Category: Clear thinking, words, and communication

En el Séptimo Cielo

“In Seventh Heaven” no describe cómo nos sentimos ahora, a pesar de que estamos celebrando la Pascua.
Quiere decir un estado de felicidad perfecta, pero es literalmente una expresión curiosa. Se remonta a mucho tiempo y se refiere al nivel más alto del cielo, donde se supone que Dios y sus ángeles más altos habitan.
En la antigüedad, la mayoría de la gente imaginaba que el mundo era casi infinito pero plano—dividido entre las aguas profundas, la tierra seca, y el cielo de arriba. Y cada uno tenía subdivisiones. El cielo, los cielos de arriba tenían siete niveles, y el séptimo nivel era el más alto.
San Pablo Apóstol, haciendo referencia a una experiencia mística que él mismo tuvo una vez, escribió: “De cierto creyente sé esto: hace catorce años fue arrebatado hasta el tercer cielo. Si fue con el cuerpo o fuera del cuerpo, no lo sé, lo sabe Dios.” (2 Cor 12: 2).
El no-canónico libro segundo de Enoc imagina el tercer cielo como un lugar “entre la corrupción y la incorruptibilidad” que contenía el Árbol de la Vida y del cual dos manantiales fluían hacia el Jardín del Edén.
Esta noción de niveles se encuentra en el judaísmo, el cristianismo y el islam.
En 1961, el cosmonauta soviético Yuri Gagarin llegó a ser en el primer hombre en viajar al espacio exterior y orbitar la tierra. Se dice que Nikita Khrushchev comentó sobre su viaje: “Gagarin voló al espacio, pero no vio a ningún Dios allí”.
Eso sarcasmo fue muy extraño—se hace eco del concepto de un mundo plano. A veces, también usamos un lenguaje religioso muy antiguo y “direccional”:
Dios está “arriba” en el cielo.
Jesús “asciende” (sube) al Padre.
A veces exclamamos: “¡Saints above!”

“Cielo” o “Infierno” en el sentido de un lugar de nuestro destino final no es “arriba” o “abajo”; de hecho, no es un “lugar” en el sentido habitual de la palabra—aunque lo imaginamos así.
¿Qué es el cielo entonces?
Primero, no “sabemos” en la forma en que sabemos algo dentro de nuestra experiencia vivida. El cielo es un estado, una condición, una etapa de la vida que es desconocida y aún no experimentada.
En términos teológicos es un “misterio”, parte del gran misterio del amor y del cuidado de Dios para todas sus criaturas.
Esto es pertinente a cómo describimos y entendemos lo último de la vida terrenal de Jesús, lo que llamamos su “Ascensión”.
En la Biblia, se representa de varias maneras. Por ejemplo, al final del Evangelio de Lucas (24:51) dice: “Y mientras los bendecía se alejó de ellos y fue llevado al cielo”.
Sin embargo, al comienzo de los Hechos de los Apóstoles de Lucas (Hechos: 1: 9), hay una diferencia sutil pero muy importante—dice: “Entonces, en presencia de ellos, Jesús fue levantado y una nube lo ocultó.”
La palabra clave aquí es “nube”. No refiere al clima pero a la apariencia final de Jesús antes de que fuera reunido en la nube luminosa de la presencia divina que nuestros ojos no pueden penetrar.
Aun las imágenes varían, el hecho y la fe subyacentes son los mismos—la última etapa de la vida terrenal de Jesús fue reunirse en la gloria de Dios.
No se preocupe por la “dirección” de su vida, solo que sea la misma—¡hacia Dios!

