This is a question I’ve been sitting with for a while now.
Not because I’m trying to be provocative, and not because I think it needs a definitive answer, but because it’s one of those quiet questions that reveals a lot about how we relate to God, to language, and to ourselves.
What gender is God?
For many of us who grew up in Christianity — particularly within a Judeo-Christian framework — the answer feels obvious. God is spoken of in masculine terms. God is Father. God is He. God is Him. That language is so embedded in Scripture, theology, prayer, and worship that it often goes unquestioned.
And for most of my life, I didn’t question it either.
But as I’ve moved through deconstruction, reconstruction, and a deeper listening to my own inner alignment, this question keeps resurfacing. Not as a problem to solve, but as something to notice.
How Masculine God-Language Formed Me
Growing up in Christianity, God was always described using masculine language.
God the Father.
God the Son.
The Holy Spirit — which, if anything, is sometimes described with softer or more ambiguous imagery — but still framed primarily with masculine terminology.
At the center of it all was the Heavenly Father. The creator and sustainer of the universe. The one we were taught to pray to. The one who held authority, power, provision, and love.
That language didn’t feel wrong to me. It felt normal. Familiar. It made sense within the framework I was given.
And it shaped me.
One of the ways it shaped me most deeply was through how I was taught to understand love.
In biblical theology, we’re often taught to trace themes from their first appearance in Scripture all the way through the biblical narrative. And when it comes to love, the first explicit use of the word doesn’t appear where many people expect.
It doesn’t show up with God creating the world.
It doesn’t appear in the story of Adam and Eve.
It appears in the story of a father and a son.
Abraham and Isaac.
Abraham loved his son — the son he waited for, the son promised to him in his old age. And that father–son relationship becomes a prototype that Christian theology later expands into the image of God the Father loving and giving His Son.
That imagery is powerful. And for someone like me — someone who has a good relationship with his own father — it landed easily. It felt coherent. It felt true. It felt safe.
That framework became part of my internal operating system.
So even now, decades later, masculine God-language still lives in my nervous system. It slips out naturally. Automatically. Sometimes without me even realizing it until after the words are already spoken or written.
Wanting Accuracy Without Losing Reverence
As I’ve continued to grow spiritually, I’ve also felt a desire to be more precise and honest with the language I use for the Divine.
If God is truly infinite — if God is Source, Love, Being, the ground of all existence — then God is not male or female in any literal sense. God encompasses all genders and transcends them entirely.
There are qualities we might describe as divine masculine and divine feminine. Strength and gentleness. Structure and flow. Protection and nurture. But Source itself is beyond gender.
Knowing that, I’ve found myself increasingly uncomfortable with the default use of “He” and “Him.”
Not because I think it’s sinful or wrong — but because it no longer feels fully accurate for how I experience God.
At the same time, using feminine language doesn’t feel right for me either. I understand it. I respect it. I have friends who use it. Artists I admire use it. I’ve heard God referred to as “She” or “Her” in ways that feel beautiful and intentional.
But for me, it doesn’t quite settle.
And using purely neutral language — “it” — feels irreverent. Like I’m pointing at an object rather than honoring something vast, sacred, and alive. It feels too small for something so all-encompassing.
So I find myself stuck.
Not wanting to use masculine language.
Not wanting to use feminine language.
Uncomfortable with purely neutral terms.
And unsure what to replace them with.
The Practical Struggle of Language
Part of the struggle is also practical.
In writing or speaking, you can’t always repeat the same word over and over again. You can’t say “God” or “Source” in every sentence without it becoming clunky or distracting. Language needs placeholders. Pronouns exist for a reason.
I’ve considered using “they” or “them,” which are more gender-neutral and increasingly common. But even that introduces tension. It can imply multiplicity when I’m trying to point toward unity. And in writing, it can become unclear or imprecise.
So I notice myself defaulting back to “He.”
Not because I’ve resolved the tension — but because that language is ingrained. It’s familiar. It’s the operating system I’ve been running for over forty years.
Even texts like A Course in Miracles, which speak extensively about love, unity, and non-duality, still lean heavily on biblical language. God the Father. Masculine pronouns throughout. And I’ve watched how that language affects people in very real ways.
When Language Carries Trauma
In the study group I’m part of, I’ve seen people struggle deeply with the masculine personification of God.
Not because they’re resistant to God — but because they’ve been wounded by masculine authority figures. Fathers. Pastors. Institutions. Systems that used power in harmful ways.
For those people, masculine God-language doesn’t feel safe. It doesn’t feel loving. It doesn’t feel like a refuge.
And that matters.
If language causes someone’s body to tense, their breath to shallow, their spirit to recoil — then something important is happening there. Not something to judge or dismiss, but something to listen to.
As someone who wants to live a life rooted in love, I want to be mindful of that. I don’t want the words I use to cause unnecessary harm. I don’t want my language to reopen wounds that are still healing.
At the same time, I also don’t believe we need to police one another’s language or arrive at a single “correct” way of speaking about God.
Which brings me back to the heart of this reflection.
Why It Matters Less Than We Think
Here’s where I’ve landed — at least for now.
I don’t think God cares what pronouns we use.
I don’t think Source is offended by our language.
I don’t think we’re spiritually failing if we get the terminology wrong.
What I do think matters is alignment.
What matters is whether the language we use helps us live in coherence with love. Whether it brings peace to our nervous system. Whether it opens us toward compassion, humility, and presence — or closes us off.
If masculine language brings you peace, safety, and connection, then use it.
If feminine language does that for you, honor it.
If neutral or symbolic language feels truest, trust that.
This isn’t about correctness. It’s about resonance.
For me, the tension remains. I haven’t found the perfect words yet. I’m still sitting with it. Still noticing what feels aligned and what doesn’t. Still allowing the question to stay open.
And that feels honest.
Living the Question
So for now, I’ll likely continue doing what I’ve been doing.
I’ll use different names for Source depending on context.
I’ll probably still slip into masculine pronouns out of habit.
I’ll notice when something feels off — and when something feels peaceful.
And I’ll keep listening.
Because at the end of the day, love is the lesson. Love is the guide. Love is the measure.
If our language draws us closer to love, then it’s serving its purpose.
If it pulls us away from love, it’s worth revisiting.
There’s no final answer here.
Just presence.
Just curiosity.
Just an invitation to notice what brings you peace.
And that feels like a good place to rest.