On Naming the Unnameable

I believe in the thing that cannot be named without being diminished. I believe the moment you call it God, you have already begun to shrink it into something you can manage — something with a gender, a temperament, a set of preferences that happen to align rather neatly with your own.

I have stood in cathedrals and felt nothing. I have stood in ordinary kitchens and felt everything. I no longer trust the architecture of certainty — the creeds, the systems, the tidy answers handed down like heirlooms nobody asked for. What I trust now is the feeling underneath all of it. The sense of touching something larger than I can see, in a darkness too complete to be afraid of.

I believe in the cave. I believe in reaching out. I believe that what I touch is real, even if it is only ever a part — heat where someone else feels cold, softness where someone else feels stone. I believe the contradictions are not a flaw in the search. They are the shape of the thing itself.

I believe, mostly, in staying in the room. In not walking out when someone describes a part of the dark I have never touched. That is the closest thing to faith I have left — not certainty, but the willingness to keep listening in the dark.