(Una traducción del inglés)

17 de mayo de 2020

Thinking Critically

The college where I studied sometimes described its mission as, “We’re here to teach you how to think, not what to think.”
How did they do it? Well, there was a variety of techniques. One, a kind of course in American history, consisted of a set of controversial historical points of view. We’d spend a few weeks on each one.
We’d hear a series of lectures on the particular topic, different speakers, each with different ideas. We had a thin book of essays and articles, each with a different approach to resolving the same, usually controversial question.
We’d meet in small discussion groups to discuss, debate, and argue about the merits of the various points of view.
Finally, we had to write a position paper, making a case for our personal point of view and defending it against its opponents.
We weren’t graded for solving a problem; there was no absolute right or wrong to propose or defend. What seemed to count more was method—were we thinking critically and articulating our point of view logically, consistently, and persuasively?
Another course, identified as English, was bewildering. We were asked to write a short paper in response to some strange topic involving, say, walking through and viewing a cornfield.
Style of writing, grammar, vocabulary didn’t seem to matter, but point of view was important—in the sense, for example, that a cornfield could be described as neat, orderly rows of corn or, from another point of view, as a tangle of plants without pattern.
In terms of Physics, it was like the theory of relativity—that what one observes depends on the observer’s resources, position, state, and condition.
We were challenged in every which way. They were teaching us how to think!

Learning how to think involves learning how to analyze a situation, to develop a well-founded point of view based on sound factual information, and to arrive at a balanced judgement. This could be described also as learning how to think critically.
What is implied by “critically”? What does the word mean? As most words, it has a history and has changed and developed in usage over the centuries.
The root word,“ critic”, comes from the Latin criticus, from the Greek kritikos, originally meaning a person skilled in judging, able to discern, evaluate, separate.
A “critic” can be defined as:
1. a) a person who forms and expresses judgements of people or things according to certain standards or values. b) such a person whose profession is to write such judgements as for a newspaper or magazine.
2. a person who tends too readily to make captious, trivial, or harsh judgements, a faultfinder.
Critical thinking, in the first sense, means thinking that is characterized by careful analysis and sound judgement, not tending to find fault or be censorious.
Such critical thinking requires a degree of modesty, for the only certainty about our best analyses and judgements is that they are not absolutely certain.
We’re shaped by our formation, culture, history. We may have a clearer insight and better understanding than our forebears—and our successors may have a clearer insight and better understanding than we.
Clinging to the past may be for the fearful, but absolute total confidence in the present can be pretty dumb!


2 February 2020

Speaking with Tongues of Fire

When the time for Pentecost was fulfilled, they were all in one place together. And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, and it filled the entire house in which they were. Then there appeared to them tongues as of fire, which parted and came to rest on each one of them. And they were all filled with the holy Spirit and began to speak in different tongues, as the Spirit enabled them to proclaim.
Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven staying in Jerusalem. At this sound, they gathered in a large crowd, but they were confused because each one heard them speaking in his own language. They were astounded, and in amazement they asked, “Are not all these people who are speaking Galileans? Then how does each of us hear them in his own native language?”

Traditional religious art depicts this scene and the metaphors describing it very literally, usually with a shaped small flame over the heads of each of them.
From St. Paul we learned that some of the early Christians aspired to have this gift of the Spirit and began to “speak in tongues”—in the sense of unintelligible language—and sometimes another person, with a gift of interpretation, would “translate” what was being said.
In contemporary times, some pious charismatic Christians similarly aspire to “speak in tongues” the way the Bible appears to depict it.
To understand fully the story of Pentecost in the Acts of the Apostles one needs to recall the story of the Tower of Babel in the book of Genesis. The builders of the tower were so presumptuous in their pride that they sought to construct it high enough to reach heaven, the abode of God.

