One year during college I worked as a youth minister. As part of the job, I was in charge of the high school class on Sunday mornings. Going into my first week, I obsessed about how to make it the greatest morning of Sunday school ever. I decided a good topic would be “Who is God to you?” I wanted to hear what the youth believed and show them I was open to their experiences and insights. I also desperately wanted them to think I was cool, so I chose three popular songs that held up different images of God to begin our discussion. I don’t remember what they were, but I do remember that one was by Eminem because I was going to be a super edgy youth leader.

When I showed up that morning, and every Sunday for the rest of the year, there was only one student, an 8th grader named Nathan. Over the course of the year, I would come to know Nathan as a sweet, imaginative, loyal kid, who was also a little socially awkward and young for his age. But what I learned immediately that morning was that Nathan had no trouble telling an adult whom he had never met just what he thought of the Sunday school lesson the adult had been working on for his whole summer vacation.

About 30 seconds into Eminem’s rap, Nathan asked, “Do we have to listen to this dang stuff?” He said “dang” a lot. Also “heck.” He let me know he wasn’t any more interested in any of the other music I had brought. So with the first 15 minutes of my lesson plan out the window, I decided to launch right into our discussion. “Well Nathan,” I asked, “Who do you think God is?” His face said I was not the coolest Sunday school teacher he could imagine, and he answered, “How the heck should I know? I don’t care about that freakin’ stuff.” He like all the near curse words. So there went the other 45 minutes of my plan.

Desperate to salvage the class, I put it back on Nathan. “What do you think we should do?”

“I want to draw,” he said. So I offered him a compromise and asked him to draw his image of God. And to my surprise, he agreed.
For the next 40 minutes or so, we drew. I don’t remember whether he started with the jets or the gun turrets, but as his picture took shape, I started to get nervous. “What are you drawing, Nathan.” “It’s a dang aircraft carrier!” Now I wanted to be a cool Sunday school teacher, but I knew God was not an aircraft carrier. A garden, yes. A fountain, sure. A diverse circle of people holding hands, absolutely. But a battleship surrounded by bombers did not fit for this pacifist youth minister.

So as he painstakingly outlined every bomb and gun, and stenciled the hull with stars and stripes, I mentally prepared to tell him all of the ways his image was totally inappropriate and incorrect, and just exactly why God has nothing to do with an aircraft carrier. With 10 minutes left in our hour, Nathan wanted to keep drawing, but I insisted we discuss our creations. I don’t remember what I drew, but I gave a short explanation and finally asked Nathan to make sense of his heavily armed God.

He pointed to a line that arced over the ship like a bubble and began, “This is the force field, capable of withstanding heavy enemy fire, because God is protection. These are anti-aircraft guns in case the force field is down. These jets can drop food and medical supplies to care for those who are under attack…” He went on and on including far more details about the types of guns and bombs and planes than I could ever remember, but every detail had its reason, and if there were things I still disagreed with in his drawing, I had to admit he had put a lot of thought into it. And I suddenly realized, “Dang, God is a freakin’ aircraft carrier.”

Nathan reminded me of a lesson I had learned before and have relearned since: that whatever I believe the Holy One to be, she/he/it/they are much more than that, even sometimes the exact opposite of that. God can be an aircraft carrier, and God is also not an aircraft carrier.
This is not a new idea. Pseudo-Dionysius, the 5th century Syrian monk understands God as the one given every name and also as the nameless one. Elsewhere he goes further in pointing out the divine paradox, “There is no speaking of it, nor name nor knowledge of it. Darkness and light, error and truth—it is none of these. It is beyond assertion and denial. We make assertions and denials of what is next to it, but never of it, for it is both beyond every assertion, [and] it is also beyond every denial.” (in Mystical Theology)

The modern feminist theologian, Sally McFague, picked up on this idea. She said that all communication about God is indirect. Metaphor is the only way we can speak of the divine, and metaphor, by its nature, is always both true and false. Everything we can say about God is both true and false, all our theology both reveals and conceals, our words simultaneously reach to the heart of the holy and fall woefully short. God is most certainly ambiguous. But that often doesn’t feel delicious. Often it feels incredibly frustrating, especially when faced with someone who doesn’t see that ambiguity.

