We’ve been thinking about apophasis/negative theology, a way of approaching God without attributing things to him.  This was popularized by the Christian mystic tradition.  Angelus Silesius mentions the heart becoming the Mount of Olives in Book 2, epigram 81 of Cherubinischer Wandersmann (translated as The Cherubinic Wanderer). The original German text reads: “Soll dich des Herren Angst erlösen von Beschwerden, / So muß dein Herze ‘vor zu einem Ölberg werden.” A common English translation is: “If the Lord’s agony is to redeem you from your burdens, / Then your heart must first become a Mount of Olives.”

This image draws on the biblical Mount of Olives (Ölberg in German), particularly the Garden of Gethsemane at its base, where Jesus experienced intense agony and prayed before his betrayal and crucifixion (as described in Matthew 26:36–46, Mark 14:32–42, and Luke 22:39–46). In that scene, Jesus submits to God’s will amid profound suffering, even sweating drops of blood. The name “Gethsemane” itself derives from words meaning “olive press,” evoking the idea of olives being crushed to produce oil—a metaphor for spiritual pressure yielding grace or enlightenment.

Derrida says we might compare this with Paul’s notion of circumcising the heart (Sauf le nom 72), and so along with belief in substitutionary atonement in Paul there is a contrary seeing oneself in the world that turned on God’s especially beloved Jesus which crucifies the fleshly/worldly in us.  Just as there is substitutionary atonement to pay humanity’s fine, there is the moral influence of the cross analogous to someone knowing that though they might consider the ancient Roman coliseum a horror, at the time we probably would have cheered right along with the rest of the ancient Roman citizens.  God can’t really forgive unless we feel guilt and are sorry. We see this in Romans with the Judicial model of the cross contrasted with a simultaneous need to break the spell of the powerful demonic entity Sin.

Substitutionary atonement, killing an innocent child to pay the fine of a distant thief, as with all appeasing of a God’s wrath in sacrifice, is monstrous, but as a re-creation of the heart we are “redeemed from the idea of redemption” and sin (71).” 

Regarding God, Derrida says “the true name of God, to the name to which God responds and corresponds beyond the name that we know him by or hear … It does so in the name of a way of truth and in order to hear the name of a just voice (69).”  We want to say what is “proper to God (69),” and this is His call of justice.  It is what we hear if we hear a protestation of violence being done to LGBTQ+ rights by the so-called beloved traditional definition of marriage, or the interruption of seeing an animal rights video while you are eating a delicious plate of chicken wings.  The call of the voice (voix) makes us tremble/deconstruct us if we hear it and we need to rebuild/reconstruct ourselves in a way that is never quite the same as it was, like the mark left on us by our first broken heart.  Derrida notes the Pope envisioned a Europe once again united in Christianity, which would become its essence (78), which implies a European interpretation of state and law (81), and so we can see an unintended violence being birthed here.

Derrida wants to emphasize the surplus of thinking in all literature, which is exemplary in negative theology such as with what Leibniz calls its difficult metaphors.  Derrida comments

“This literature forever elliptical, taciturn, cryptic, obstinately withdrawing, however, from all literature, inaccessible there even where it seems to go, the exasperation of a jealousy that passion carries beyond itself; this would seem to be a literature for the desert or exile.  It holds desire in suspense, and always saying too much or too little, each time it leaves you without ever going away from you (85).”  Negative theology teaches us what is true of all literature, not as example or exemplar (esp. 76; 84) but as a postscript to a philosophy, translation (e.g., difference between NIV; NRSV; KJV, etc), etc.  Commentaries are Post-scripts to Paul’s letters, which are not just content and form questions, but an attempt to teach you how to read Paul and not read Paul otherwise at the same time.

Derrida stresses disjunction in thinking:

– “Contrary to what we said at the beginning of our conversation (66).”

– “And contrary to what we were saying a while ago (67).”

– “Unless I interpret it too freely (74).”

Negative theology self-contradicts the moment it is said, “God ‘is’ not this, not that (64; 67; 68),” saying what the entity is in its truth without naming properties.

Agape love is a self-sacrificial love that is unethical, utterly disinterested in the singularity of its object (74), even the traditionally undesirable widow, orphan, alien, or enemy.