God punished them by confounding their communication. They began to speak in different languages and could no longer understand one another. (That’s why we call unintelligible speech “babbling”.)
At Pentecost, the promised fullness of the Holy Spirit was given to the disciples—new dynamism, energy, vital force, power. Their new spirit was astoundingly effective.
Their speech had fire—a metaphor not in the modern sense of a destructive consuming force but in the pre-modern sense of a blazing energy providing light to see by, warmth to defend against the cold, and a focal point to bring people closer together around it.
The miracle we celebrate at Pentecost was a miracle of communication and solidarity. Somehow, empowered by the fullness of the power of God, which is love, the message of the disciples was understood by everyone together, even though they were otherwise divided by different ways of speaking.
Tradition has it that St. Francis of Assisi taught his followers, “Preach the Gospel always, and, if necessary, use words.”
A similar thought is succinctly stated by “Actions speak louder than words.”
We may have a rich and sophisticated vocabulary, we may be confident public speakers, we may even know many a trick and art of rhetoric, but . . . as St. Paul beautifully put it:
“If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.” My tongue may be wagging and my words may be flowing, but it’s through the power of my love that I really communicate.


23 June 2019

Elder or Offeror of Sacrifice

The English language is unusually rich—in the sense of having two or more diverse ways to speak of almost anything.
This is due primarily to its drawing from two major sources: the influence of the Latin of its Roman conquerors (and, later, of its Norman French ones) and the Germanic languages of the Anglo-Saxons—plus the lingering influence of Celtic dialects and old Scandinavian languages as well.
But, when it comes to “priest” it’s just the opposite situation. The English language uses one word to express two or more very different meanings.
The English word “priest” has tangled roots: Old English, preost—related to Dutch, priester—from Late Latin, presbyter, from the Greek presbyteros (older), meaning an old man, a senior, an elder.
But, its roots notwithstanding, usually, in English, the word “priest” means not an elder but a person whose function is to offer sacrifices, serving as an intermediary between a god or God and worshipers.
Latin has a word for such a person, not presbyter but sacerdos (one who does sacred [things]). Oddly, English doesn’t. The English language has an adjective, “sacerdotal”, but not an noun—although most Latin-rooted languages do.
Scriptural scholarship has called attention to the fact that the early leaders of the local Christian communities, after the time of the apostles, were called elders (presbyters).
As ranking of service and authority gradually developed, the elder (presbyter) was accountable to an overseer (episcopus), a kind of head elder, and assisted by helpers or ministers (the diaconus).
Once Christianity became institutionalized in the Roman Empire as the imperial state religion, it was natural enough to begin to think of its leaders as priests (in the sense of sacerdos) since pagan Rome always had a caste of official priests with such a role.

Besides, the Bible itself lent support to this understanding of local Church leaders as priests (in the sense of sacerdos). Judaism had a religious organization somewhat similar to pagan Rome with the ministerial tribe of Levi and its official Aaronic priests serving under the overall supervision of a high priest.
Other gradual changes were taking place regarding the status and authority of priests.
In pagan Rome and biblical Judaism, the priest always had a certain social status and religious authority. With the decline of the western Roman Empire and the increasing assumption of civil authority in the West by the bishop of Rome, the importance of the ecclesiastical leaders increased.
This was further augmented by the decline of overall education in the West. The majority of literate and somewhat educated people were the ecclesiastics, the clergy. Feudal Western society became stratified into nobility, clergy, and common people.
The development of sacramental theology added another dimension to the perception of the priest. He was not only a spiritual and social leader, a man of learning and superior status; but also by his ordination he was changed entirely—he had become a sacred and holy person, an alter Christus.
As language, theology, and the world around us change and evolve, what do we now mean by priest: presbyter or sacerdos? clergyman or lay? servant or superior? What shapes our understanding: what the word meant to us in childhood? after higher education? in adult life? in old age?
If it’s tricky business being clear what “priest” means nowadays, imagine how much more complicated it is to be one!


21 April 2019

A Mighty Fortress Is Our God

Metaphor  a figure of speech in which a term or phrase is applied to something to which it is not literally applicable in order to suggest a resemblance.

