“Where love is lacking, there can be no truth . . .” Hans Urs Von Balthasar
Certainty is a feeling. That strange sensation we get in those rare moments of clarity. That moment that caresses us like a light stroke of yellow sun brushing through the gray clouds converging on our skin. That crisp feeling of stepping out of a rumbling, confused, crowded cabin into a pristine morning of fresh snow.
It is in that glimmer, if we are to view it spatially, that we realize the disturbing bankruptcy of our predicament—an impoverished soul. It is in that instant, if we are to view it temporally, that we realize all that we know is absurd and most certainly wrong. Sure, we had some form of knowledge: an experience maybe, possibly a piece of information, or even a fact from a book. Sure, we had tasted a tinge of ecstasy: perhaps a warm glance of acceptance or perchance the firm strength of control. We had become quite accomplished. We found respect and admiration. We discovered security and meaning. We had it—truth!
Nothing was wanting but love.
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