Water is water, they said.
That's the whole trick, isn't it. Call the sewage "water" and dare you to argue. Call anything "love" and dare you to be the monster who asks a second question.
But naming a thing doesn't sanctify it. It never has.
A man can call his rage "honesty." A woman can call her bitterness "boundaries." A culture can call a receipt a "family photo", two men, a baby, and a mother somewhere who got paid to disappear. Love is love, they say. But love doesn't bill by the trimester. Love doesn't sign an NDA over a newborn. Love doesn't need a slogan to survive scrutiny, only a lie does.
Here's what they're counting on: that you're so afraid of being called hateful that you'll baptize anything to keep the peace. That you'll nod at the toilet and say "looks clean to me."
God named things on purpose. Light, light. Day, day. Man and woman, on purpose. The first act of the enemy wasn't murder — it was renaming. "Did God really say?" Rename the fruit. Rename the fall. Rename the wound until the bleeding looks like freedom.
You don't have to hate anyone to refuse the new dictionary. You just have to love truth more than you love being left alone.