Without the salt of metaphors, speech and writing can be pretty bland. (This very phrase uses a metaphor.) What would great literature, poetry, Shakespeare be like without vivid and elegant metaphors? The very stuff of the Bible requires metaphors, for to speak of God is almost impossible without them.
And, here’s the rub: many of the biblical metaphors, and the religious discourse that uses them, no longer have the dynamism and clarity they had originally in their (different) culture and time.
Once they were striking to their hearers and stimulated a new way of thinking; for many of the hearers or readers of today they are archaic and have to be learned to be fully understood.
For example, the beautiful Letter to the Hebrews, so deeply rooted in Old Testament thought and practice, utilizes a fundamental and unusual metaphor: Jesus as the high priest of the new dispensation, forever, according to the order of Melchizedek.
The letter overwhelmingly uses the notion of temple sacrifice—a familiar and important part of Jewish religious observance until the destruction of the Second Temple—to explain and give meaning to the horrible death of Jesus on the cross—Jesus as the priest-offeror and at the same time Jesus as the sacrificial victim.
It was a meaningful and evocative metaphor for the early Jewish disciples of Jesus as they wrestled with the scandalous death of the Messiah, but for other Jews and Gentiles, without the insight of the metaphor, Christ crucified defied belief.

The inscription-charge on the cross said, “Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews”. Jesus’ followers saw profound meaning in the title (construing it metaphorically); his enemies were outraged by it (taking it literally).
Kings and queens still exist, and we’re used to history books and imaginative stories about them, but they’re no longer governing and ruling hereditary monarchs with great powers. So, even though the metaphor of king for Jesus is somewhat familiar, it still is of another era and needs interpretation to redeem its original force.
In Jewish and Christian tradition God is described with diverse other metaphors and images: e.g. warrior-leader, shepherd, cuckolded husband, maker, rock, father, redeemer, savior, judge, destroyer, eagle, vital force—as well as mighty fortress.
Some of our religious metaphors are transcultural and enduring, but many are dated and no longer so self-evident nor meaningful as they once were.
It’s like speaking with esoteric, technical, or archaic words—either the speaker explains them as part of the discourse or else fails to communicate effectively.
One of the challenges of contemporary evangelization is to find additional, new metaphors to communicate perennial truths more dynamically and effectively.
Regarding this, the first Star Wars movie is provocative: Luke Skywalker is taught about the Force by Obi-Wan Kenobi: “It is an energy field . . . It surrounds us, penetrates us, and binds the galaxy together.” Luke has to learn not to use the Force but to allow the Force to use him.
A modern metaphor for the Holy Spirit?


7 April 2019

What’s in a Word

Every day we hear the news on radio or in conversation. We read the news. We watch and listen to the news on TV. The “hottest” news, of course, is usually the bad news — violence, corruption, dishonesty, infidelity, death, destruction.
Occasionally we get a happy respite from it all, like the World Cup matches last month. Alas, most of the time, the news brings the same tale of woe — e.g., Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Palestine and Israel.
We don’t always use the best words to talk about the news — right words, that is. We’re short on true words, accurate words, pointed and analytic words. We’re not accustomed “to call a spade a spade.”
Here’s a relatively underutilized family of words very useful for describing many of today’s world events (descriptions courtesy of my Reader’s Digest dictionary):

Revenge, vengeance, retaliation, reprisal, and retribution denote the infliction of punishment or injury for a wrong.
– Revenge stresses personal bitterness that seeks relief in harming or humiliating an enemy.
– Vengeance, originally the indignant vindication of justice, is now applied to any furious and thoroughgoing revenge.
– Retaliation suggests the repayment of an act by a like act.
– Reprisal denotes any calculated retaliation, as by one nation against another. Reprisals are usually undertaken to obtain redress of a wrong, or to force a change of policy.
– Retribution is punishment for a wrong, but not necessarily by its victim; thus, a misfortune suffered by a wrongdoer may be regarded at the retribution of fate or providence.

They’re not all bad words. Many of them have a long and honorable history.

