There are times when I sit for a while and become awestruck, as if I never have before, at the simplicity of Jesus' message. Awestruck, too, at the incomprehensible magnitude and depth of the Love God pours out upon us. Awestruck by how glorious and joyous and liberating that Love is and awestruck, too, at the unsettling depths to which I, in turn, am called to live. And it all rests right here, right in the mystery of God's Love. The very mystery of life and living is always and all at once surrounding us and attempting to infuse us with its Glory. And yet it is also always and all at once transcendent, and beyond us.
It is in these times I see God in all things, and my great Seeing is also a grand Not-Seeing. It is the realization that what I see in other people is God; that what connects me to them is nothing other than God himself—for all I can truly see of another is, after all, only what I can see of God within him or her. And yet within these people God is also the Great Mystery; the mysterious, unknowable essence of those people to which I cannot ascend. We are all utterly knowable to one another in God, and yet we are each utterly unknowable to one another in God. In God we all live together, hidden from one another. This paradox, it seems, is as basic and pure as Being itself.
It is in these times that I feel deep within me that all our talk of religion is fully poor and pitiable, at least to the extent wherein we sit and pompously believe for even an instant that we can clarify this great mystery—as if others could learn from us some fool's take on a Truth infinitely beyond us.
It is in these times I am reminded of the simple impossibility of all my thinking and writing: I spend my days trying to speak of what cannot be spoken.
Someday, perhaps, the Love of God will fully overtake me—and all my trying will cease.
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