Faith of our Fathers... and Mothers... a rose is a rose is a rose

I am my past.
Those who sang God of our Fathers
Those who sang God of our Mothers
Those who prayed to our Heavenly Father
Those Church of God women preachers unadorned and passionate
Those farm women whose rough hands held babies tenderly in the nursery
All those women and men who brought food, dug graves, wept, sang songs of Zion, laughed and prayed, met at church twice on Sundays and on Wednesday nights
Those Aunt Thelmas who ran the Womens Missionary Union and the preachers
Those missionaries from far away places who came to tell their story
Those fathers dipped down in baptismal waters who came up singing "Praise the Lord"
Those preachers who stood in simple pulpits with no education save love
Those children of God had a dream, too.
Those children of God built seminaries for me to attend so I might learn Greek.
Those children of God built hospitals to serve the sick, poor and rich alike.
Those children of God fed the poor, visited the prisons and nursing homes, comforted the sorrowful and heard the same call I do... Follow me.
Those children of God whom I did not know, loved me.
Those children of God wanted the best for me.
How can I not honor them?
How dare I judge them by language that no longer suits new learning?
They were not all faceless racist misogynistic submissive non-entities.
They were my first teachers in the way of Love.
They were the ones who came when my sister committed suicide.
They were the ones who pray for me still, not knowing who I have become.
They were my mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandmothers and grandfathers in faith.
When I sing "What a fellowship, what a joy divine", I remember and give thanks.
When I pray "Our Father and Mother in Heaven", I remember and give thanks.
When I hear women preach, I remember and give thanks.
When I hear the King James words, I remember and give thanks.
When I look at my faith life... begun in a simple country church with only the bare necessities of education and theology... with an abundance of love... with those whose names I still remember... Sunday School teachers... deacons... missionaries... preachers... song leaders... I remember and give thanks.
I will not rewrite their words, their language without honoring them.
Someday, my words of faith will be rewritten, I hope with love and tender care, not judgement and disdain. I hope my words and theirs can be heard as written sometimes without the overlay of others hurts and needs causing them to be changed forever. I hope my words and theirs will be judged not by the standards of new theologies but by the Heart of God... the One who knows who we are and loves us anyway. Thanks be to God for the Faith of my Fathers and the Faith of my Mothers, for the language that first called me out and still sings in my heart. Thanks be to God for the new language of God, its open, affirming, including images that spring from the language of the past. I am a rich woman... rich in history and future. Thanks be to God.