Around this time every year someone suggests that we offer a sermon or seminar on what to say to a relative who has different religious beliefs. Usually there’s a specific question attached, “What do I say when they say X?” My theory is that they’ve recently finalized their holiday plans and they’re already starting to dread their yearly conversation with a certain uncle. You know the conversation. The one you tell yourself you won’t get into again this year, and the one you can’t help but get into because you just can’t believe that someone who shares your DNA could believe that. Maybe it’s not your uncle, but your mom or your sister-in-law.

Whoever it is, the most distressing part of the conversation is just how certain they are, how tightly reasoned their argument is, as if they’ve been planning this confrontation all year long. You were determined that this year would be different, that you would remain open and non-anxious. You wouldn’t need to be right. But then his certainty is so irritating that you decide you’ll just be certain too and dig in your heels. And if he says up, you’ll say down. If he says left, you’ll say right. If he says God is an aircraft carrier, then you’ll be deeply offended and make up an insulting nickname for him on the ride home.

Or is that just me?

It can’t be just me, because it is at least the members of the church at Corinth. They are in the middle of a big fight about who knows God best, who has it right. Is it the ones who can speak in tongues? Or the ones with great knowledge and scholarship? Or the ones who can prophesy? The scholars say, we’ve read the texts; we are educated, we know God best. The prophets say, we are able to discern God’s action in history; we can see the spirit moving. We know her best. And those who speak in tongues say, we know the divine language. God communicates with us directly. Surely we know the Holy One best. Each group is certain they are the ones who see God as God is. And Paul writes his letter to say, “You’re all wrong.”

He writes, “As for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end.” Neither the prophets, nor the scholars, nor the tongue-speakers hold the truth about God. None of them can comprehend the divine. They are all wrong.
But they are also all right. None of them knows the whole picture, but each of them knows something. Paul says, “Now we see in a mirror dimly…Now we know only in part.” They are looking at God as if through a small, tarnished mirror. Paul does not deny that each one has seen God, he just suggests that they haven’t seen all of God. The picture they have is incomplete and hazy; it’s ambiguous. So what are they to do? What are we to do? When we finally comprehend how little of God however known we actually know, where do we go next? Why even talk about our tiny, tarnished corner of God at all?

In Islam there is a tradition of the 99 names of Allah, also called the Most Beautiful names of God. They really are beautiful. I won’t attempt the Arabic, but in translation they include: The Exceedingly Compassionate, The Granter of Security, The Irresistible One, The Creator, The Evolver, The Repeatedly Forgiving…One important commentary on the Qur’an states that the one who memorizes the 99 Most Beautiful Names of God will enter paradise. But there is no agreement on which 99 they are. Many lists have been compiled, but the scriptures contain more than 99 names, and no one can be sure which ones are the most beautiful. Other traditions contend that some of the names are still hidden.

I don’t know how faithful Muslims deal with that ambiguity, but I like to think it suggests I should keep memorizing each new name I learn: The Provider, The Opener, The Expander, The Utterly Just, The Subtly Kind, The Sublime…I love the image of traveling the world in search of the 99 Most Beautiful Names of God, asking every one I meet, just in case they may hold a hidden name.

Paul’s answer is not so different, I think. He spends the next chapter telling the Corinthians to talk to each other, to use their spiritual gifts to build one another up. He tells them that when they gather they should each bring something for the others: a song, a teaching, a story. It’s as if he’s telling them, “You each have one name. It’s only one name, small and incomplete in itself. But it is one of the names of God, beautiful and powerful and true. Share it. Share it with your friends and your fellow church members. Share it with your uncles. And listen when they share their names with you. Memorize every name you are given, add name to name as if you were assembling the pieces of a puzzle, every one a tiny glimpse of the divine. With each piece the picture grows clearer and more complex, more ambiguous, but more delicious too.

Make your list:
The Watchful
The Bountiful
The Vast
The Loving
The Nourisher
The Unique
Father
Mother
Spirit
Garden
Fountain
Aircraft Carrier

Amen.