In most ancient societies, and many modern ones, these words name a debt of honor. One’s honor — and the honor of the family, clan, tribe or nation — demands redress and punishment for an injury or wrong, whether physical or verbal
Not to seek redress is considered to be weak — “unmanly,” if you will — and negligent of a solemn duty and obligation.
Immemorial rules like “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” presume this obligation of honor and simply seek to moderate it, ensuring that “honorable” actions are not disproportionate.
Modern just war theory is deeply rooted in these ancient and biblical teachings. That’s the basis for a moral critique of, for example, carpet bombing, indiscriminate use of land mines, nuclear war and massive retaliation.
The teachings of Jesus go far beyond the moderation of vengeance and retaliation. He urges his followers to renounce entirely their right to redress and challenges them with a higher honor and obligation — to be Godlike and forgive.
Forgiveness is no act of weakness — it’s actually an act of great strength. It’s also empowering and ultimately far more effective in bringing about change in another than coercion and external violence.
Anyway, let’s be a little pragmatic. Forgiveness and love is the ideal, moderate and reasonable defense is certainly not inappropriate, but massive and indiscriminate retaliation is wrong.
Revenge, vengeance, retaliation, reprisal, and retribution are useful words for our working vocabulary but need to be handled with precision and care — especially when examining our own consciences.


(Published in
0ne, 36:4, July 2010)

Theologic

I don’t know if Mr. Spock ever studied logic or it was just a case of “doin’ what comes naturally.” To study logic is to learn an algebraic way of thinking. For example:

(1) All birds can fly.
(2) The creature in my cage is a bird.
Therefore, logically,
(3) the creature in my cage can fly.

However, not everything that seems logical really is. For example:

(1) All birds can fly.
(2) The creature in my cage is not a bird.
Therefore,
(3) the creature in my cage cannot fly.

Obviously, this doesn’t always hold true. Perhaps the creature in my cage is a bat. The conclusion is illogical.
In addition, there is a flaw in both examples: (1) is not true. Not all birds can fly — think of a penguin or an ostrich.
It’s more serious when we use this same kind of logic or illogic with people. For example:

(1) All Christians love others.
(2) Mariam is a Christian.
Therefore, logically,
(3) Mariam loves others.

This has the same kind of flaw: (1) is not true. Not all Christians love others — and maybe Mariam does not either.
   Here’s a worse example of bad logic:

(1) All Christians love others.
(2) Ahmed is not a Christian.
Therefore,
(3) Ahmed does not love others.

Even if (1) were true, it’s still illogical.

Illogical thinking can be dangerous, especially when it leads to taking decisions and actions affecting others. For example:

(1) Good Catholics go to heaven.
(2) Jews are not good Catholics.
Therefore,
(3) Jews cannot go to heaven.

This is completely illogical and false. Of course people who are not good Catholics can go to heaven.
Too often passion overrides logic and prompts terrible decisions. For example:

  (1) Muslims are dangerous fanatics.
(2) Iraq is a Muslim country.
Therefore,
(3) Iraqis are dangerous fanatics.

Here both the logic is sloppy and (1) is ambiguous and flawed: Some Muslims are dangerous fanatics, but not all Muslims are dangerous fanatics. And, of course the same can be said about Christians or Jews.
When I went to college many years ago, they told us, “We’re here to teach you how to think, not what to think.”
This didn’t mean that we were not going to acquire new ideas and new information. But we did learn to examine critically the new ideas and information we encountered — as well as the old ideas and information that we brought with us when we arrived. We learned to think and judge logically.
Without passion we are almost lifeless. But, passion without logic can delude us, making us dangerous and harmful to others — as well as to our ourselves.


