(I apologize in advance at just how ?#(&!<$ crazy the following will read.)
When holiday theology starts to irritate against my deconversion stasis, I turn to mysticism.
I’m not kidding here.
At least not obviously so.
I aspire to become one with both the literalists and the atheists who are both right and both wrong.
There is no god of any literal sort and that nothingness became a baby that changed history. God is dead, long live Jesus.
And I am the living incarnation of that dead divinity only if I aim to become consciously united with every single other being, which is impossible.
Mysticism is impossible, but that is why it’s worth the effort.
Only by trying to feel like a literalist (and failing) and re-member-ing the grief and sorrow that my former literalist self felt as my literalism fell apart, only then can I briefly glimpse emphathetically into their world for just that moment and love them, love myself, and love the world, and at the same time utterly fail to love myself or them.
And that is ok.