Nancy clarifies: it’s not only that thought can only think the greatest, largest, most non-existent thing. Thought also thinks beyond it. This is why Jesus is an idiot.

Partially because of the audacity to believe, to think, to know, that one is God’s actual son. This means that aside from bloodlines, cultures, lineages of any sort, God’s child is. That is to say, I am God’s child. But the stupidity here is as follows: In order for there to be a father (and not, in another sense, a neighbor, whether a sibling or a brother), things extinguish (as in a most instantaneous way).  Which also suggests that in the natural order of things, the Son comes before the brother. Which in this case means: the Son comes before the father.

Which does not necessarily mean that he comes after him. It means that, in a sense, he cannot live without being extinguished too. This is because “he” knows that he is absolutely nothing. Language, truth, thoughts, vividity, comes from the father, that is to say, is a reminiscence of sorts; or rather, it’s the birth, as such, of language, of identity. But this means first and for most, a birth of existence, of a world, and thus finally of a rapport.

But it is this “finally” that is precisely at issue, precisely because the identity with the father is the initial rapport, the founding rapport, which, as we know from Christianity, has absolutely no foundation in any father whatsoever. Christ is the deafmute child of Nothing.

Or again: thought does not simply thing the greatest thing. It does not simply think history, politics, religion, science, philosophy, poetry– which is but a random list of disciplines, or rather energies, “human” tendencies– in other words: a human rapport — in other words: we do not simply think “God” as what’s existed. Socrates and Christ run together, if  not even bumping and collapsing. And yet they choreograph the city. You have to say this: because there are institutions, just as there are friendships, kinships, and histories of all sort; but also there’s more, there’s the truth of the impenetrable “foundation” for all these things (it’s what you almost have to admit is a mystery, as long as what’s “mysterious” is taken to mean nothing tied to what’s existed, what’s past, precisely because the mystery is what ex-ists. In other words, you cannot track it down, much as you’d like to). There’s the truth of what opens right at what exists, which does not pre-date or pre-exist itself. Which ultimately means: opens right at what does not exist.

And here you have the stupidity of the Son, the writer, the “human,” the technician, the organizer, the thinker. The compassionate and enraptured “one.” Not by accident does “one” rhyme with love. But what is so uncanny, then, about the love of the father for the son… is that it doesn’t come before. It’s a result: the whole world. Interrupted then. Christianity begins knowing: there’s a mother.