“There is no greater proof of God than those who believe where belief should have died.”

I have lived many lives across many lands.

Russia. Iraq. China. Estonia.

And in each, I found God.

But not the God I was raised with — not the western, sanitized, cultural icon of faith tied to ceremony and choir robes.

I found God in smuggled whispers.

In trembling hands.

In silence.

What you are about to read is not theology.

This is not apologetics.

This is the account of a man who witnessed the persistence of the divine

not through arguments, but through the resistance of the human soul to forget.

This is God² —

God to the power of witness.

I. The Day the Deaf Sang

In 1994, I was in Tallinn, Estonia, not long after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Faith had just been made legal again.

After seventy years of state-enforced atheism, the people were allowed — allowed — to remember God.

I was sitting in a converted Soviet conference center, attending a Christian service held by the Esti Kristlik church.

The room was retrofitted with high-tech headsets and translator booths — remnants of Cold War bureaucracy now reborn for faith.

But nothing prepared me for what happened when the pianist began to play.

Two rows stood.

Children. Teenagers.

They looked like silhouettes at first — quiet, reverent, anonymous.

And then they began to move.

They signed the entire song.

Every lyric. Every beat. In sign language.

They were deaf.

They could not hear the melody.

They felt it.

And still, they gave it back to God.

To my right, I saw her — a woman signing the entire sermon to them.

Her hands became fire.

Her fingers, like angels.

Translating the Holy Spirit itself.

And in that moment… I understood.

Faith does not need ears.

Faith does not need sound.

It needs presence.

And those children had it more than most pulpits I’ve ever seen.

II. Weapons of Memory

I’ve seen faith in China — behind closed doors, under whispered breath.

In Russia, where old women held Bibles like weapons of memory — trembling with age, yet defiant with soul.

And in Iraq, I lived among Muslims.

Let me say this plainly:

They were some of the kindest people I have ever known.

Generous without calculation. Loyal beyond reason.

There was a sacred hospitality — a reverence for life and family — that I carry with me still.

But you could feel something else too… something deeper, older, structured.

There’s a certain weight to a man who carries God inside him.

And among Muslim men, I felt it often — not as pride, but as form.

You could sense the internal scaffolding of their belief.

Their reverence was not casual.

It shaped them — their posture, their tone, their measure of what matters.

God was not a theory to them.

He was their breath, their restraint, their anchor.

That kind of structure changes a man.

And I witnessed it, not in textbooks, but in tea houses and mosques, in street corners and quiet smiles.

So when I say God²,

I mean not just the pluralities of doctrine —

but the pluralities of embodiment.

In Iraq, where God means survival, not comfort.

And most hauntingly — in Russia.

There, I saw elderly women holding up Bibles with shaking hands.

But they didn’t carry them like books.

They didn’t even carry them like scripture.

They carried them like weapons.

Weapons of memory.

These were women who had been told for decades that God did not exist.

That faith was treason.

That the cross was a myth and the Church a lie.

And yet, they remembered.

Somewhere, deep in the marrow of their being — they remembered Christ.

Not because they were taught in school.

Not because they had public role models.

But because something eternal refuses to be erased.

To watch a trembling grandmother hold a Bible like a sword…

you don’t forget that.

My eyes welled up.

III. The Unified Theory

Here’s what I believe now, what I’ve come to understand:

Happiness is not pleasure. It is alignment with truth.

Longevity is not just about health. It is soul integrity — the body’s echo of a clear conscience.

Faith is not indoctrination. It is the recognition of the divine in others.

And God²?

God² is the recurrence of belief where it should have died.

God² is not just God in the cathedral.

It is God in the bunker.

God in the translator’s booth.

God in the gesturing hands of a deaf child who’s never heard a single chord…

but still believes in the music.

IV. Closing: Let the Hands Sing

So when people ask me for proof of God,

I do not point to the Bible.

I do not quote scripture.

I do not gesture toward miracles.

I point to a row of deaf children in Estonia.

And I say:

They sang.

Without sound.

Without instruction.

But with everything they had.

Tell me that’s not proof.

Tell me that’s not God, squared.

Amen.