 In Silesius’s mystical context, the heart transforming into the Mount of Olives also symbolizes an interior spiritual process: the soul must become a sacred inner landscape where one participates in Christ’s passion. This involves embracing personal agony, surrender, and union with divine suffering to achieve redemption. It’s not literal but a call to contemplative depth, where the heart endures “pressing” trials (like sin, doubt, or worldly burdens) to foster divine intimacy, purity, and rebirth. This aligns with broader Christian mysticism, emphasizing the imitation of Christ (imitatio Christi) through internalized prayer and self-abandonment, turning the heart into a site of encounter with God’s redemptive love.

The Old Testament frequently addresses the corruption of the human heart, portraying it as inherently deceitful, wicked, and prone to evil due to sin. This theme underscores humanity’s fallen nature and the need for divine intervention. Below are some key passages that directly or closely relate to this concept, drawn from various books.

Jeremiah 17:9 This is perhaps the most direct and well-known verse on the topic: “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” (KJV). Other translations render it as “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” or “The heart is deceitful above all things, and it is exceedingly corrupt: who can know it?” It emphasizes the heart’s inherent deceitfulness and corruption, making it unknowable without God’s insight.

Genesis 6:5 “And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.” This verse describes the pre-flood state of humanity, where the heart’s intentions are continuously corrupt, leading to God’s decision to send the flood.

Genesis 8:21 “And the Lord smelled a sweet savour; and the Lord said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth.” Similar to Genesis 6:5, this post-flood reflection reaffirms that corruption in the heart begins early in life.

Proverbs 17:20 “He that hath a froward heart findeth no good: and he that hath a perverse tongue falleth into mischief.” (KJV). Modern translations say, “One whose heart is corrupt does not prosper; one whose tongue is perverse falls into trouble.” It links a corrupt heart to personal downfall and lack of prosperity.

Ecclesiastes 7:7 “Surely oppression maketh a wise man mad; and a gift destroyeth the heart.” (KJV). Alternatively, “Extortion turns a wise person into a fool, and a bribe corrupts the heart.” This highlights how external influences like bribery can corrupt the heart, turning wisdom to folly.

Psalm 14:1 (and similarly Psalm 53:1)”The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. They are corrupt, they have done abominable works, there is none that doeth good.” These psalms connect atheism or denial of God with corruption in the heart, extending to all humanity’s moral failings.

These verses collectively illustrate a theological view in the Old Testament that the human heart—representing the seat of emotions, thoughts, and will—is fundamentally flawed and inclined toward sin without regeneration or guidance from God. Contexts often tie this to broader narratives of judgment, redemption, or moral instruction. God even admits man was a mistake and so sent the flood.

Paul, in his New Testament letters, uses the phrase “circumcision of the heart” (or similar wording) to describe a spiritual transformation rather than a literal physical act. This concept draws from Old Testament imagery but shifts the focus from external religious rituals to an internal, faith-based renewal through the Holy Spirit. It symbolizes the removal of spiritual “hardness” or sinfulness from the human heart, enabling true obedience to God, love for Him, and genuine worship. Below, I’ll break it down with key references and context.

The idea originates in the Old Testament, where physical circumcision was a sign of the covenant between God and Israel (Genesis 17:10-14). However, prophets like Moses and Jeremiah elevated it metaphorically:  Deuteronomy 10:16: “Circumcise therefore the foreskin of your heart, and be no more stiffnecked.” This calls for removing stubbornness and rebellion against God.

Deuteronomy 30:6: “And the Lord thy God will circumcise thine heart, and the heart of thy seed, to love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, that thou mayest live.” Here, God promises to perform this inner change, leading to wholehearted devotion.

Jeremiah 4:4: “Circumcise yourselves to the Lord, and take away the foreskins of your heart, ye men of Judah and inhabitants of Jerusalem.” It urges repentance and purification from idolatry and sin.

Paul builds on this in the New Testament, contrasting it with physical circumcision under the Mosaic Law. He argues that true “Jewish” identity (or belonging to God’s people) is not about outward signs or ethnic heritage but an inward reality achieved through faith in Christ.

