Before god is anything else, god is self-emptying silence. Before there is speech, there is the god-silence. Before the naming of names, there is the god-silence. Before the telling of stories, there is the god-silence.

Beneath everything is the god-silence. The god-silence blankets everything, envelops everything, supports everything. The god-silence is indivisible, yet there are infinite silences. The god-silence is neverending, yet there is a new silence each moment. But who can divide one silence from another, the god-silence from the silences? The god-silence is boundless, ever-present.

From out of the womb of the god-silence came the naming of names. The names came forth, some sent, others leaping out of their own accord. The names wandered to and fro in search of ones to name. But the names had no binding. Without structure, the names lived for a time but then fell back into the god-silence. So it was that names were constantly coming forth from the god-silence and returning to it.

But between some of the names threads grew. Names ravelled to names, threads to threads, knots to knots. And so it was that stories arose from between the names. But not all names are ravelled, and those names sever threads and knots as they come forth and return to the god-silence. And some threads are not strong and some knots not tightly tied, and these would come undone without the violence of the names.

So it is that god is silence. And the silence is a deafening roar.

(Special thanks go to our good friend Anaximander.)