Why I call God “Sam”

I call God “Sam”.

A little scandalous? Maybe. Unorthodox? Absolutely.

But it works for me, and that’s more than I can say for the word “God” sometimes—a loaded term under the best of circumstances. Especially for people dealing with Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome.

For me, the word God evoked the decidedly male Trinity I grew up with. It meant betrayal and pain and a portion of my life I never wanted to go back to. God was a figure who might, say, facilitate a horrific car accident to give me a “Holy Wake-Up Call” if I wasn’t Obeying Spiritual Authorities. This same God might use cancer or a  family member’s death to chastise.

I lived in fear of inciting this God’s righteous rage. Much like the child of an abusive parent, I tiptoed around, trying desperately to please, hoping and praying I wouldn’t do something to set him off. I didn’t even KNOW I was living in fear; I thought this was what a loving relationship looked like.

Until I met Sam.

Sam came along years after my faith had broken, when I was doing my 30 religions project. (It’s kind of hard to avoid the word “God” during a religions project.) My husband–aka Mr. Practical, who breaks down complex machinery into simple diagrams for a living– witnessed my near-daily struggle with the word “God” and proposed a efficient solution: “Why don’t you just call God something less offensive and more gender-neutral…like ‘Sam’?”

I laughed out loud because A) “Sam” was funny and B) It was absurd that I’d never even considered that I was allowed to call God another name.

Outside-the-box thinking was not a valued trait in my faith of origin.

So I started calling God “Sam”. At first it felt awkward, like writing my best friend’s married name for the first time. But then calling God “Sam” opened up entire new possibilities: the God I pictured no longer had to be male or angry or tied up with concepts and traits I didn’t like.

All God had to be was Sam.

For me, the name Sam conjured the fun neighbor girl I grew up with, the cute boy I had a crush on in high school, the great boss who once dug my car out after a blizzard.

The name Sam was a positive jumping-off point, a way to side-step my icky feelings about God.

Because of Sam, I discovered the word “God” had been overshadowing the real God.

Sam wasn’t angry, but he was big enough to handle my anger. Sam would never hurt me, but he cared about my hurts. Sam loved me no matter what I did or didn’t do. I no longer had to tip-toe around, afraid of a “loving” beating. Sam was love.Pure, unconditional, no-strings-attached, LOVE.

Sam taught me about a God who was much bigger than the one I grew up with. A God who didn’t mind being called Sam one bit.

Sometimes it takes letting go of the word God to find God.

PS: If Sam happens to be your ex-husband/wife’s name, I suspect Sam also wouldn’t mind Pat, Alex, Chris, Terry, Oli, or Vic.