Romans 2:28-29: “For he is not a Jew who is one outwardly, nor is circumcision that which is outward in the flesh; but he is a Jew who is one inwardly; and circumcision is that of the heart, in the Spirit, not in the letter; whose praise is not from men but from God.” Paul means that external rituals like physical circumcision don’t make someone right with God. Instead, the “heart’s circumcision” is a work of the Holy Spirit that transforms a person’s inner being, removing the barrier of sin and enabling authentic faith. This aligns with the Old Testament’s view of the heart as corrupt or deceitful (e.g., Jeremiah 17:9), needing divine intervention.

Philippians 3:3: “For we are the circumcision, which worship God in the spirit, and rejoice in Christ Jesus, and have no confidence in the flesh.”  Here, Paul identifies believers in Christ as the “true circumcision.” It signifies putting no trust in human efforts or “flesh” (physical or legalistic righteousness) but relying on Christ’s work. The “heart” represents the core of one’s will, emotions, and desires, which must be spiritually “cut away” from worldly influences.

(Pseudo Paul) Colossians 2:11: “In whom also ye are circumcised with the circumcision made without hands, in putting off the body of the sins of the flesh by the circumcision of Christ.” This emphasizes a non-physical circumcision accomplished through union with Christ, specifically in baptism (symbolizing death to sin and resurrection to new life). It involves “putting off” the sinful nature, akin to shedding the old self.

Paul’s teaching counters legalism among some Jewish Christians who insisted on physical circumcision for Gentile converts (e.g., the debates in Acts 15 and Galatians). He stresses that under the new covenant, God’s law is written on the heart (such as the gentiles who follow the law without having it in writing, echoing Jeremiah 31:33), fulfilled through the Spirit rather than human striving. Paul says is righteousness comes through the law Christ died for nothing, and so we escape the boastfulness and self-righteousness of legalism.

This “circumcision of the heart” results in:

Freedom from sin’s dominance.

Genuine love and obedience to God.

Inclusion in God’s family regardless of background.

In essence, Paul reframes an ancient ritual as a metaphor for regeneration—a theme central to Christian theology, linking back to the Old Testament’s call for inner purity amid human corruption. Interpretations can vary slightly across denominations, but this core idea is consistent in scholarly commentaries.

(Post Script)

The philosophical term “Gelassenheit” is a German word that originates in medieval Christian mysticism and has been adopted and reinterpreted in modern existential philosophy. It generally conveys a state of serene detachment, releasement, or “letting-be,” emphasizing a calm acceptance and surrender of the will without forceful intervention.

Etymologically, it derives from the Middle High German “gelâzenheit,” related to “lassen” (to let or allow), implying a composed relinquishment of control or ego-driven striving.In its earliest prominent use, the 14th-century Dominican mystic Meister Eckhart employed “Gelassenheit” to describe a spiritual attitude of detachment from worldly desires and self-will, allowing for union with the divine. It involves “letting go” of attachments to achieve inner peace, openness, and receptivity to God’s presence—essentially, a profound calmness that transcends mere relaxation to enable mystical insight.

 This concept influenced later German mystics, such as those in the tradition of Angelus Silesius, where themes of surrender and abandonment to the divine echo similar ideas.  In 20th-century philosophy, Martin Heidegger revived and secularized the term in works like his 1959 discourse “Gelassenheit” (translated as “Discourse on Thinking” or “Releasement”). For Heidegger, it represents a meditative mode of thinking that contrasts with calculative, technological rationality. It means “releasement toward things,” or willingly renouncing the will to dominate or “enframe” the world, instead allowing beings to reveal themselves in their essence.

This fosters an attitude of patient openness amid modern alienation.  Beyond these core philosophical contexts, “Gelassenheit” appears in Anabaptist and Amish traditions as “tranquil submission” to God’s will, embodying humility and non-resistance in daily life.

Overall, the term underscores a balanced, non-anxious way of being that prioritizes harmony over control, making it relevant to discussions of mindfulness, ethics, and ontology.

Derrida’s own method makes things more difficult, which is to say more honest to the challenges when trying to read and think beyond phenomenological (Hegel’s) dis-closing from hiddenness.