(Published in
one, 34:2, March 2008)

Accentuate the Positive

When I was a kid they told me that “Eskimos” greet each other by rubbing noses. How peculiar, I thought, why don’t they shake hands?
Older, but no wiser, I learned that American “Indians” greet each other by holding up one hand, palm out, saying “How.” How peculiar, I thought, why don’t they shake hands?
Much later, I came to know that Japanese greet each other by bowing one to the other, that French men (and Arabs) kiss one another on both cheeks and that in India hands are joined in front, as though in prayer, with a slight inclination of the head by way of saying hello.
How peculiar, I then thought, that I was taught to clasp right hands and jerkily move them up and down once or twice by way of greeting — an old tradition that showed that I held no weapon!
Naturally, in my youthful, blissful ignorance, I never questioned greeting the Lord in church by genuflecting on one knee — traditional Western court style. But it certainly seemed odd that in Byzantine churches one reverenced the Lord by bowing so low as to touch the floor — traditional Eastern court style.
And, an altar server kissing hats and hands, rings and books was the most normal thing in the world — my world, that is!
The first moral of these little examples is don’t misunderstand and be put off by superficial, cultural differences. There are limitless different ways of expressing the same good intentions and the same good will.
Another, positive moral of the examples is the importance of respect for cultural differences and of recognition and understanding of the good intentions and the good will that underlies them.

I was deeply struck and deeply moved by the 13 October 2007 open letter to the heads and leaders of Christian churches by 138 Muslim scholars, jurists and religious leaders.
Painfully aware of the increasing and increasingly deadly misunderstandings between Muslims and Christians, they explained that the most important words we have from the prophet Muhammad are consonant with those from Moses and Jesus.
Notwithstanding differences among Hebrew, Greek, Aramaic, and Arabic — and in spite of the stylistic differences of the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim holy books — there is a substantial core to their teachings that is the same.
Since God is one, it should be so.
If the one God sends different messengers to different people in different times and different places, then the messages cannot contradict each other. If it seems so, the fault lies with us. It must be due to our human failings, prejudices, misinterpretations, and misunderstandings.
Are there real and substantial differences in belief among Jews, Christians, and Muslim? Of a certainty. But as our Muslim brothers and sisters affirm, there are fundamental, real, and substantial commonalities, too.
When Jesus once was asked by a teacher of the law of Moses what was the greatest commandment of the law, he named two: Love God with all your heart, soul, and mind and love your neighbor as yourself. Jews believe it. Christians believe it. Muslims believe it, too.


(Published as “Hello” in
one, 34:1, January 2008)

On Behalf of God

Many prominent people and institutions have a spokesperson — that is, someone who speaks on their behalf. An ancient word for that is “prophet.” It’s rooted in two Greek words: pro, meaning “before” or “for” and phanai, meaning “to speak.”
When God told Moses, “Repeat to Pharaoh, king of Egypt, all that I tell you,” Moses protested, “Since I am a poor speaker, how can it be that Pharaoh will listen to me?” The Lord told him, “Aaron your brother shall act as your prophet.”
Moses has gone down in history as the first great prophet of God, and God promised him, “I will raise up for [the Israelites] a prophet like you from among their kinsmen.” This hope never died. Over a millennium later Jewish priests and Levites, seeking to know who Jesus was, asked him, “Are you the Prophet?”
The Jewish scriptures are filled with references to prophets. Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel are well known; less familiar are others like Deborah, Micah, Habakkuk and Malachi. Hundreds of other prophets, both Israelite and pagan, are unnamed.
Few prophets are named in Christian scriptures. Jesus called the Baptist a prophet and “more than a prophet.” Jesus is hailed as a prophet and “the Prophet.”
Muslims are more wont to call Jesus a prophet than Christians. Muslims venerate biblical figures from Abraham to Jesus as prophets, but for them the greatest of the prophets is Muhammad.
For all believers in the one God, a prophet is one who speaks the word of God. No one can assume the office. Only God can appoint his spokesperson and inspire someone to speak on his behalf.
In a sense, all holy men and women are prophets, for “actions speak louder than words.” Their lives communicate God and his will and love to those who know them.

