Commentary: God in all mystery, revealing who we are eternally

What unfolds is not an argument about love, but the unveiling of love as that which precedes the one who would try to understand it. Love is not being described as something to grasp, but as that which remains when grasping falls away. Even the movement to define, to secure, to “know,” is seen as the last veil that gently dissolves in the presence of what simply is.

The words move in a paradox that feels deeply true: insignificance and significance held together without conflict. Not flattened into sameness, not divided into hierarchy, but resting in a unity where nothing needs to be elevated or diminished. In this, love is not sentimental or selective — it is structural to reality itself. It does not choose; it is.

There is also a tenderness in the recognition that all are searching for home, and that home is not elsewhere, not later, not earned—but is the very substance of what is already holding everything. The search itself becomes a kind of echo of what is never absent. And so the invitation is not to arrive somewhere new, but to allow what already is to be what it is, without interference.

“Allow our being to be loved by the original lover” carries something very subtle and profound. It does not speak of becoming love through effort, but of ceasing to resist what is already loving. It suggests that the deepest wisdom is not in attaining, but in permitting — in yielding to a love that does not originate from the self, and therefore does not depend on it.

And in the closing movement — raw, undefended, unadorned —there is a stripping away of every layer that could make love manageable or safe. What remains is not fragile, but boundless. Not protected, but unthreatened. A love that does not need form, yet gives rise to all form.

What is left, quietly, is not something to hold.

But something that holds everything.