a periodic refresh. Hence Lent. Which doesn’t have to be dreadful and dreary. Just think of it as a heart-and-spirit refresh.I love these words so much that every morning during Lent, I pray them as I get dressed: “Create in us clean hearts, O God, and renew a right spirit within us.” You may have noticed that "me" became "us." I’m praying for you too. Because we're in this together.

Clean Hearts

Christianity tends to equate darkness with evil, and that perilous equation causes harm, especially to those whose skin is dark. This way of thinking may have stemmed from humanity’s natural fear of the dark, or the tendency of evildoers to work under cover of darkness. I’d like to say that only those with a dualistic mindset fall into this trap, but sadly, that’s most of us. I suspect the same is true for the other Abrahamic religions, which also tend to dualism.&nbsp;Nobody I know would say (or think) that the color of a person’s skin denotes their spiritual health. But images and metaphors, especially religious ones, wield power. Imagine a Black kid in church hearing the priest read exhortations to “cast away the works of darkness” and “drive away all darkness.” Or having to sing a hymn with the refrain, “In Him there is no darkness at all.”&nbsp;At our church’s Easter Vigil last year, I was the storyteller for the Creation story, and I decided it was time to give darkness a little love. So I gave it equal billing with light and pronounced both “good.” Think about it. Think about dark, fertile soil for growing crops. Think about the darkness of a womb where new life grows. The subconscious where inspiration bubbles up. The darkness of rest, recovery, sleep, dreaming, healing. The darkness of mystery, invitation, waiting, anticipation. The darkness of the shadow of God’s wings where we are safe. The rich darkness of hidden beauty, simple kindness, enduring love.The season of Advent begins soon for those in liturgical churches. And the prayer for the first Sunday in Advent starts like this: "Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light.” But shouldn’t it really go something more like this? “Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works that grieve you, and take up your work of love.”

Darkness and Light

Old opened book, heart shaped paper sheets, dark background with stars toned vintage selective focus

She intimidated me. Here was this smart, well-read, outspoken woman who’d been an Episcopalian longer than I’d been alive, and we had signed up for the same EFM (Education for Ministry) group. I was in way over my head.&nbsp;But that was just me being cowhearted. Because Sue—that’s her name—has this wonderfully dry sense of humor, insatiable curiosity, and wide open mind regarding who God loves (everyone) and what God thinks (we Christians don’t have all the answers). And going through four years of EFM with her was both delightful and life-changing.In the almost thirty years since then, we’ve continued to be part of each other’s lives. So when I began writing my YA series about a teen named Claire and her adventures in Saudi Arabia and Switzerland, Sue not only supported my efforts but became a Claire evangelist, writing online reviews and spreading the word (and paperback copies!) at her church. She’s one of Claire’s biggest fans.Then two nights ago, I received this email message from Sue:I hope all is going well with Claire in Switzerland &amp; her new book. I need to let you know that I am unexpectedly on Hospice care due to a lung tumor. &nbsp;'One Day at a Time' &amp; give thanks for each one. This is a time of happy memories and I have many. Cheers! &nbsp;-- SueThat’s Sue. I’m still editing the ‘Claire in Switzerland’ book (Lord of All Hopefulness: Waking), with publication a few months away. I’ll print it out as-is and bring it to her, if she’s still with us. And sit with her, because I’m one of her biggest fans.&nbsp;

Biggest Fan

I confess that I’ve rarely done anything resembling a protest. Introverted and quiet, I find excuses to leave that sort of thing to others. But lately (you knew there’d be a “but,” didn’t you?), my excuses feel threadbare. On the first big day of protests since Trump took office in January 2025, I took part in a day of prayer instead. It seemed a better fit and possibly more effective, considering what we’re dealing with. For the “No Kings” day of protests, though, I decided to make a sign and show up.I and hundreds of others showed up in a small town to line the streets that day and wave at everyone who drove by. Reactions from motorists were mixed. Many honked and waved back or gave us a thumbs-up. Some even regaled us with their own cheeky signs. A few kept their eyes on the road and ignored us. When a red light would strand them in front of us for a minute or so, I would take pity on those and look away to give them respite.&nbsp;After a while, I noticed that my enthusiasm to convey the message on my sign waned. Instead, I longed to just send love to the people in each car that passed. I wanted them to feel a little less afraid. A little more hopeful. A little less alone. Because the damage caused by cruelty, even if the cruelty isn’t experienced personally (because, of course, we’re all connected), is real, and it attacks our minds, bodies, and spirits.&nbsp;Love. It’s what I wish I’d put on my sign. It’s what my heart reached out with. It’s what I offer up every evening when I hold you in prayer.