During a Bible study at our church small group, the brother leading it posed a question: “How would you introduce God to someone who doesn’t know Him?”

Everyone took turns answering. “God is the omnipotent Creator.” “God is love.” “God is the righteous Judge.” “God is eternal and unchanging.”

Every answer was “correct.” If this were a theology exam, all of them would earn points.

But sitting there, I had a lingering question I couldn’t shake: If God can truly be fully described by these words, is He still God?

The Arrogance of Language

Humans have an almost instinctive trust in language. We believe that if we can put something into words, it means we understand it. If we can define it, it means we’ve grasped it.

In everyday life, this works most of the time. When you say “this cup of coffee is hot,” you have indeed captured an important characteristic of the coffee. When you say “this company’s revenue is one billion,” you have indeed described a verifiable fact.

But when the object of language shifts from the finite to the infinite—shifts toward God—this trust becomes arrogance.

When we say “God is omnipotent,” we are actually framing God within the human understanding of “power.” But is God’s “omnipotence” the same thing as the “power” we understand? When we speak of “power,” what we picture in our minds is “the force to accomplish something.” But what if God’s “power” transcends all our imaginings of “force”?

Language becomes a cage. We think we have grasped God through language, but in fact we have stuffed God into the dimensions of our own words.

The Path of Apophatic Theology

The early church had a group of theologians who recognized this problem.

Around the fifth century, Pseudo-Dionysius proposed a radical theological path: rather than saying what God “is,” it is better to say what God “is not.”

Saying “God is not finite” is more honest than saying “God is infinite.” Because the former acknowledges that our understanding of “infinity” is limited—we know God is not finite, but we dare not claim that we truly understand what “infinity” is. The latter, however, implies that we have already grasped the meaning of infinity and then slaps it as a label onto God.

This is the core of Apophatic Theology. It is not skepticism—it does not say “God does not exist” or “we know nothing about God.” What it says is: our knowledge of God can only ever approach Him through negation. Each time we say “God is not this,” we draw one step closer to the truth. But each time we say “God is that,” we risk deviating from it.

The medieval theologian Meister Eckhart pushed this idea even further. He once said something that makes many people uncomfortable: “I pray God to rid me of God.” What he meant was: that defined “image of God” in our minds may be precisely what hinders us from knowing the true God.

The Flood of Certainty

If apophatic theology is an ancient wisdom, why is the modern church so far removed from it?

Because certainty sells well.

In an age full of anxiety, people crave certain answers. If the church can offer an “absolutely certain” faith—this is exactly who God is, this is exactly what His will is, just follow it and you’ll be fine—it can attract people. Uncertainty makes people uneasy; certainty reassures them.

But the problem is this: excessive certainty is not the depth of faith—it is the shallowing of faith.

I’ve spent many years in the church, and I’ve observed a pattern. Many people (including my own past self) equate “firmness of faith” with “being certain about everything.” I’m certain God exists. I’m certain His plan is good. I’m certain that every sentence in the Bible is literally true. I’m certain that my denomination’s interpretation of the Bible is correct.

These certainties provide immense psychological comfort. But they also create a closed system—within this system, questioning equals unbelief, doubt equals weakness, and saying “I don’t know” equals insufficient faith.

In “Faith Collapse and Rebuilding,” I shared my own experience. The most important lesson that collapse taught me was this: a faith that cannot accommodate “I don’t know” is, in fact, fragile. Because its foundation is the feeling of certainty, not God Himself.

The Courage to Not Know

Apophatic theology is not skepticism, nor is it agnosticism—it is a different form of faith.

Skepticism says: “Since we can’t be certain, then don’t believe.” Apophatic theology says: “Precisely because God transcends all my understanding, I am all the more in awe.”

The difference between these two is enormous. The former uses “not knowing” as a reason to exit. The latter uses “not knowing” as an entrance to go deeper.

It took me a long time to reach this stage on my own journey of faith. When I was young, I needed certainty. I needed to know who God was, what He wanted me to do, and what the meaning of life was. Those answers gave me direction and a sense of security.

But as I grew older, with more experiences, more reading, and more reflection, I found those certain answers beginning to loosen. Not because my faith had grown weaker, but because I began to realize: those answers were merely the finger, not the moon. They pointed in a direction, but as for what lay at the end of that direction, I grew less and less willing to say I knew.

And strangely, this “not knowing” did not weaken my faith—it deepened it.

Because when you let go of “I know what God is,” you begin to truly face God. Not the defined image of God in your mind, but that Being whom you cannot define, cannot grasp, and cannot even fully articulate.

That is reverence.

Being Silent Before Faith

Perhaps the most practical insight of apophatic theology is this: sometimes, before God, the best response is to be silent.

Not because there is nothing to say, but because we know—some things, the moment they are spoken, have already gone astray.

In an age where every denomination claims to possess the truth and every preacher confidently explains the mind of God, choosing silence requires greater courage than proclaiming loudly.

I’m not saying that teaching and preaching are unimportant—of course they matter. But teaching and preaching should carry a fundamental humility—“I am using finite language to speak of the infinite God, so every word I say may not be entirely correct.”

This humility will not weaken faith. It protects faith from becoming idolatry—the worship not of God, but of our own definitions of God.

God transcends definition—this is not the end of faith, but faith’s true beginning. And the posture at this beginning is not loudly declaring “I know,” but quietly acknowledging: “Before You, my language is not enough.”

This silence is closer to worship than any theological discourse.