You believe yourself a better person, now, for walking the via negativa after an education suffused with the hubris of certainty. You seek humility, now, you say — you will make no claims on the Good, the Ideal. Such claims, in human words from human minds, can only be an insult.

But the via negativa is paved with pomposity and leads deep into hatefulness.

Your apophatic approach to existence makes it impossible to love. Since you can only acknowledge what is not divine, can you see that your world is too dark for light?

All your negative anger at imperfection crouches hidden under humility: you are unable (you proclam) to make “prideful” positive claims! You are imperfect, so you will not deign to impose a viewpoint, to define an experience, to recognize reality —

— God is not God is not God is not

love is not love is not love is not —

God is better that what your words can express, you say, so love is better than what you have known. You define these things by their absence: no God here; no love here — these must be better than this.

I reject this doctrine.

I will make rash definitions using graphite and ink and odd shapes and sounds and I will scribble that God is love and love is real and reality is bloody and embodied and beautiful and brutish.

I will be specific. I will define “love” in labor at the midwives’ stools: love all mixed with tears and sweat and suicidal pushing and soft skin and sore breasts and God is love and love is life and life hurts from the very beginning.

I will claim my uncertainty boldly: I know no facts but only stories and I know there are too many of these to rightly choose only one to tell, but I will still be a storyteller and love and God will be part of this tale, embodied and hungry and here in reality where we live because it is not time for nothingness yet. I will name and create and exist and I will accept only a confused human canon with conflict and chaos and questions and doubt and this scripture will sometimes be so very wrong, so misused and abused.

I will say that God is love and love is God and this is the only way I know how to live in a world where I must feed and clothe and bathe and snuggle and entertain and comfort another human, embodied and bruised and sunburnt and silly and sad and serious. To mother is to be so certain of divine incarnation that I cannot say where one individual begins and another ends.

This is love: female divinity and so much blood and color and storytelling and runny noses and small powerful voices.

This is love: that God is recognizable, definable by presence and not absence and can be experienced, ingested and digested.

You could not fathom my love because anything I did was not-love. You could not experience love because my whole being defined its lack for you. This was not humility — this was blindness.

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