In a monotheistic worldview, there is only one god. Despite
that perspective, we say, “my god.” It is a much more loaded phrase than “our
god.” It infers that there may be a “your god” that is not “my god.”
Well, that won’t do. Human nature is not kind when presented
with choices. We don’t simply select. We justify to prove the superiority of our selection.
In this case, it begins with a subtle distinction. We say “my God,” but “your
god.”
So calling “my God” now sets the stage for a cosmic
challenge in which my obviously superior god will best yours in any contest
declared. If we are children of the god(s), it calls out our parents to defend
their titles. Since we’re kids, we can reasonably assume it calls them out to
do it right now. Any self-respecting god must show up.
From a deity's perspective, I imagine this expectation is burden enough when simply
verbalized. There is an immediacy and vibrancy to the spoken word. Certain
religious texts inform us that the spoken world is what got this present
reality rolling in the first place. But there are other ways to communicate. What
about when we write it down? Or when we type it? Can you see where this is
going?
Enter the phrase known in the phonetic alphabet as Oscar
Mike Golf. By reducing the phrase “O, My God” to three simple letters, we’ve
set ourselves up. Beware what you type. When God or god becomes “G” or “g,” we easily forget who or
what we are addressing. But we still call. We ring the doorbell. We’re not
pranking. It’s more like operating in a fog. We press the button, then we walk
away with no expectation that there will be an answer. We don’t even remember
asking for one. Despite that, the next time we beckon, we fully expect the Deity of Our
Persuasion to respond with alacrity. The phonetic alphabet for that call is
Whisky Oscar Lima Foxtrot.