God can speak to and through us. “In him we live and move and have our being”; God is totally operative in the life of each of us. The more conscious we are of our existence as creatures and of the love of the Creator, the more likely it is that we will hear God speak and we will speak on his behalf.
The Spirit breathes where he wills. The life-giving Spirit of the one God may speak through the life of anyone — Jew, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, animist, agnostic or atheist — if only each chooses to speak as the Spirit prompts.
Though there are special prophetic persons and institutions, in a sense everyone may become a prophet, speaking by word or example on behalf of God.
In the face of the violence, injustice, discrimination, exploitation, and other evils of modern societies, thanks be to God there are innumerable voices raised for right. In spite of false propaganda, distorted values, and appeals to egoism and selfishness, there are courageous men and women everywhere, of every faith and nation, whose lives speak truth, justice, and love — who speak on behalf of God.
The Bible, especially the Hebrew Bible, describes a society filled with prophets and prophetic voices — a society constantly being challenged to conform to the plan of the Lord. As the Jews of the time of Jesus, today’s devout believers may be yearning for prophets.
Open your eyes and ears. The Spirit is alive and well. Prophets surround you. You’re being called and challenged to be a prophet, too.


(Published in
one, 33:5, September 2007)

Misunderstanding Religious Language

A few weeks ago, I was invited to talk to a group of visiting Middle East Muslim scholars, rabbis, and Christian leaders in the Lady Chapel of New York’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral about our common religious traditions and devotion to Mary.
It was hard to find the right words to use, because the three traditions have such different religious vocabularies.
What came to mind was the well-known quip of George Bernard Shaw about the British and the Americans being “one people divided by a common language.”
This refers, of course, to the fact that sometimes the British and the Americans use entirely different words for the same thing. And, sometimes they use the same word to refer to entirely different things.
A similar observation could be made about Jews, Christians, and Muslims: one family of believers in the one and the same God divided by religious language.
For example, Allah. Allah is simply the Arabic word for God (with a capital “G”). Prayers in the Arabic language, whether Christian or Muslim, naturally use this word. However, often you hear some Christians speaking erroneously about Allah as though this were the proper name of some kind of pagan divinity.
The Jewish Scriptures do tell of the one God revealing his proper name to Moses. This name is so holy that a devout Jew will never speak it, always substituting some other word, such as Lord.
Another example, Son of God. In the Jewish Scriptures, a holy person is sometimes called a son of God. For the first Christians Jesus was preeminently such a person and more. In the Gospels he is frequently referred to as the Son of God (with a capital “S”). Over the centuries, this has been the subject of much Christian theology and prayerful reflection.

Christians are so familiar with this expression and accustomed to hearing it that they have no idea how outrageous “Son of God” can sound to Muslims, and sometimes to Jews.
The Muslim Scriptures specifically state that God “has taken neither a wife nor a son” and that “God has no female consort, no son.”
Of course, this presumes that the expression “Son of God” means the product of intercourse between God and a human person — a very common idea in many ancient pagan mythologies. If it truly meant that, Christians would indignantly join Muslims in denying it as well.
On the other hand, Muslims always refer to Jesus as “Jesus, son of Mary.” Normally in Arabic the son’s name is followed by the name of his father. The way Muslims speak of Jesus testifies to their belief how special he is and that he has no human father.
Similar misunderstandings arise with Muslims when they hear Christians speak of Mary as the Mother of God, even though Muslims do have a great veneration for and devotion to the Blessed Mother.
The way we use religious words often stretches them far beyond their ordinary meaning. Struggling to speak of the mystery of the nature of God and his love, we lamely use the best words we can think of, even though they hardly can bear the burden of all that we wish to say.
Religious language soars beyond the ordinary. To speak of the things of God, we often need poetry more than prose. And in poetry it is heart that speaks to heart, more than head to head.

(Published
with some slight differences
as “Religious Language” in
one, 31:1, January 2005)